Where the hell had that come from? Her husband? A late flight?
She decided to cut herself a break. The lie was unnecessary, but it was a toss-up between that and raising suspicion that she was a secret shopper, an undercover cop or a restaurant reviewer. She’d much rather just be the sad case in the corner that had been stood up by her husband; that way, they’d probably give her a wide berth and leave her to mope.
‘If you’d just like to follow me…’
Caro did as requested, walking past the gorgeous circular booths that sat along the window, around the two tables ofguys who were… Was that French? Yes, definitely French. Must be some sort of convention attendees or tour party.
‘French football team,’ the maître d’ whispered, using the menu to shield her face so they wouldn’t hear her saying it.
Ah, football team. That made sense. They looked like athletes. Way too many of them were seriously handsome, and all of them were impeccably groomed, with sharp haircuts and stylish suits. Not that she was paying attention. She was too busy looking for Lila in case she’d missed her slipping in.
Just past the sporting contingent, there was another row of tables at the back of the room on a raised area, separated from the body of the restaurant by a beautiful wrought-iron and mahogany banister. Caro’s table was in the corner and she realised there wasn’t a more ideal spot from which to scope out the other diners. She took the seat that was against the wall, semi-protected from the gaze of the other customers by the deep padded, grey velvet wing of the upholstered chair-back. However, if she leaned forward a few inches, she could see the whole room. It was perfect. Her fake husband could have the nice seat opposite her if his plane landed on time.
‘A drink while you look at the menu?’ the maître d’ asked.
‘I’ll have a still water please.’
The bath, tea and journey here had definitely sobered her up. Now she was going for a beverage option that was both frugal and not likely to get her so drunk she propositioned a French athlete. Win–win.
Okay, deep breath. She could do this. Nothing to lose. If it didn’t feel right, she could just walk away.
After all, Lila had no idea who she was… and it wasn’t like her dad was about to walk in the door. Was it?
22
Cammy
Digby turned the sign on the front door of the shop to ‘CLOSED’. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to stay and lock up?’ he asked.
Cammy was lounging on one of the leather chairs outside the changing rooms, one leg over the studded arm, the suit he’d eventually chosen hanging on the wall behind him.
Josie and Val were on the other two armchairs, both of them with their shoes off and feet up on the coffee table in the centre of the seating area.
‘No, you’re fine, mate – I’ll do it,’ Cammy answered. ‘But if you come in tomorrow morning and something seems off, check the store cupboard in case I’m in there, hands and feet bound with duct tape.’
Josie leaned over to Val. ‘Scrap that one off the list, Val – we no longer have the element of surprise.’
‘Bye, ladies,’ Digby said, as he kissed them in turn on the cheek. ‘I think you’re on to a lost cause there.’
‘There’s still time. And hope. And drugs that Josie got off the Internet that could make him unconscious.’
Digby hesitated, not quite sure whether Val was kidding, before realising that would be too far even for them. Possibly.
As Digby headed off, Josie leaned down to the side of the chair and brought up her bottle of beer, courtesy of the minibar in Cammy’s office. It had been there since the olddays, one of the fixtures that had been left behind when Mel sold up and moved on.
‘What a day,’ Cammy said, wearily. ‘I’m knackered.’
Val tutted. ‘Och, for God’s sake, a young man like you shouldn’t be knackered. I swear, Josie, energy is wasted on the young.’
Josie nodded. ‘Yep, energy and good sex. Wasted.’
Cammy’s laugh coincided with trying to swallow a mouthful of beer, and the result was a coughing fit that sprayed Miller Lite over his 7 For All Mankind jeans. He made a mental note to drop them into the dry-cleaners across the road first thing Monday morning.
‘Okay, so I’m good to go,’ he reflected, leaving the half-full bottle on the counter. ‘Ring, venue, suit. Thanks for keeping me company today. And Josie, I know you don’t approve, but you came along anyway and I appreciate that.’
‘We never do agree on anything,’ she said, with a twenty-cigarette-a-day cackle. It was true. Their whole relationship was built on a solid foundation of love, affection, bickering and disagreement.
‘Nope, we do not. It’s why I love you.’
