“All right.” She waits with hands folded patiently, and when Mebel catches her eye, she gives Mebel a tight-lipped smile and says, “Yes, madam, do you have a reservation with us tonight? It’s reservation only, I’m afraid. We are fully booked.”
“I’m with him,” Mebel says.
“Oh, right. Of course.” If the hostess thinks it strange that Mebel is with this group of youths, she doesn’t show it. She merely goes back to watching Bruce with her long-suffering smile.
“Ceci,” Bruce says, “didn’t you say you made the booking at Le Provençal? They can’t locate my—what? Ceci, what the fuck? Well, why didn’t you tell me? Ceci—” There is a pause. Bruce glances at them with a furtive gaze and then lowers the phone with an expression that clearly says:Shit, now what do I say to preserve the last of my dignity?Clearing his throat, he turns to the hostess and says, “Ah, it turns out there was amiscommunication and my sister—my assistant—didn’t actually make the booking?”
“On a scale of one to ten, how surprised are you to find out that his ‘assistant’ is his little sister?” Gemma whispers to Mebel.
Mebel laughs. “Is very enterprising of his little sister.” She taps Bruce on the shoulder. “We shall go somewhere else?”
“No,” Bruce snaps. “I will get us a table here.”
“I am telling you, sir, there is no table here tonight,” the hostess says. She is no longer wearing the put-upon smile. Now she’s full-on frowning.
“Come on, Brucey,” Bella says. “Let’s just go somewhere else.”
Bruce looks like he’s torn between throwing a hissy fit and throwing a tantrum. “No, I—”
Mebel sighs, mentally tuning Bruce out. His behavior is nothing new to her. As a member of numerous private clubs—including a country club, a yacht club, and a business club—Mebel has seen more than her fair share of privileged grown men losing their shit because something didn’t go their way. Henk has been guilty of many such an occasion himself, and the more these occasions occur, the faster Mebel has had to learn to shut down her senses and spare herself the mortification of watching these meltdowns. How tiresome to come all the way to Oxford, England, only to find that the problem is a universal one.
“Well,” she says to the group in general, ignoring Bruce’s tirade, “I think I get going now.” If there’s one thing Mebel is good at doing, it’s making a timely exit. She turns to leave, and promptly bumps into a solid chest. “Whoops, excuse me.”
“That’s quite all right,” a man’s rich, velvety voice says. It is a voice that Mebel recognizes at once.
“Alain!” His name is out of her mouth before she even fully registers his presence. Delight courses through her body at the familiar sight of him, and before thinking twice, Mebel envelops him in a tight hug.
“Mebel,” Alain says, kissing both her cheeks.
“How come you are here?” she cries.
“Well, it is customary when one opens a restaurant to be present on the opening weekend,” Alain says, his eyes dancing with amusement as he gazes down at her.
Is Mebel imagining it, or is his gaze moving back and forth from her eyes to her lips? “This is your restaurant?”
“Oui. What do you think?” Alain says, turning his body slightly and letting Mebel take in the surroundings.
She gives him an appreciative nod. “Very nice. I like the style. Is classic. Without time.” Her mind goes:Are we talking about the restaurant or about the man?Blushing, Mebel shushes her traitorous thoughts.
“Ah, wait until you try the food,” Alain says.
Bruce, whose presence Mebel has blissfully forgotten for the last few minutes, pops his head over Mebel’s shoulder and says, “She won’t be trying the food. There was a mess-up with our reservation, and they haven’t got a table for us.”
Alain frowns. To his credit, he only pauses for a beat as he takes in Mebel’s unlikely dinner friends. “Your dinner companions?” he says to her, gesturing at the motley group. Mebel nods, and Alain says, “Give me a moment.” He walks to the hostess and speaks to her in rapid French. Though Mebel doesn’t speak French, she has a rough idea of what he must be saying to the hostess, and the knowledge of it fills her with pleasure. And when the hostess says, “Of course, right away, sir,” andturns to Mebel and says, “Follow me please, madame, your table is waiting,” Mebel almost squeals with excitement.
Had Mebel been in her twenties, or even her thirties, she might have turned to Bruce and made some snide remark about him telling her to wait outside earlier this evening. But, no, Mebel is a grown woman, and she won’t stoop to such pettiness. She suffices with giving him a smug smile before gesturing for the rest of the group to follow her.
The restaurant is much bigger than the outside led her to think and reminds her of a classic French ballroom, with its crystal chandelier and gilded paneling. They are seated in a corner of the room next to a large picture window overlooking Saint Giles’. As soon as Mebel sits, a server comes over and hands them each a leather-bound menu. Mebel takes out her reading glasses and studies her menu closely for a few minutes. When she glances up, she finds everyone else staring at her over their menus.
“Yes?” she says. “Why you are all staring? I have something on my face?”
“Mebs,” Gemma says carefully, putting her hand on Mebel’s arm. “Please tell me you did not just casually reveal that you’ve got an inside line totheAlain Moreau?”
“What is this inside line?” Mebel says.
“Like you’ve got a hookup with him,” Bella says.
Mebel looks blankly at her.
