‘We’re not going to a karaoke bar,’ I answer witheringly, preparing to close it behind her when she holds out her hand like a stop sign.
‘Hey, Beckett? I’m really pleased you didn’t get me an elastic ring.’ She glances down at her hand to where the Cartier band sparkles. ‘It was so unexpected. Can I . . . can I just say no one has ever given me anything so beautiful?’
I’m struck by the moment, by her expression, and by the sheer delight she exudes. Those stones have nothing on her beauty. Nothing on her vivacity.
‘Don’t mention it.’ My voice, when I eventually find it, is little more than a low rumble. ‘But you should know, diamonds don’t truly shine. They reflect.’ I close the door on her wavering expression, unable to give her anymore.
While not a venue that screams wedding or romance, I direct the driver to the Polo Bar behind the flagship store on Fifth Avenue. Given Olivia’s request for a heartier fare, and the fact that it’s nearer cocktail hour rather than dinner, I think it will do the trick.
There is one annoying moment when we’re stopped by what I assume is a recent recruit to the door denizen team, but the issue is smoothed out easily enough.
‘You know Ralph Lauren?’ Olivia asks, suddenly a wide-eyed ingenue.
‘His son, actually. He’s out of town and said I could make use of his table. Not that the place will be busy at this hour. Often, there’s a celebrity or two in the dining room, but I expect most people are still on afternoon tea. If you prefer, we could join the ritual, given your love for the stuff, though this place has a decent cocktail menu.’ Personally, I’d happily take her back to the hotel and start the real business of celebrating.
‘No one celebrates with tea,’ she replies quite rightly as we descend to the subterranean dining room. Fucking would be much more appropriate, not to mention fun. Cocktails and food is a distant second best. ‘Except maybe my gran.’
‘Are we celebrating?’ I might taunt just a little as we follow the now embarrassed employee, dressed in the ubiquitous uniform like a Ralph Lauren branded mannequin, as she leads us to our designated table.
‘Celebrating, commiserating,’ she replies with an airy wave of her hand as though the difference between the two is of no consequence. ‘There’s a very fine line between the two.’
‘You mean like there is between love and hate?’
‘Thank you,’ she murmurs as she slides into the tan leather banquette facing the rest of the room. Thankfully, our table is a little less communal. I don’t care to find my fellow diners at my elbow. ‘Exactly,’ Olivia adds, throwing me.Ah. Our conversation. Love, hate, and the difference.‘Just because we’re married doesn’t mean things have to change.’
‘Meaning you intend to keep on despising me.’
‘I wouldn’t say despise exactly,’ she demurs, trying hard to hide her grin. ‘But if you’re ever run down by a bus, they should check the steering wheel for my fingerprints.’
My deep peel of laughter reverberates through the space.
We settle into an amiable dinner—a ribeye for me and a burger for her—while enjoying champagne and a cocktail or two. Then Olivia decides it’s a good idea for us to order the other a cocktail.
‘After all,husband, a good wife is supposed to know all the things her man likes.’
‘After tonight, I think you’ll be a little closer to grasping that.’
‘That’s whatshesaid.’ She sniggers, but I don’t respond as I catch the attention of one of the waitstaff. ‘He’ll have.. . ’ She runs her finger down the cocktail menu. ‘A high flyer, I think.’
‘And for you, a blackberry cobbler.’ I close the menu when she smirks.
‘I thought for sure you’d order me a jockey club and make some joke about being ridden well later tonight.’
‘A gentleman would never utter such a thing.’
‘That makes you either a liar or wrong.’
‘How so?’
‘Because I’ve heard you say much naughtier things.’
‘Naughty? I don’t think I’ve ever been called such a thing. At least, not since I was out of short trousers. Remind me, what did I say?’
‘Ha! Good try, but no. Not in a million years. Not unless you want me to burst into flames for such wickedness.’
‘You’ve thrown down the gauntlet now. You know what that means,’ I add suggestively.
‘Yeah, that I’ve thrown it down and stomped on it—trashed it! So not happening,’ she says flushed and giggling.
