I don’t know who I feel more sorry for. Luca, for having to deal with the constant rain cloud that is Alexander Hoxton, or Hoxton himself for having to cope with someone who seems to be his opposite in every way.
I catch Hoxton’s eye for a brief second. His gaze roves over me before settling on my apron. ‘You do have something to change into, don’t you?’
I force my features into a quizzical frown. ‘Change? Why would I change?’
The muscle in Hoxton’s jaw is surely working overtime right now, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from breaking. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that Luca’s struggling as well.
Hoxton runs a tired hand over his face. ‘The apron. It’s not exactly appropriate, is it?’
I quirk a brow. ‘It’s Christmas.’
‘It’s December 21st.’
‘It’s a Christmas meal. I don’t think anyone will complain if I serve them with a little festive cheer.’
‘It’ll be good to have something,’ Luca chimes in. He looks like he’s about one more sentence away from bursting into hysterical laughter. ‘The apron gets my vote.’
I raise a hand. ‘Mine too.’
‘Oof. Sorry, Alex.’ Luca gives Hoxton a faux-sympathetic pat on the shoulder. ‘Looks like you’ve been outvoted.’
For the second time tonight, Hoxton looks close to having an aneurysm. He glares at Luca, then glares at me, then shoots one last glare in Luca’s direction, before he turns and storms out of the kitchen without so much as a backwards glance.
As soon as he’s gone, Luca bursts out laughing and I can’t help but join him.
Maybe antagonising the client I already have a tenuous working relationship with isn’t the smartest idea I’ve ever had, but what the hell.
It’s Christmas.
I quickly learn that Luca is the exception. Hoxton isn’t anywhere near as friendly with the other members of his Board as he is with Luca.
I watch as they all arrive, their fancy cars looking even smarter next to my old banger in the driveway. Even with the ever-increasing intensity of the snowfall, Hoxton comes out to personally greet them all, just like he did with Luca. But, unlike with Luca, there are no smiles or hugs, stiff or otherwise, as they climb out of their cars and stumble on the slippery driveway. He shakes hands with three of them: a tall, snooty-looking woman with greying hair piled high into a bun atop her head, a man in a tailored suit who seems to be permanently attached to his phone, and a younger woman with a hard-edged look in her eyes. Hoxton simply nods curtly at the fourth guest and, even from the kitchen, I can feel the tension between them sizzling in the air.
I feel an irritating twinge of sympathy towards Hoxton as Iwatch him lead his guests into the house, his lips thinned into a grim line. As much as I can’t stand the man, it’s obvious that he’s not on great terms with his Board – Luca excluded – and would rather not have them in his home. Though, to be fair, it’s pretty clear that they’d all rather be anywhere but here too. When I enter the dining room, balancing a tray of champagne flutes in my hands, the first thing I notice is just how quiet it is.
There’s no polite conversation. No small talk being exchanged. Even Luca’s smile has dimmed. The wind howling outside and the muffled sound of my Christmas tunes still playing in the kitchen is louder than anything happening in the dining room right now.
It is, quite frankly, incredibly depressing. Hoxton’s dining room is a dark and rarely used area of his home at the best of times, and the lack of any decoration, Christmas or otherwise, doesn’t help to set the mood.
Hoxton’s eyes find mine as soon as I step into the room, and I take a little bit of perverse pleasure in watching them narrow as he realises that I’m still wearing the apron. He can’t say anything now though, not in front of everyone. So he settles for just glaring at me. I respond by fixing a bright smile onto my face as I flit around the table and hand his guests their drinks.
‘Oh, I love your apron,’ the tall woman with grey hair coos as I set her glass down in front of her. ‘It’s delightful!’
The man seated next to her looks up from his phone just long enough to give me an appreciative nod. ‘Very festive.’
At the head of the table, Hoxton exhales deeply. I can feel his annoyance radiating off him in waves, but I refuse to let it ruin my mood. This is supposed to be a Christmas celebration, after all.
‘I’m glad you like it,’ I say to the woman, flashing her another smile before moving on to the next guest. ‘Can I interest anyone in some appetisers?’
The mood around the room immediately lifts at the mention of food, and I launch into my menu for the evening. By the time I’m finished explaining the dishes and answering any questions they have about allergies and intolerances, everyone looks a little less like they’d rather be anywhere else but here.
Everyone except Hoxton.
I can only describe the look on his face as a potent mix of being incredibly bored and incredibly annoyed. I can’t tell who the current recipient of his ire is, though. Me? Or his Board?
Probably both, if I’m being honest.
I’ve never noticed this before – never had the opportunity, given our extremely limited face-to-face time – but Hoxton is terrible at masking his emotions. Surely it has to be obvious to everyone in the room that the man is clinging onto a thread right now. Maybe they’re just used to thiskind of behaviour from Hoxton. It’s easy enough to picture him sitting in the cold and sterile HoxTech offices, glaring down at anyone foolish enough to make eye contact with him, and any sympathy I felt for the man earlier evaporates in an instant.
