Chapter Twelve
Orson
The Uber pulls up outside the restaurant, and I say, “Come on. I think you need a glass of wine.”
She’s been silent for a minute or two, and she doesn’t say anything as we get out and head into the restaurant.
I like this place. The inside of the restaurant is neat and pleasant, but I like the garden out the back. It’s surrounded by bush, kinda rustic, with unpainted floorboards, plain wooden tables, and wooden chairs with scarlet cloth back panels and scarlet umbrellas. Nearly all the tables are filled with guests, most of whom are in casual clothing, and some are even in shorts and tees, as I told her they would be.
“Oh,” she says. “It’s not what I expected.”
“Good or bad?”
“Good,” she says, looking relieved.
Secretly pleased, I smile at the owner as he spots me, and he comes over. He’s in his late fifties, a suave Italian guy with gray hair I’d kill for at that age. “Mr. Cavendish! Good to see you.”
“Hello, Marco. Thanks for fitting me in at such short notice.”
“There is always a table for you, Mr. Cavendish. Best table in the house. Come this way.”
We follow him across the garden. The fence around it is made from tiny Roman columns, which sounds naff but lends the place an elegant feel. He takes us to a table in the corner which is partly sheltered from the rest of the diners by a small fountain decorated with colorful mosaic pieces.
“Thank you,” I say, and hold out Scarlett’s chair for her. She lowers herself into it, and I tuck it in for her, then go around the other side and sit in mine .
“Bottled water, Mr. Cavendish?” Marco says as he lights the candle on the table between us.
“Please. Sparkling, Scarlett, or still?”
She just blinks at me.
I look back at Marco, who smiles. “I will bring you both,” he says. “And some flatbread and olive oil while you look at the menu.”
“Thank you.”
He gives me the wine menu, then goes off to get our water.
“What kind of wine do you like?” I ask her.
She just stares at me.
“Scarlett?” I frown. “You look as if someone’s switched you off.”
She tears her gaze from me and looks around the restaurant. “That waiter knew you.”
“Marco? He’s not a waiter; he’s the owner.”
“The owner?”
“Yeah. I told you, I come here on business. Kingi and I bring clients here. Marco looks after us. What kind of wine do you like?”
“Um, white.”
“Okay. What type?” I pass her the menu. “Take a look, see if anything jumps out at you.”
She stares at it. She’s still staring at it when Marco comes back with a tray containing two bottles of water, glasses, a plate of their delicious flatbread, and two small dishes of olive oil and salt. He places it all before us, then says, “Can I get you a drink?”
I gesture to Scarlett. She sucks her bottom lip as she studies the menu, then says, “Um… what about the house Sauvignon?”
I roll my eyes, take the menu from her, and hand it to Marco. “We’ll have a bottle of the Louis Roederer please.”
He winks at me. “Yes, sir.” He goes off to get it.
“That’s champagne,” she says. “I saw it on the menu.”
“It is.”
“It was over five hundred dollars a bottle.”
“Cheap at twice the price.”
“Orson!”
“What?”
“You can’t just order the most expensive thing on the menu to impress me!”
“What’s the point in having money and not using it to impress the girl of your dreams? ”
She stares at me.
“It’s just a phrase,” I say. “Don’t go running for the hills.” I point at her menu. “Anything there you like?”
“You’re seriously going to spend five hundred dollars on a bottle of champagne?” She glares at me. “Imagine the good you could do with that money.”
“I do plenty for charity. I work hard for my money. And tonight I want to spend it on you, so stop complaining. Most girls would be thrilled to be spoiled like this.”
“I’m not most girls.”
“I’m getting that.”
Muttering to herself, she opens the menu and starts reading. Lips curving up a little, I do the same.
“I don’t know what to choose,” she says eventually. “I’m too nervous.”
I frown. “Why are you nervous?”
“A billion reasons.” She gives me a wry look.
“I’m sorry. I don’t want you to feel intimidated. I thought this place was nice and relaxed.”
“It is. It’s me.” She glances around at the other diners, who are all talking and laughing and obviously relaxed. Then she looks back at me. Oh no, she’s actually trembling a little.
“Would you like me to order?” I ask gently.
She nods.
“Would you like a starter?”
A shake of her head.
“All right.” I study the options until Marco comes back with the champagne and asks if we’re ready to order.
“Vegetable risotto for the lady,” I tell him, closing the menu, “and Chicken Parmigiano for me, please.”
“No starters or pasta or side dishes?” he asks as he pours the champagne into two tall glasses.
“It’s all I could do to get her to choose one dish,” I reply. “Maybe if the wind’s in the right direction I’ll be able to talk her into a dessert.”
He chuckles, leaves the bottle in the bucket, and goes off to place our order.
“I’m sorry,” she says. Her eyes glisten. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. ”
“You’re going to have a great meal, that’s all, and sit and talk to me. Don’t pay any attention to anyone else.” I tear off a piece of the flatbread and dip it in the olive oil, then the salt before eating it. Then I gesture to her to do the same.
She copies me and eats a tiny piece. “Mmm. That’s good.”
“Eat a bit before you have any champagne or you’ll fall off your chair with all the adrenaline running through you right now.”
She does as she’s told and eats half the flatbread with me before finally taking a sip of the champagne. She laughs. “The bubbles go up my nose.”
I smile. “Do you like it?”
“Mmm. It tastes of almonds. And citrus.”
“It does. Well spotted. I forgot that the commune has vineyards. Do you make your own wine there?”
“No, we don’t have those facilities. We have a long-standing partnership with a local winemaker, and we sell the grapes to him to process. He always gives us a case or two of the wine when it’s ready.”
“Do you drink spirits? Whiskey, vodka?”
She shakes her head. “Dad preferred not to have them anywhere on the commune. Alcohol has often played a part in the lives of the women who come to us, and so it’s best if it’s not readily available. We offer them a glass of wine with Sunday lunch and that’s about it.”
“We’ve led very different lives.”
“Just a bit.” She smiles.
She looks amazing tonight. The long dress clings to her figure when she moves, and I’m pretty sure she’s not wearing a bra, and maybe no underwear either. I’m trying not to think about it because I don’t want a hard-on at the table, but it’s difficult when she’s sitting in front of me, all soft and sexy.
“I have something for you,” I tell her. I slide my hand into my trouser pocket, extract the item, and place it on the table. It’s a small soft bear with a heart in its hands that says ‘I love you more than chocolate.’
“His name is Bearcub,” I say. “That’s what my name means—bearcub.”
She stares at the bear. Then her expression softens, and she picks it up. “For me?”
“Yeah. ”
“I wondered what that lump was in your trousers. I thought you were pleased to see me.”
We both laugh.
“Thank you,” she says graciously. “I love it.” She places it on the table to her side, then returns her gaze to me and studies me with interest. “You look a lot like your father.”
I scowl. “I don’t want to talk about him.”
“Why not?”
“He’s not my favorite person at the moment.”
“Why? What has he done?”
I lean back in my chair and turn my fork over in my fingers. “It doesn’t matter.”
“He doesn’t approve of you having dinner with me.” It’s a statement. She’s obviously guessed from the way he was so rude to her in my office.
“No.”
She doesn’t look upset, just curious. “He seems young to have a son your age.”
“He was only nineteen when I was born. I think I was an accident.” My lips twist.
Her brown eyes survey me thoughtfully. “Tell me about your mum.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Were they happy together?”
“They had two kids.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I shrug. “I guess they were. He never cheated, as far as I know.”
“So that’s your definition of happiness—whether the guy cheats or not?”
I just give her a sardonic look.
“What was your mum like?” she asks.
I look away then, picturing my mother. “Tall. Blonde. Beautiful. Elegant. Reserved. In control. Some would say cold. I don’t remember her ever giving me a hug. I was closer to the nanny than I was to either of my parents.” My feelings about my mother confuse me. Her death hit me hard, even though I wouldn’t have said we were close. “I want to say I don’t miss her, but I do, and that frustrates me.” I stop talking then, feeling as if I’ve said too much. Scarlett’s brows have drawn together. “What was your mum like?” I ask, wanting to draw the attention away from myself.
“The complete opposite. Māori. Curvy. Warm. Friendly. She belonged to everyone, in a way, not just to me.” She sips her champagne. “Do you know why our fathers were such bitter enemies?”
“No. He won’t tell me. I know they went to school together. But something happened when they were about eighteen, I think. I know they had a physical fight and had to be broken up by a teacher. Both of them were suspended for it.”
“I didn’t know that,” she says softly.
“That’s about all I know. Kingi’s dad, Rangi, joked about it once. He was a couple of years above them. Dad got angry and told him to shut the fuck up, which was weird in itself because he never spoke like that to his friends.”
“Strange.” She looks down at her dinner.
For some reason, something to do with her expression, I get a prickle of warning. “Do you know something about their relationship?”
She scoops up a forkful of risotto. “No.” She eats it, her gaze flicking up to mine. I don’t think she’s telling the truth, but I can’t just accuse her of lying. “So,” she says, “when’s your birthday?”
“Fourteenth of October.”
“So you’re a Libra.”
That makes me laugh as I cut into my chicken. “I thought you weren’t into astrology?”
“Only for fun.”
“What does it tell you about me?”
She thinks as she chews. “Mmm.” She swallows. “You’re charming. Intellectual.”
“You needed to know my star sign to figure that out?”
“You’re a peacemaker. A natural mediator. You’re just and fair.”
I shrug. “I guess that’s true.”
“You like beautiful things.”
“Well, duh.”
“I don’t mean women. Well, women as well, probably, but I’m guessing you enjoy fine art, music, good food, the sensual things in life. You like thoughtful discussions, and you’re adaptable and flexible. But sometimes you have trouble making a decision. You procrastinate. You overanalyze. And you’re a people pleaser. You care what others think about you.”
“Wow.”
“Was that accurate?”
“Oddly, yes, very.”
She just smiles.
“When’s your birthday?” I ask, intrigued.
“I… don’t want to tell you.”
“Why?” I ask, amused. When she doesn’t reply, my eyebrows slowly rise. “It’s not today, surely?” When her lips twist, I lean back and give a short laugh. “You should have told me.”
“I knew you’d make a fuss.” She eats some more risotto. “This is wonderful, by the way.”
I watch her, realizing that this must be her first birthday without either of her parents present. If she’d been in the commune, maybe they’d have thrown her a party—I’ve read that communities like hers make a big thing out of personal celebrations. But instead she agreed to come out with me. I’m oddly touched.
I wish I’d known; I’d have bought her a present, something more than the bear. But maybe she wouldn’t have accepted it.
I start eating again, tucking into the sauteed new potatoes. “So you’re a Pisces?”
She laughs. “How did you know that?”
“I’m not completely hopeless.” I take out my phone, Google it with one hand, and lay it on the table so I can read out the character traits while I eat. “You’re compassionate and empathetic. Well, I knew that. Creative and intuitive. That makes sense. Idealistic. Well, that goes without saying.”
She gives me a sarcastic look, but I choose to ignore it.
“You’re romantic and spiritual. But you can be overly sensitive, easily influenced, and have trouble dealing with the practical matters of life, to the point of neglecting your own needs at the expense of looking after others. I think that pretty much sums you up.”
“See? There is some truth in it.”
I smile and turn off my phone, then pick up my champagne glass. “Do you neglect your own needs?”
She opens her mouth to respond, and then closes it, her expression turning suspicious. “Are you asking whether I masturbate? ”
I cough into my champagne, then have to spend a few moments dabbing my face, hand, and glass with a serviette to mop up what I’ve spilled. “Jesus,” I say, “don’t do that to me.”
“What?” She starts laughing.
I glare at her. “You can’t talk about that at the dinner table and not expect it to have an effect.”
She has another forkful of risotto, her eyes dancing. “It’s perfectly natural.”
“I know that…”
“I mean, you’re not going to tell me that you don’t do it.”
I concentrate on cutting up my chicken. “This is not an appropriate conversation for the dinner table.”
“That’s your father talking.”
“Please don’t talk about my father and sex in the same sentence.”
“Well, aren’t you being all prim and proper,” she says, amused. “Do they not talk about masturbation in your family?”
“Scarlett! For fuck’s sake.”
She giggles, which is such a delightful sound that it makes me smile.
“And no, we don’t talk about it in our family,” I reply. “And certainly not at dinner.”
She eats her risotto, her big brown eyes wide as she watches me.
“Stop it,” I scold, cutting another piece of chicken.
“What?”
“You know what. I can tell what you’re thinking.”
“I can’t help it. It’s just the thought of you… you know…”
I blow out a breath and try to concentrate on finishing off the potatoes. “I’m not listening.”
She continues to watch me curiously. “So you wouldn’t say you were close to your father?”
I shrug. “We’re not not close. He’s just not touchy feely. He told me when I was in my early twenties that I needed to be careful with relationships because of our wealth, and that I must never give in to my feelings.”
“He must think I’m after your money.”
“Well, you are,” I point out. “But at least you’re honest about it.”
She studies her plate. Then she lowers her fork onto it.
“Shit,” I say hastily, “I’m sorry. It was a bad joke.”
“No, you’re right.” She sits with her hands in her lap. She hesitates, then says, “George and Richard want me to get to know you better so I can try to convince you to pay the extra two and a half million. It’s why I agreed to come to dinner with you.”
“I know.”
She looks puzzled. “You know?”
“Of course I know.”
“Then… why did you ask me?”
I finish the last mouthful and put my cutlery down. I have a mouthful of champagne, then wipe my mouth with the serviette. Finally, I lean on the table, look into her eyes, and hold her gaze. She’s so fucking beautiful. I think about undressing her, about kissing her all over, and about sliding inside her and making her mine, and I know my thoughts are going to show in my eyes.
Slowly, her cheeks stain red.
“That’s why,” I say.
Somewhat smugly, I lean back and gesture at the waiter. “Let’s have a dessert,” I say to her. “They do a really nice Tiramisu here.”