We’re staying at the St. Regis.
As I turn, I realise Beckett hasn’t moved from the car. I place my hand on the top of the door, preventing the doorman from closing it.
‘You’re not going to make me go in there by myself, are you?’ My voice is a little shrill in the darkened interior.
‘I have a meeting,’ he answers in that oh, so cultured voice of his.
‘Yes, but—’
‘Olivia, I really don’t have time for this. Your key to the room is waiting at the desk. Surely, that isn’t beyond even you.’ I’m almost surprised when icicles don’t suddenly sprout in the air. Though I feel my brows pinch, I swallow the retort balanced on the edge of my tongue.
‘Thank you,Beckett.My mistake, but I thought we’d have some points to discuss before we take care of the reason for myvisit.’ I’m surprised my jaw doesn’t crack in the effort to keep my words reasonably calm.
‘My lawyer is waiting for you inside.’ His eyes move back to the screen of his phone, and I’m effectively dismissed.
Without another word, I straighten like an automaton, then silently applaud myself for managing to close the door with a satisfyingthunk.No slamming doors on my watch.
‘Oh, sorry!’ I almost stumble into the doorman who catches me by the elbow.
‘Excuse me, ma’am.’
‘No, it’s my fault. I should watch where I’m going. And sorry about stealing your job with the whole door shutting thing.’Shut up. Just shut up. ‘Thank you again. I’m just... just going to go in now.’
He smiles sympathetically. Oh, fuck. I’ve just turned into Julia Roberts. This is myPretty Womanmoment just without the skanky dress and thigh-high boots. I glance down, you know, just in case, and I’m actually relieved when I realise I’m still wearing yoga pants, a slouchy cardigan, and a pair of battered slip-on Vans.
Oh my God. I’m about to step into the world of the rich and fabulous wearing a striped T-shirt that makes me look like an onion seller.
Pushing the ridiculousness away, I climb the few short steps, the opening lines of the movie playing out in my head.
What’s your dream?
This. This isn’t it.
I cross the Italianate marble lobby, trying very hard not to marvel at the frescoed ceiling and the gleaming chandelier hanging above my head.
Pretend this is no big deal. Like you visit these places all the time. You know, when you’re vacationing at the Cap d’Antibes with your good friend J-Lo and—wait. The Cap is in France, not Italy. Okay, like when you’re on Lake Como with George Clooney and Amal—
And... I’ve just realised I don’t know what name the room is booked under. Beckett. Is that his first name or last?
‘I... have a room booked ... under the nameBeckett?’ Please say I have a room booked under that name.
‘Yes, of course, Mrs Beckett.’ There isn’t even a ripple of amusement in the receptionist’s expression as he dips his head, hammers something out on the keyboard, and passes me my key. ‘Mr Braunstein is waiting for you in the library.’
‘Mr Who?’ And why?
‘Mr Braunstein. Ali will show you the way.’
The library is the kind of place you’d expect to find in a neoclassical building such as this. Expensive-looking books kept behind glass and wooden panelling. With a domed ceiling and chandelier, the room is set up with a number of small tables covered with damask tablecloths instead of worn-looking leather chairs filled with curmudgeonly old men. Though there is one man in here with thinning grey hair and wearing a dark suit with a matching blue shirt which strains a little over his girth as he rises from one of the tables. Save for the outfit and the absence of whiskers, he looks like a scruffy Santa Claus between gigs.
‘Ms Welland, I presume?’
‘Yes.’ I try for confidence as I take the man’s outstretched hand.
‘Braunstein,’ he says, then waits for me to sit before doing so himself. ‘Thank you for making time to meet me so soon after your flight. Can I get you a drink? A coffee perhaps before we begin?’
‘No, thank you.’ I rub my lips together, not sure where to start. ‘Mr Bernstein, before we begin what?’
‘Braunstein,’ he corrects kindly. ‘Beckett didn’t mention we’d be meeting today?’
