He beckons behind me. Two waitstaff bring over mannequin heads and line them up along the table like a very strange tasting menu. Each one has a full head of hair. Combs and elastics are passed around.
I stare, bemused. He means business. You’d think we’d attract curious eyes in the rapidly filling pub. But no one gives us a second glance.
That’s London for you.
Beckett contemplates the mannequin’s head in front of him. "Okay, let's start with a basic three-strand. Everything else builds from that."
"What makes you the authority in this?" Thorne purses his lips.
"I’m not. I learned it from instruction videos."
Fair enough. What’s important is that he took the initiative to set this up.
"Any other questions?" He looks around.
When the rest of us shake our heads, he picks up a comb, "Right, so first you?—"
"Do we have to use a comb," Thorne holds up a pink, glittery one, which looks tiny in his fingers.
Beckett glares at him. "How else are you?—"
That’s when Tristan’s phone buzzes. He pounces on it with evident relief and brings it to his ear. "Hamilton."
He listens, then his forehead furrows. "What do you mean, you lost her?"
He listens some more.
"I don’t care that you had to take a piss… When you’re on the clock, you don’t piss, you don’t shit, you don’t even breathe, until you’ve delivered on the job."
He looks around and realizes every face at the table is turned toward him.
He doesn’t seem contrite though.
He barks into the phone, "Message me the location of where you last saw her.” He sets his jaw. “Also, you’re fired."
He pockets his phone and shrugs. "Business calls." He rises to his feet.
"Business or personal?" Beckett smirks. "From what we heard, that felt very personal."
"It’s always business with me." Tristan rises from his chair and slides it back under the table.
His movements are precise. Anger radiates from every angle of his body. Whoever is the object of his ire had better watch out.
He looks around the table. "It’s been fascinating. But I’m sure you’ll understand why I need to leave."
He turns and begins to head out, when I call out, "Who is this mysterious woman you’re tracking?"
Tristan turns, his expression a mask of cold fury laced with determination. "My oldest enemy is dead, and his daughter inherited his company. He owed me. And she’s going to pay."
To find out what happens next, read Tristan and Opal’s story inan Age Gap, father’s best friend, christmas romance - The Frosty Fiancée here
Read an excerpt From The Frosty Fiancée
Tristan
"What the hell are you up to?"
I tracked her on her lunch hour from her office in Southwark to this side street near Borough Market. Now I'm watching from behind the tinted windows of my Toyota Prius parked three cars down.
