I, Spy? (Sophie Green Mysteries, No. 1) (Sophie Green Mystery)

Drinks Pints. And I guess cider does look like lager from a distance.
    We found a table by a banquette, empty because the band was invisible from there, and smiled at each other for a few minutes.
    “Do you like the band?” Sven asked after a while, seeing me mumbling along with the words.
    “My brother’s the bassist.” He looked confused. “The bass guitar? With four strings? He plays that.”
    Sven looked impressed. “Oh, cool. So you know them all?”
    “Went to school with them. They’re pretty cool.”
    This is my practised speech for when the band gets famous and I get interviewed as the gorgeous younger sister of the cool bassist. “Yeah, they’re all really cool. Always in and out of the house, coming to see Chalker or just chill. We get on really well. We’re like family.”
    Convincing? Cool? I think so.
    The set ended and the band disappeared from the stage, reappearing in seconds at the bar. I saw Tom, waiting for a pint that was bigger than him, and flicked a beer mat at him.
    He turned, saw me and bounded over.
    “Soph! Thought you were ill.”
    I blinked. “Who told you that?” I hadn’t spoken to my family in days.
    “Chalker. Ran into that fit mate of yours, erm, Angel, in town. She said you’d got flu.” He scrutinised me. “You don’t look like you’ve got flu.”
    “I’m a genius with make-up.”
    “What happened to your face? Get in a fight?”
    “Yeah. You should see the other guy.”
    We smiled at each other. Tom’s like the little brother I never wanted.
    “And who’s this?” He looked Sven over and didn’t seem impressed.
    “Sven. We work together. Sven, this is Tom. He’s the singer in the band,” I added, realising a bit late that it was rather unnecessary.
    “I like your music,” Sven said politely. “What are your influences?”
    Tom looked blank. “Pretty much whatever I’m listening to,” he said.
    “You sound like this Norwegian band I know, called Eek! They’re a rock band…”
    I tuned out. Eek! didn’t sound like anything I wanted to hear about. And from Tom’s expression, he felt the same way.
    I let my gaze roam over the room. Kids I did my A levels with. Kids who borrowed my GCSE notes. Kids who I played hopscotch with at primary school. Kids who peed their pants at playschool. It felt like I knew everyone in the bar. Including…
    Oh, Jesus. Oh, bloody hell.
    “Can you excuse me a minute?” I said, and Tom gave me a murderous look. I ignored him and slipped away across the room, to where a man with green eyes was propping up the bar and glaring at me.
    “I got your note,” he said. “Very funny.”
    I bit my lip. I’d torn out a page from my diary and scrawled, “Shame I wasn’t in The Great Escape ,” and added a winker.
    I said winker . Like an emoticon? Don’t be filthy.
    “Oh, come on, Luke.” I nudged him. “It was a little bit funny.”
    “I thought you’d been kidnapped. Again.”
    I put my head on one side. “How long were you in the flat before you saw the note?”
    He scowled and didn’t answer. I grinned.
    “You were worried about me.”
    “You’re a liability. I should fire you.”
    “For escaping from a securely locked flat? You should promote me.”
    Luke stared moodily at the empty stage.
    “Anyway,” I said, “what are you doing here?”
    “Following you.”
    “Why?”
    “Thought I’d get into the mindset. Trouble follows you all the time.”
    “You think of that all by yourself?”
    He said nothing.
    “How did you know I was here? I didn’t see you following.” I’d been careful to check my rear-view all the time. I was like driving school fresh.
    “No, well, you wouldn’t, because I was three cars behind all the time. Your car is like a sore thumb in fit finger land.”
    It was my turn to scowl. “Ted’s a great car.”
    “And I still can’t believe you named it.”
    “So I have an emotional attachment to my car.”
    “Is that wise?” Luke sipped at his pint. Proper dark beer, not lager.
    Show off.
    “Anyway,” he went on, “what are you doing out here with Sven the Stuffy?”
    “He’s not stuffy.”
    “He’s really boring. He has no conversation.”
    “Not with you. And he is speaking a second language.”
    “I can sparkle in several languages—”
    “One of which is obviously not English.” I glanced at Luke. Green had been an appropriate choice of eyewear. “If you must know, he asked me out.”
    “You’re on a date?” Luke asked incredulously.
    “It’s