“Damn,” I mutter, grabbing the burnished bannister as I hurry into the bowels of one of the toniest houses I’ve ever been inside. And I’ve seen the inside of a lot of super fancy real estate in the past two months. This one is a multimillion-dollar Belgravia address, grand in every meaning of the word. Ceilings high enough to house giants with elaborate Georgian mouldings picked out with gold. Crystal chandeliers and walls covered in hand-painted silk, then hung with massive oil paintings that look hundreds of years old.
But there’s no time to admire any of that. I’ve got to find Mo. If she’s out by the van, she could be sneaking a couple of bottles of champagne into her duffle, which I’ve seen happen before. Maybe not Mo, but I’ve seen other managers on other shifts. Fingers crossed, she’s light-fingered too, because that could be my ticket to getting out early. Or at least she might let me hide in the van.
I hate serving, but I hate even more how private catering is a big swindle. Fancy-named companies charge their clients eye-watering amounts per head for nothing more than a glass of bubbles, a few pastries, and one or two limp-looking shrimp. In turn, the supervisor on shift smuggles out the good stuff (usually champagne) already charged to the client. Meanwhile, lower down the food chain, the waiting staff get paid minimum wage and don’t even collect tips.
Well, you can’t stop me from having one of these, I think, snatching up something I’m told to offer up as “a monkfish croquette with a pea velout”, which, turns out, tastes more like tinned tuna with a hint of grass.
My tray makes a hollow ting as I drop it to the commercial-grade kitchen countertop and head for the back door. A few more feet, and I’ll have made good on my escape.
“Hey, wait!”
A-hell-no. I’m not stopping. Not even for the kind of deep voice that’s haunted my dreams and disturbed my sleep these past few weeks.
I am so out of here.
I’m not even supposed to be here! And I mean that on so many levels.
Alexander. Goddammit, Alexander! In a city of eight million people, we are not supposed to see each other again, especially not while I’m wearing a frilly apron with pea velouté stains! I thought I’d made it out of the room before he’d seen me, even if I did squeak and almost drop my tray when I’d spied his magnificence across the room.
Squeaked, almost dropped my tray, and almost peed myself.
And to think these past few weeks I’ve been complaining that, as a server, I got looked through instead of at. Why tonight of all nights did that have to change?
I don’t really mean that.
I don’t want him to see me like this.
I shouldn’t want him to see me at all.
“Where are you running off to?” This time, the deep voice is playful. Not so much is the large hand that curls around my shoulder because that means business. The business of stopping me.
My heart is beating out of my chest as I stop, trying hard to keep my back straight and my chin high. Fate is certainly entertaining herself tonight; to bump into him now while I’m not wearing my regular armour feels cruel. But what feels so much more punishing is that for two months, I’ve been telling myself that he wasn’t as special as my memories made him out to be. That I’d imagined his brilliance, gilded the experience, as my life in London was flushed down the pan. I’ve had a tough couple of months, and yes, I’ve thought of him often as one of the last good things to happen to me this spring. But more lately, I’d begun to persuade myself that the memories weren’t true. That as my life turned shittier, I’d somehow rolled him in glitter and made him more than he is. I can’t tell you how crushing it is to find that’s not true.
So, I do the only thing I can do. I turn, and I fix on a polite smile as my mind scans for reasons to explain my presence here.
I had such an awesome time in London, I decided to move here.
Too random.
The uniform? Oh, I’m just helping a friend.
Ack! What if he asks which friend?
Ich bin nicht Holly. Ich bin Helga?
What if he knows more than the half dozen words of German I know?
“Hell—Oh.” My fixed-on smile slips.
“I can’t remember the last time I ran after a woman.” His tone goes from playful to silky smooth but that’s not what’s important because, as I look up, I realise that sly smile does not belong to Alexander. I swing from panicked resignation to disappointment quicker than you can say ich bin Helga. And my words, when I find them, are borderline rude.
“Hey, how are you . . .?” Who are you, again?
“Argh!” The kind of cute-not Alexander clenches a fist over the dark lapel of his dark suit jacket. “She doesn’t even remember me.”
“No, I do,” I say on the breath of a laugh. God knows I could do with all the laughs I can get. “You’re, erm . . .” His face is kind of familiar, but that’s all I’ve got.
“Griffin,” he replies with no little astonishment. “We met at Martine and Ed’s.” My stomach gives a little twist at the mention of my former employer’s names, my former friend’s names, even though I’ve mentally renamed the pair Judith and Judas Iscariot. “You sat next to me at dinner?” A tiny crease forms between his eyes. It seems someone’s ego is feeling a little burned. “One of their kids sat on the other side of me?” he adds, tapping a finger to his lips. “The one without the braces and the lisp.”
I roll my lips inward so as not to laugh. “Amalie.”
“Right! We talked about . . . well, who knows what the hell we talked about, but I remember you.”
“I remember you, too.” At least, I remember him now. In particular, I remember how Amalie had developed a little crush on the guy. You know, like twelve-year-olds do. And in her haste to be included in the conversation, her braces did make her a little lisp-y. Something else I remember is that I found him a little too fond of his own voice and lot flirty. “You’re a lawyer, right?”
“Barrister, actually,” he answers with a faint smile. A smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes as his hands cup my elbows, moving me from my position in the doorway.
“Cheers,” Mo, the supervisor, says by way of thanks as she passes from behind, hefting the large box in her hands higher. “Grab the other one from the van, would you, love? It’s still open.”
“Sure.” I mean, I was running away, though there seems little point now. Alexander didn’t recognise me. Or maybe he didn’t see me. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. Whatever the reason, I’ll still do pretty much anything else (catering-wise) to keep myself from being upstairs in that house tonight.
Even if I have thought of him nonstop.
Even if that man bent my body and my mind in ways I’m still recovering from.
“So, what are you doing here?” Griffin says as he follows me out into the garden.
“Working.” I throw the word over my shoulder in the tone of well, duh! Real mature, I know.
“Moonlighting?” Griffin pulls up alongside me, my hurried steps no match for his long strides. “Come on, I won’t tell.” As my gaze flicks his way, I see he looks kind of pleased with himself as he slides his hands into his pockets and shoots me a playful look.