“Felice, I don’t care about the fucking canapés,” Simon says, with his mouth full of canapé.
The withering look she gives him makes him roll his eyes. “What?” he says, swallowing. “I can eat them and still not care about them.”
“You are a bad liar, Simon Eriksson.”
Simon reaches for another canapé whilst flipping her off with his other hand.
“Why are they fattening us up anyway?” he asks. He eyes the surrounding crowd, and lets his gaze wander up to the vaulted ceiling of the loft studio, huge windows looking out onto Stockholm.
“The point of canapés is not to fatten anyone up.”
“Hmm… I suppose not,” he says, mumbling around something with a little garnish leaf. “They’re too fucking small.”