Chapter 6
Chapter Six
EVIE
Danny waved as I coasted through the lobby out on my first foray onto Fifth Avenue, buzzing with excitement.
As soon as I stepped outside, I was assaulted by the noise of horns blaring, a police siren in the distance and the cold crisp bite of the air, which had dropped several degrees since I’d arrived.
I wasn’t planning on going far and was delighted to see Bergdorf Goodman, the iconic fashion department store, almost opposite the hotel.
The big shop windows beckoned through the dark evening like a lighthouse in a storm.
There were already several people videoing the extravagant glitzy displays.
They were larger than life, brighter than bright and thoroughly beguiling with the flashy landmarks of New York theme.
Each window had a predominant colour, purple in one with a central mannequin wearing a gorgeous feather-trimmed gown surrounded by giant-sized accessories, purple sunglasses, large, carboard dressmaker scissors and a pin cushion with brightly coloured, headed pins.
Another window celebrated The New York Library, with a backdrop of red featuring a stylish typewriter and a huge fountain pen, all of which showcased a beautiful and very cute cream cape-style coat, which reminded me of Audrey Hepburn.
I wondered what the price tag was. Each window was filled with lots of gorgeous details, and as I moved from each one, the smile on my face grew wider as I spotted the little secret nods to culture.
I decided to venture inside and walk into the expensive handbag department, buoyed up by the Coach bag on my arm.
It was my very last Christmas present from my mum, and I couldn’t tell you who got the most pleasure from it: my mum giving it to me or me receiving it from her because she knew how much it would mean to me.
That bag has been with me through thick and thin, and it gives me a certain amount of confidence in any situation.
The bags here were all way out of my league, but it was fun to look around.
Some of the price tags were scary, over $2,000 on a handbag.
I could hear Lady Bracknell from The Importance of Being Earnest in my head, saying in horrified tones, ‘A handbag.’ But they were beautiful, and I had to admire the craftsmanship in the expensive designs.
From there, I took the escalator up to the first floor to the shoe section.
Oh, my God, I’d never seen so many gorgeous shoes – also some pretty ugly ones.
I watched a woman who’d rolled her jeans up and was trying on a pair of elegant heels, walking this way and that and looking in the mirror trying to make up her mind.
‘They’re gorgeous,’ I whispered as I sidled past.
She gave me a grateful smile. ‘I know but…’
‘Cost per wear,’ I told her.
‘What?’ she asked in a New York accent.
I patted my Coach bag. ‘If I worked on the basis of how many times I’ve used this bag, it’s around a dollar every time I use it now.’
‘I love your accent and I love, love, love your theory.’ She flashed me a conspiratorial smile. ‘If I buy these, they’ll darned well be going in my coffin with me. Thanks for that.’
‘No problem,’ I said and sailed on, stopping at a display of truly hideous platform Goth boots in aggressively studded leather.
They looked like small armadillos ready to go on the rampage.
But it takes all sorts to make the world go around.
They weren’t my taste, but I patted the display and walked on.
I spent an hour wandering through the displays interspersed with Christmas trees and eye-catching decorations, but I was starting to flag and decided to head back to the hotel for dinner. If I eked dinner out over an hour and a half, surely going to bed at eight would be acceptable.
Tomorrow morning, I had a meeting at nine with the PR manager, Alicia de Vries, to discuss my itinerary. I was excited to find out what they had planned.
* * *
The dining room was serene and calm, with the familiar chandeliers hanging overhead.
I wondered how I’d fit back into real life after three weeks here.
Would I ever get over the little thrill each time I walked through the hotel doors and lobby, while people outside peered through the windows trying to get a glimpse of the famous interior?
‘Good evening, Madam. Do you have a reservation?’
‘Good evening. I do. The front desk arranged one for me.’
I gave him my room number and was led to a little round table in a discreet alcove. No sooner had I sat down and picked up the pristine white napkin, smoothing the dense fabric over my lap, than something, no more than a moth brushing past, made me look up.
Noah Sanderson was right in my eye line on the table opposite, and as fate would have it, because fate was a big fat bugger at the moment, he looked up at that very second. His eyes narrowed. And because he looked so irritated, I waved.
‘Hello. Fancy seeing you here.’
To my surprise, rather than glare at me, he lifted his wine glass in an ironic toast. ‘Evening, Miss Green.’ His low drawl loosened a flurry of butterflies in my stomach.
Why him? I cursed my body.
Thankfully, a waiter came over and momentarily blocked my view, but the reprieve didn’t last long as he stepped to the side and handed over a menu.
‘Can I get you anything to drink?’
I considered the question and then unable to help myself I gave him a quick grin, putting my hand to one side of my mouth I said in a loud conspiratorial stage whisper, ‘I’ll have what he’s having.’
Noah’s mouth quirked ever so slightly before it flattened back into disapproval. Score one to me, I thought, relishing the tiny victory. I’d almost made him smile.
‘The Californian Syrah. An excellent choice. Very good, Madam,’ said the waiter and although his demeanour was all that was proper, he gave me a very quick wink before serenely walking away.
Pointedly ignoring Noah, I picked up the menu and began to read through the choices.
They all sounded wonderful, though a little heavy for my body clock.
Even though I had raised the menu like a barrier between us, I was aware of Noah watching me over the top of his wine glass, as if he were watching a tiger wondering what its next strike might be.
It made me smile to myself. I liked the idea of keeping him on his toes.
‘What do you think?’ I asked, putting the menu aside. ‘What are you having?’ We were the only diners in this part of the restaurant; it seemed silly not to talk to him.
He huffed out a quick sigh of impatience at my continued impertinence. ‘I’m having the soup.’
‘Soup. Nothing else?’
‘We were pretty well fed on the plane. Although someone ate my scone.’
‘Scone,’ I corrected his pronunciation. ‘And I didn’t want to see it go to waste.’
He had a point. I really wasn’t that hungry. I returned to the selection of starters and the delightful realisation I could have anything I wanted. I was a guest of the hotel; I could drink champagne every day if I wanted. I didn’t have to cook, or clean or do anything.
Not that I’d been much into cooking or cleaning, if I was totally honest. I sat back in my chair revelling in this knowledge.
When I laid down the menu, the waiter appeared with a tall glass of red wine as if he’d read my mind. The service here really was something else.
‘Please may I have the pork?’ I asked.
‘Certainly. And would you like some bread with that? The mustard sauce is excellent,’ he lowered his voice, ‘and deserves dunking.’
‘Does it?’ I asked smiling at him.
He nodded solemnly. ‘My favourite.’
I flashed a grin at him and looked at his name badge. ‘Thank you, Martin. I’ll have some bread as well, please.’
‘Very good.’
I took the first sip of wine.
‘You’ve got good taste, Mr Sanderson. This is lovely.’ This time, I raised my glass at him as if I knew anything about wine.
‘Glad to be of service.’ I could tell he was trying hard not to smile, and I had to purse my lips to stop myself laughing out loud.
‘No, you’re not,’ I teased.
He put his wine down and rolled his eyes. ‘Do you do this much?’
‘Do what?’
‘Stalk complete strangers.’
‘I’m not stalking you. I was always coming. Why are you staying here?’
‘Because my agent booked me in here.’
‘Oh God, it really is serendipity,’ I said.
‘Or sheer bad luck,’ he groused, but it was there again, that little lift to the side of his mouth. I reckoned he didn’t find me as annoying as he liked to make out.
Martin the waiter arrived with his soup and while he fussed over Noah, I took another sip of the very delicious wine.
‘Let me know if there’s anything else I can get you?’ he said and then turned to me.
‘How’s your wine?’
‘Excellent, I was just saying to Mr Sanderson that he has good taste in wine.’
‘Oh.’ Martin looked from me to Noah and then back again and a little light of matchmaker winked in his eyes.
‘Would you two like to sit together?’
‘No!’ we both snapped simultaneously.
He took a step back as if physically hit by the mutual wave of vehemence.
‘Fine,’ he said with a nod to both of us before scuttling off.
Noah picked up his phone with one hand and began diligently reading something on the screen as he tucked into his soup with the other.
I had a strong feeling that was it for the night. There would be no further interaction, or at least not deliberate, but there did seem to be quite a few occasions when I glanced over and he quickly looked away.
As soon as he’d finished his soup, he laid down the spoon, wiped his mouth with his napkin – why was I compelled to watch that?
He rose and said, ‘Goodnight…’ then paused, ‘Evie.’ The way he said my name, even though it was obviously reluctant, sent a shiver rippling over my skin.’
‘Goodnight, Mr Sanderson, I hope you sleep well.’
He gave me a grave nod and walked out of the restaurant. I watched him go, trying to ignore the way his lean, rangy walk made my breath catch just a little.
I was definitely going to look up how to build up some immunity against fearsome pheromones.