Down Lowe’s is one of my go-to restaurants because they’re so discreet. You need a solid reservation which usually get booked up months in advance – unless you’re like me. No photos are allowed and there’s security dotted around the place to make sure the rule is followed, demanding any photos taken are deleted, and a charge – a fine-type thing – is added to the bill if they’re caught.
The waiter takes me upstairs to my reserved table in a private room. The privacy we need to figure out how we’re going to work through this arrangement. The privacy Luc and I need for me to apologise for Mimi’s bonkers plan and the fact he’s been put in this situation.
No eyes at all on my first date with Luc in a decade. Our first date since we went for a picnic in Richmond Park, trailing around afterwards trying to find the deer. The day that I’d felt so settled, like I was falling in love with this man. Something I could not allow myself to do.
I pull down my dress, smoothing it out underneath me as I take my seat at the vacant table. Dennis waits directly outside the door. I straighten my knife and fork and pour cucumber water from the carafe. Restaurants like this remind me how far I’ve come from the girl I once was, the girl who couldn’t afford to buy music in an era before streaming. Who would get her friends to send her songs via Bluetooth or would record them as a voice memo from the radio so she could study them in her own time. A girl who couldn’t afford to go to music school or take piano lessons.
The good thing about being early everywhere is that I have time to prepare myself once I arrive, rather than running in late with my heart thumping. The bad thing is that, in situations like this, I can do nothing but worry about what’s about to happen. How Luc is going to react to Mimi’s plan.
‘Your menu, madam,’ the waiter says, handing me a leather-bound, pristine book.
I don’t tell him there’s no point, that I already know themenu by heart. That it’s the only restaurant in the city I feel completely comfortable eating in, that eating here makes me feel normal, especially when – like today – they’ve given me a table in a private room, so no one is around to gawk at me.
I cross my legs and fiddle with the buckle on my shoe. I pluck at my eyebrows, the hair slipping through the little grip my shellac manicure can achieve.
I gaze through the window, the streets below littered with people, rushing from work to drinks or dinner with friends, zooming past tourists stopping to take photos of buildings they think are pretty or important, but are really just offices or shop HQs. A breeze blows in through the air conditioning in the ceiling, a gentle waft that barely moves the curls framing my face. I shiver lightly. The cool breeze caresses the hairs on my arms and they stand on end. I tap my fingers on my leg and gaze at the 1940s artwork on the walls. I follow each element in the oil paints, the layering of colours and different thickness the same as writing a verse.
I unlock my phone. A fan account has already posted a photo of me arriving at the restaurant this evening, the caption wondering who I’m going to meet, whether it’ll be Xavier or Jonny, which elicits an eye roll from me. It means the streets won’t only be lined with paps when Luc and I leave, but fans too.
My eyes dance over the comments button and I know that if I read a few I’ll be satiated, but also probably feel shit.
The room gets darker, and I look up to see if the shadow in the doorway is Luc arriving. But it’s just the waiter, who catches my eye and offers me a smile. Dennis outside tries to subtly glance down at his watch, but it’s not subtle at all. It’s not until that slightest movement in Dennis’s head that I consider Luc might not show up. That he might not actually agree to Mimi’s plan.
I might need to leave here the same way I came in – alone and blinded by the paparazzi.
Worst comes to worst, I’ll have a nice dinner with Dennis. Ask about his family. Hope that the paps don’t realise that no one else who came in here tonight was coming for dinner with me. Imagine those headlines. ‘Man-eater Sienna Martin stood up at exclusive London eatery.’ I swallow the lump in my throat, unsure whether it’s the nerves of seeing Luc again or the stress of potentially being stood up for the first time in my life.
I don’t really have time to consider it before Dennis is standing up and shaking hands with a man, his wavy brown hair tidier than it was before Eric Lancaster. Other than that, he’s the same. The same as the TV studio. The same as the last time I saw him, the day it ended between us. The day I realised we are two very different people with two very different lives, and those two different lives would never lead to a successful relationship. That I had to run before we got deeper into it, before one of us got hurt even more than would already happen.
Luc’s a constant against the wild tide.
My heart pinches with how much I’ve missed in his life by being too involved in my own. He runs a hand through his hair and the movement of his arms pulls apart the top of his shirt, revealing the top ‘v’ of his chest. My breath hitches.
‘Sie.’ He nods and the way my nickname rolls off his tongue brushes over my skin, sends chills down my spine. It’s almost like it isn’t real. Like he’s not real.
I stand up as he approaches the table and wrap one arm around his shoulder, leaving the other to dangle awkwardly by my side. He mirrors me. He even smells the same – faintly of basil and tomatoes.
I try to pull away, but Luc pulls me closer and wraps his other arm around me. His palm rests against the bottom of my back, pressing the fabric of my dress against the sweat.
We need a clear divide if this is going to work.
We exchange pleasantries, small talk about the weather,how our mornings were. I sit, Luc taking the chair opposite me. Luc pushes his glasses up on his nose. I open my menu and bury my head between the pages, pretending to read it.
I’m not looking at Luc, but I can sense him glancing between me and his menu. The corner of his smile raises, likely guessing that I’m not looking at him on purpose. I’ve known what I’m ordering since I walked through the door, but suddenly the menu is the only thing I can look at.
‘So, Sienna. What are you getting for dinner?’
I don’t look up. ‘Oh, I’m not sure yet.’
‘Wow, I thought you’d never change,’ he coughs. ‘But here you are, on an actual date and not ordering chicken and seasonal veg.’
I drop my menu and look him in the eye for the first time.
‘Bingo,’ he laughs.
He’s smiling, but it settles in my stomach funny. I sit up straighter.
‘What is that supposed to mean?’Please be joking, my brain begs.
