‘You didn’t RSVP.’
‘Is there a naughty corner?’ I raised an eyebrow at him.
‘Jesus, I hope so,’ he uttered.
I laughed, a sound neither of us had heard in weeks. We held eye contact for a moment more and then I moved into the room, but I could still feel his eyes on my back.
Inside, Mike waved to me and handed me a champagne before making delicious noises over my dress. ‘Is that Dolce?’
‘What? No,’ I lied, gulping my champagne.How on earth did he know that?
‘Fine, keep your secrets.’
We mingled for about thirty minutes, and I was thankful to have Mike there, keeping conversations flowing, as it allowed me to keep my eyes on the room, watching the Northbys circulate. They’d split up and were working their refined charm on the who’s who of the Sydney social scene. There was an endless supply of politicians, retired sports stars, and B-grade celebrities fawning over them. Thinking I would not be here, I had assigned an assistant to each of them for the evening and they did me proud keeping the boys gently moving, whilst running interference on would-be admirers.
They eventually slipped away, as Oliver prepared to welcome everyone and launch the business, and I followed them into a little room behind the stage.
Oliver was more nervous than I would have ever imagined, and Nick shot me a look that begged for help. I stepped backwards and asked the waiter for a bottle of single malt and three glasses, then marched up to Ollie.
‘Oliver Northby.’
‘Ooh, I feel like I might barf, Abs.’
‘Nonsense. Remind me to take you to visit my grandmother Iris at some point.’ I fussed with his tie and pushed a strand of hair back from his forehead until the whisky arrived. Then I poured us a glass each, and we drank.
‘Iris would tell you …’ I paused. ‘Actually, she would say something incredibly inappropriate and hit on you. But she would say to me, “Abigail, do not be feeble,” and that is what I am going to say to you.’ I reached out to put my hand on his arm. ‘You are Oliver fucking Northby, and this company is yours. You are charming as fuck, handsome and rich. Don’t you dare be feeble.’
He held my eyes and then nodded once and threw back the rest of the alcohol, and the three of us walked to the door.
Oliver entered the ballroom and I almost took one step through, but a firm hand pulled me back by the wrist. Nick’s lips were on mine. It was swift, ephemeral and it felt so good to be in his arms again that I would have given up anything asked of me for one more minute. He was not freshly shaven and his whiskers were not yet soft and, honestly, I would have scratched off my own face for more. He pressed a ‘Thank you,’ into my ear and I wiped lipstick off his mouth with my thumb before we walked out to take our seats.
I sat next to Mike and Nick took his at the head of a table of VIPs, including the mayor of Sydney and his daughter. I swear to you I listened to what Oliver said, but I did not hear a word. I clapped at the right times and then ate the food when it came around, but my eyes kept gravitating towards Nick. His eyes were drawn to mine, and I had the odd sensation that I had the power to compel them to me. But I had competition, and she was right next to him.
Miss Mayor was a renowned Sydney socialite and occasional model. She travelled in a pack of kids her age who had as much of a leg-up in life as she had. She was twenty-five years old, stunning and blonde, with legs that came up to my ears. And she had her eyes set on the good-looking, rich, English guy in the nice tux. Nick Northby. He was busy talking to her father until Oliver joined them. After that, she had his undivided attention.
I watched as she coaxed reluctant smiles from him, listened enraptured as he spoke and put her hands on his arm or his thigh when she tittered. He laughed at one point, surprised by something she had said, and I had the feeling I was watching a successful first date. All I could do was to drink through it. At least, I congratulated myself, I was managing to drink the champagne from the glass this time.
Music started after the dinner was cleared, and the party hit the dance floor. Little Miss Mayor dragged out a reluctant Nick and I was one thousand per cent certain an Ed Sheeran song was around the corner. I knew he was doing his job; I just didn’t want to watch it. We were in this grey place, somewhere between former lovers and lovers, which was … hard. And I’d thought I could feel him taking a step, emotionally, towards me. And more than anything, I wanted that.
‘Come dance, Abbey,’ Mike said.
‘I’m just going to get some air, I think,’ I said, smiling at him.
At the very least, the night had been successful, especially for something that was short notice. It showcased both our restaurant and our wines, as well as our real trump card, our charming new owners.
The balcony was empty due to the coolness of the evening, and I walked slowly to the balustrade, breathing in the sea smells of the harbour. Underneath us, Sydney sang; horns honked, crossing lights pulsed, and the sound of voices laughing and having a wonderful Friday night filled my ears like a favourite band.
What was I doing? Why was I here?
‘Ah, someone else avoiding the dance floor?’
I turned to find a handsome guy in his early fifties in a plain black tux. I smiled politely.
‘You’re Abbey, right?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry. Do we know each other?’
‘I’m Patrick Conlon. Umm, the mayor’s assistant. We spoke on the phone the other day.’
