“Great,” Emi gives her a dry smile. “Not late enough for anyone to have poached our table, then.”
Solange gives her an annoyed expression, but turns back to the couple to bid them a “bon sejour” with her most polite smile before stepping down the barstool, her purse clutched under her elbow. She gives Nicolas and me a stern look, her eyes wandering over our outfits. I steel myself for some remark, but to my confusion, she speaks in French.
“Vous venez au restaurant habillés comme ça? Pour le réveillon?”
“Yes,” Nicolas immediately replies, calmly. “Comme ça.”
I feel the criticism, but I decide to act oblivious and glance at Emi instead, who gives me a shrug. I can never tell if she never learned French or if she did but acts like she didn’t to spite Solange, because I feel like she understands what is said just fine when she wants to…
“We should get going,” Nicolas simply states, pulling us toward the restaurant.
And I forget all about the glacial exchange, because again, it’s even more stunning than in the pictures.
The large bay windows give us a magical view of the snow-covered plateau around the castle, with a few people still strolling past. The restaurant itself is very fancy, too, with floor-to-ceiling wood paneling, large glass (crystal?) chandeliers all over, a large black fireplace that warms the whole room, shiny wooden floors, and a wine display that takes up the entire wall. The furniture is all fancy: wine-colored velvet chairs, thick marble tables, and golden cutlery. The only extrahintthat it’s Christmas is the large mantel, decorated with pretty ornaments, golden ribbons, shiny white snowflakes, and thick green pine branches. It’s definitely giving a very grand Christmas, all in its winter majesty!
“This is beautiful!” I can’t help but whisper as we take our seats.
“You like it?” Nicolas asks me with a smile.
“How could I not?!” I grin. “This is gorgeous.”
“Of course it is,” Solange scoffs, visibly still upset at our tardiness. “This restaurant is one of the best-rated and most exclusive in the city! I had to book weeks in advance to get us this table. And they have one of the best collections of wine too.”
“Yay for me,” Emi sighs, her eyes on the drink menu. “I wonder if I can have a virgin chardonnay.”
Solange gives her a glare, which Emi pretends not to see. Thankfully, our waiter comes immediately to take our orders.
“We will have the champagne, of course,” Solange declares. “Bring the bottle, three glasses, and sparkling water for the pregnant lady.”
“Ah, actually, no champagne glass for me, sorry,” I tell our waiter. “I won’t be having champagne.”
“What?” Solange’s eyes dart to me, and open wide. “Why not?”
“Oh, I just can’t drink alcohol—”
Solange suddenly slaps a hand to her chest before I can finish my sentence, and lets out a dramatic gasp.
“Oh my God, Ophelia, are you pregnant as well?!”
Oh. My. God.
I can’t believe she just said that.
I can’t believe she just said that so loudly in the restaurant!!
Oh my God! Now, absolutelyeveryoneis looking at us, I’m mortified! God, there’s even a lady who is smiling from two tables away! I want to crawl under the snow and hide!
“Maman,” Nicolas scoffs indignantly, bringing me back to this oh-so-embarrassing ordeal.
“I-I’m not pregnant!” I blurt out. “I’m not! I’m just not much of a drinker, that’s all. …I-I’ll be happy with whatever Emi is having…”
“Really?” Solange frowns, disappointment written all over her features.
Did she just eye mystomach? Oh my God, is it because I’m wearing an oversized jumper? Do I look big? Or pregnant? This is ridiculous, I’m so embarrassed I could die!
“Ophelia isn’t much of a drinker,Maman,” Nicolas explains. “Let’s just have the smaller bottle of champagne.”
He puts a hand on my thigh under the table, trying to soothe me. Oh, I’m never going to recover from the embarrassment, I swear…
