‘Come and sit down.’ I slide my hand around her hip when her hands rise above her head as she begins flailing like a caught fish.
‘Get off me. You’re too late,’ she retorts, one hand on her hip, the other gesturing to the cheap seats. ‘You’ll have to find your kicks someplace else.’
‘I’m not here for speed dating, Miranda. I’m here for you.’ So she might not be the root cause, but she’s certainly the focus right now as I try to take her hand. ‘Let’s go and sit down.’
‘I can get there without your help.’ Chin tilted high, she pivots on her toes, then does a sort of drunken glide to a booth on the other side of the room. I stop a passing waiter and place an order. Then, a few moments later, I slip into the booth opposite where Miranda sits with her forehead resting against the back of her hands. Elbows wide across the tabletop, she doesn’t raise her head.
‘Are you awake?’
‘I’m ignoring you,’ comes her muffled response.
‘There really is no need. It was all just a rather unfortunate accident.’
Her shoulders shake with a bout of laughter that doesn’t sound very joyous. ‘Great. Just fab. A mistake . . . I’m a mistake.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I find myself snapping. ‘And sit up. I refuse to talk to your ponytail.’
‘It’s abun.’
‘It’s a mess.’ A mess that spilled like sunshine across the pillows. A mess I want to wrap my hands in still.
‘It’s supposed to be.’ She draws herself upright with a scowl, her hands dropping from the table to her lap in the manner of a truculent teen. ‘It’s called a messy bun.’
‘That’s much better,’ I murmur, straightening my cuffs. ‘And stop looking at me like I ran over your dog.’ I might’ve killed her pussy that night, but I sense now is not the time for that conversation.
‘What are you doing here?’
Before I can answer, a waiter dressed like a nineteen twenties era barrow boy sidles up to the booth with a laden tray.
‘You ordered coffee?’ It’s not really a question as he begins to lift the coffeepot from the tray.
‘God no,’ Miranda utters with a voluble shiver. ‘I’ll have an E-Volve cocktail if there are any more.’ She waves a languid hand in the direction of the bar. ‘Or a—’
The waiter pauses in his actions, his gaze flicking back and forth between hers and mine.
‘Coffee will be just fine.’
Her scowl turns to a glower as the waiter places the large, flowery pot onto the table, followed by the accoutrements of cups, cream, and sugar
‘And was the panini for you?’
A rectangle of pallid bread sits on an equally flowery plate. I asked for toast, but this is near enough, I suppose. I nod but don’t look at him as I answer because as my gaze lifts to Miranda’s, she appears to engage me in some kind of staring competition.
‘And a bottle of water.’ The waiter straightens, tray clasped to his side like a shield.
‘Was there anything else?’
‘Thank you, no.’
‘Have you got the munchies?’ Her mutinous words run together, and she hiccups as he withdraws. ‘Coming down?’
‘Only one of us is intoxicated. Do you make a habit of it?’
‘That’s got nothing to do with you,’ she replies, her words dripping with asperity.
‘It has when your employer asks me to step in.’ Was it impolitic to mention it? Probably, and what Griffin, my friend, would call a dick move. But had she turned up to my office drunk, she’d be sacked immediately for gross misconduct.No matter how pretty she is.‘Eat,’ I murmur, hoping I sound a little kinder as I push the plate toward her, then splash the San Pellegrino over the ice in the glass. ‘And drink some water, too.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
