“Yeah,” I say awkwardly, knowing whatever happens, I’ll definitely not repeat that. Whatever excuse I have to find, I will, and if I have to tell him my cat ate my neighbour's fish.
He grabs his jacket and walks towards the door, leaving me standing there in absolute disbelief, with my bag in my hand, not even my coat on.
I am frozen for a moment as I stare after him.
“Dear,” I hear a voice behind me and spin around. The older woman—sliding down her sunglasses. She looks at me like I am something less, almost pitiful.
“I’m sorry, dear, I could not help but listen to the disaster that just went down. Unsolicited advice from a woman who lived a life probably double your age, find some self-worth and ditch that man.”
I am as speechless as I have ever been. Who does she think she is? Listening in to personal conversations and…and judging me with her eyes from head to toe.
How I dislike people who judge others without knowing them. It is exactly what my mother does.
2
VICTORIA
PLAYLIST: YOU DON’T OWN ME –LESLEY GORE
Idaresay I have seen just about anything in men on this earth, but what I witnessed just now was the most pathetic of the lot.
Women these days have all the choices, all the possibilities, and yet they give their time away to these absolute losers.
I am so distracted by what happened at the table next to me that I have completely forgotten what I came here to do.
I cannot believe the man walked away before the woman even had her coat on. No manners and interest on his part, and no standards on hers.
When I look at her with her natural dark blonde hair in a messy bun, her jeans and a probably hand-knitted sweater, I am not surprised. I can smell the people-pleaser from here all the way to Wembley.
She looks at me with wide eyes and repulsion. Everyone I know calls me an insufferable meddler, a title I wear with pride. Meddling is my favourite business. I simply cannot help it.
“He—he’s not—“ she stammers. “Just a colleague.”
“Not for him,” I say. “He walked out here believing he had the date of his life.”
“Surely not,” she says defiantly—apparently completely clueless. “That wasn’t even a date?—“
“I’d bet my entire fortune on it, dearest,” I say as Iget up and walk around my table, take the coat from her hands and hold it for her to get into.
I know I am impressive to the ordinary eye: tall, well-dressed, colourful, and confident—her reaction confirms as much. Her eyes widen for a moment, and she opens her mouth to say something, but no words come.
She gets into the coat. A wave of her scent trails into my nose, a soft, unobstrusive vanilla that calls for devotion and invisibility. A refreshing change to the people I usually deal with: the wealthy, the famous, the ones living by status and presence—overall, those who like to make a statement with their expression.
“That is what a man should do,” I tell her. “He should also ask you questions and pay, which is lower than the bare minimum.”
She turns to me and looks me in the eyes with her wide hazel doe eyes.
Oh, to be young and foolish.
She hurries away without another word, leaving her bag on the chair where she placed it to put on her coat.
“Miss,” I call after her, but she simply hurries outside without another glance back.
My eyes follow her outside. I grab her bag and sit down again to finish my Martini, waiting for her return. She surely must notice it at some point.
I focus back on my notepad in front of me. I came here for the silence after meeting a friend at the University of Greenwich about a film project some of her students are planning, but now my mind is distracted. Not because of the project; the project will be phenomenal because I will give the students a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
My mind is distracted by the woman who still hasn’t returned. I’d describe it as sloppy and careless, if not for suspecting that she might be too scared of returning—because of me.
