‘Quite.’ As he replies, his shoulders relax a bare half an inch. But no, honey, this isn’t over.
‘You’re telling me you can’t fit one more person inside this restaurant?’ I strain to see around him to find him blocking my view. It should be ridiculous, and on any other day but this, I’d accept his explanation, no matter how annoying. But not today. And this is the straw that broke the (non-humped) camel’s back.
‘Listen, you... ’—Downton Abbey reject—‘this is a restaurant that, by definition, sells food. I am a person who possesses money’—fine, a credit card— ‘who requires food. So how about we work out some kind of exchange?’ I gesture between us quite violently, if a finger can ever be considered violent.
‘Madam!’
‘I prefer miss, actually.’
‘Nevertheless,Madam,we are fully booked this evening. And even if we were not, I’m afraid this establishment does not accept walk-in diners.’ The latter he says with such a lofty air, anyone would think he saidwe rarely accept streetwalking diners.But even streetwalkers need to eat, don’t they?
I am seconds away from doing something that could well result in my removal from the premises wearing handcuffs when the door behind me opens again.Just you dare give them a table, and I’ll sue you for discrimination. After I tie those coat-tails up over your ears.But as a hand cups my shoulder, I turn.
‘What...’ I begin, my words trailing off as I look up into the face of the man I’d fallen on this morning. ‘You with the feet!’
‘Yes. Last time I checked, I had two of them.’
‘But what are you doing here?’ The words are in the air without my permission, his answer stealing any breath I have left.
‘That’s simple. I followed you.’
Chapter 4
OLIVIA
‘I’m sorry, what?’ And also, WTF? And why am I now looking at his shoes? His big shoes. Because big shoes mean big feet, and big feet mean—
‘Of course, I haven’t followed you.’ At his disparaging tone, my head whips up so fast I almost give myself whiplash.
‘Why would you say that if it isn’t true?’
He sighs, actually sighs, as though I’m boring him. ‘I see your mood hasn’t improved. It’s quite all right, Peter,’ he adds, his attention moving on from me. ‘The lady is my guest.’
Guest what? Guest I wasn’t paying enough attention?
Should I be looking for a hidden camera?
‘Very well,’ Peter returns in a tone no less haughty. As for his expression, I can’t tell because I’m still looking at the man behind me. Eyes the colour of fine whisky and hair like dark wheat.Maybe I’m thirsty. Maybe that’s why I’m still standing here.Or maybe it’s because our paths have crossed twice in one day; that’s got to be the universe pulling strings. Right?
‘Shall we?’ The man’s lush mouth tilts in one corner in something that resembles a genuine smile, a far cry from his sardonic offering this morning. I find myself nodding in response. It’s probably shock.
He’s still wearing the grey suit, his shirt now open at the neck. For a moment, I consider what I’d look like if I’d worn the same clothes all day, and the wordshomeless personspring to mind. Meanwhile, he still looks like the star of a Gucci ad campaign.Like David Gandy’s haughtier twin.
His hand cups my elbow as if I’m his elderly maiden aunt as he leads me through the archway and into a dark and sumptuous interior. The walls of the dining room are painted the colour of fine claret, the wooden floors gleaming like dark tinted mirrors. We come to a stop, the maître d’ obsequiously bidding me to sit. But I don’t. I just stare at the oxblood-coloured leather upholstery as though the chair is alien. I raise my head, staring at the snooty elderly penguin and then at the stranger opposite who seems to be watching with barely contained amusement.
Am I only just coming to my senses?
I feel like I’ve been hijacked, press ganged by polite pirates. Are they going to kill me with kindness? A very cold and sterile kind of kindness?
‘I think this is a mistake,’ I begin, still standing, still ignoring both men. I’m no one’s charity case. Besides, what happens if he’s expecting company for dinner? Or a date? I know it all sounds so ridiculous, but after the day I’ve had, if a troupe of clowns came dancing through the place, I’m not sure I’d be surprised.
‘Really, I can’t—’
‘Be a good girl and sit down,’ the stranger he replies, his tone fairly dripping in ennui.
‘Oh. I’m so sorry. Am I boring you?’
The last person who called me a good girl was my grandfather, and it was usually accompanied by a pat on the head and a barley sugar candy he’d produce from a tin and then fold into my sticky hand. And he always made it sound like a compliment, not a scolding for being tiresome or dull. So why exactly have I dropped into the seat opposite him?
