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“Oh, Mummy.” Olivia wobbled on the cusp of collapse and sank into her mother’s arms.

“Just awful.” Rosamund leapt out of her chair to support her friend. Caprice, on the other hand, remained planted in her seat, tossing back her fifth glass of champagne.

Grabbing every clean linen napkin handed to her, Olivia’s mother blotted the chest and hip area of Olivia’s pale pink dress. “Thank God you weren’t drinking red,” said Rosamund, snatching extra napkins from the table.

Olivia tore her hands away from her eyes, throwing her friend a dirty look. Rosamund gulped. “Granted, Livvy, it won’t be fun wearing a wine-soaked dress to the club…”

Tom, with his front row seat to the pantomime, cocked an eyebrow, and stuffed an unlit cigarette between his lips. He plucked a fellow diner’s full wine glass from the table. “Well, that’s me done. Hope you enjoyed the show, folks. We’re here all week. Try the veal.” He loosened his tie and strolled off laughing towards the exit. His father bristled with disapproval.

Olivia’s dramatic wails continued. Alex shook her head. If a stranger had walked into the room, you couldn’t blame them for thinking Olivia had been the victim of a serious assault, not a spilled glass of wine. So over the top.

“I had every detail organized…” Olivia laid it on thick. “…and then this lowlife ruins it in a single second.”

Her gathering sycophants agreed and continued to tend to her ego and damp dress.

It didn’t look that bad. A wet splotch the size of two small hands, maybe? Alex scrunched up her nose. And seriously…lowlife? Mark was a waiter, not a petty criminal.

Two servers dashed into the room overburdened with white cotton towels to mop up the spill. A third brought a dustpan and brush to sweep up the glass shards.

Harry slipped through the door, red in the face. He dragged his hand through his blond hair. “Sorry, everyone, can’t get the staff these days!”

The room laughed at Harry’s inside joke—everyone except Alex. She drooped into her chair.

As the guests returned to their seats, the owner of Winston’s stepped into Harry’s shadow. “I’m terribly sorry for this unfortunate accident, Mr. Manville. You can rest assured; we’ll make this right.” He signaled to the staff to top up everyone’s glasses.

Olivia’s mother piped up, a little too loudly. “Let this be a lesson, Harry. When it comes to cleaning or gardening staff, one simply doesn’t have a choice. But if I were you, I’d avoid hiring immigrants as staff who deal directly with your customers.”

Harry snickered. “Oh, Penelope. You know very well you can’t say that sort of thing in public these days. It’s not politically correct.”

“After my fifth martini, darling, I say whatever I please.”

Friends and family guffawed. Alex cringed. God—Lucy’s right. These people were awful.

The hovering owner snatched Olivia’s wine-soaked leather chair and replaced it with a dry one. She gingerly sat back as he nudged it underneath her. He whispered something in Harry’s ear and retreated back into the public section of the restaurant.

Harry addressed his guests. “Sorry for the unexpected drama. Enjoy your pudding and flag a server if you’d like more wine or champagne. Tea and specialty coffees are also available for those pacing themselves for the night ahead.” He placed a reassuring hand on Olivia’s neck and gently kissed her lips.

Alex’s chocolate dessert teased and tempted, but she pushed it away without even a taste.

Seventeen

Four shiny limousines whisked Harry’s younger guests to Bespoke. The parade of cars didn’t have far to go, only five blocks. Blisters ringed her heels, but Alex wanted to walk. The stuffy, narrow-minded snobs surrounding Harry made her want to throw up. Worse still, he acted like a completely different person. Sure, side with your girlfriend, but don’t manhandle a waiter out of the room, belittling him in front of everyone.

Her eyes searched Winston’s main dining area on the way out. No sign of Mark—anywhere. Wait staff buzzed around the tables, balancing large platters piled high with crab’s legs and lobster. Still no Mark. She wrapped her trench coat around her slight frame and teetered outside onto the wet pavement.

“Alex. Where you going? Get in the car.” Tom lingered outside Winston’s with a smoke, his habit holding up the last limo from departing on its ridiculously brief journey.

“Go without me. I’ve got a headache. The fresh air will do me good.” She also needed time to think without banal mentions of polo parties or expensive skiing holidays in France.

Tom stubbed out his cigarette on the sidewalk with his shoe. “No, you don’t. Come on. Besides, you won’t get in the club if you walk up to the bouncers on your own.” He slinked over to her and slipped his arm around her waist.

She shot one more look towards the restaurant’s entrance and climbed into the empty car. Tom pounced in behind her, prattling on about the DJ at Bespoke and what great mates they were—like she cared. She ached to talk with Mark and make sure he was okay.

The silky voice of Beyoncé floated out the front door of Bespoke. Red velvet ropes and two burly bouncers with Bluetooth earpieces guarded the entrance like tuxedoed trolls. Tom wrapped his arm around Alex’s shoulders and slid them both through the crush of models and trustfunders. He winked at Harry’s PR girl. She blew him a kiss and checked off his name.

She yelled in his ear. “Who’s your plus one, Tom?”

“Alex.” He looked over the PR woman’s shoulder, scanning the room while removing his tie.