14. Green salad with no dressing
Green salad with no dressing
Vicky
I felt a trickle of sweat roll down my back as I stared at the menu. There was nothing here that I could realistically tolerate.
When I glanced up at Mike, I could see he was watching me for a reaction, and I managed a smile, at least I hoped I did—Mike’s frown in response would suggest it was more of a grimace.
Right, I told myself, get it together and woman up , as Lottie would say. I needed to get these ridiculous food aversions under control.
I had come a long way since childhood, when for years, I’d only been able to tolerate plain pasta, cheese sandwiches, and fish fingers.
It had driven my mother crazy. She once didn’t give me anything I could eat for three days, trying to break me of the habit under the assumption that if I got hungry enough, I would eat.
I didn’t eat.
It was only when she was called in to the school after I nearly fainted in assembly that she gave in.
“You can’t even eat like a normal human,” Rebecca had taunted me.
I could still hear her voice in my head now. She was right.
But I’d come a long way. Nowadays, I could eat a varied diet, and I approached that with military precision, consulting nutritionists and focusing on health. I only lapsed back into old habits of not eating when I was stressed or unhappy.
But I couldn’t stand rich food. Sauces were a complete no-no, as was shellfish and rare meat. To be honest, when I was feeling as anxious as I was in that moment, I could only really manage absolutely plain chicken, undercooked broccoli—I couldn’t stand it squishy—and plain potatoes or pasta.
I certainly wasn’t going to be able to eat chateaubriand, Dover sole in lemon sauce or lobster thermidor.
“Vicky?” Mike asked, and my eyes snapped up to his from my frantic perusal of the menu. “Is this okay?”
He cleared his throat and shifted his big body on the delicate chair.
This restaurant didn’t suit Mike at all, and I was surprised he’d brought me here. It was pretentious in the extreme, with a Michelin star and rave reviews in the Guardian .
And Mike looked different as well. He was wearing a shirt, smart jeans, and a pair of dress shoes.
Apart from the black-tie outfit the other night, I’d never seen him in anything other than his work boots or trainers with well-worn combat trousers that had multiple pockets all over them, or paint-stained jeans.
His beard was trimmed tonight, and I missed the unruly wildness of before.
“This was the fanciest one I could get a booking on short notice.” He shrugged. “You’re probably used to better, but I didn’t want to wait and?—”
“No,” I said with a frown. “No more waiting.”
He smiled at me, and I felt my cheeks heat.
After that morning at his cabin, Mike had told me that he didn’t want to rush things. He wanted to take me out on an official date before we did any more of the touching stuff.
I’m afraid I was a little grumpy about this.
But when I’d been wrapped in his arms in his beautiful house, having eaten the breakfast that he’d prepared after taking great pains to find out what I liked—something nobody had ever done before in my life other than Margot, who didn’t really count because she felt obligated to look after me, and she was a good person—I was fully ready for the sex.
I was ready for all the sex with Mike, and I knew he was ready for that too—at least I could feel the evidence that he was ready for sex.
When I explained this to him, in the interest of full disclosure, he’d made a pained groan and set me away from him, telling me in a strangled voice not to say stuff like that, and that he was trying to be good here and to give him a break .
Those two flags of colour had appeared on his cheekbones again, and his pupils were so dilated, only a thin rim of golden brown was visible.
I found this all immensely frustrating.
Mike Mayweather was clearly a gentleman. He had found out about my inexperience and was under the false assumption that he needed to orchestrate a series of non-sex-related interactions prior to intercourse.
I like you very much.
Okay, so there was that confession of his as well. I’d replayed it over and over in my head since the weekend. But I knew better than to put my trust in what he’d said then. I knew that, unlike me, people didn’t always say what they meant.
I knew that there were often multiple agendas at play, and I could also still recall with perfect clarity the other words Mike had said to me just a few weeks ago.
Mike smiled at me, and I was momentarily frozen to the spot. His white teeth against his tan skin and dark beard was such a glorious sight that I almost dropped my menu.
“You’re an impatient little thing, aren’t you?” he said through his smile, and I rolled my eyes.
“I just don’t see the need for this rigmarole,” I said, still fascinated by his smiling face.
“Humour me,” he said softly, and I shrugged.
I was staying at Buckingham Manor again this weekend. Margot had asked me to come down to look at some of the Buckingham charitable foundation accounts.
I did explain to her that this could be achieved remotely, but she was insistent that I come in person. When I told Mike I was coming down, he immediately arranged this date, something Margot seemed to be unreasonably excited about.
But then Margot was acting very strangely overall. It took me all of ten minutes to ascertain that the accounts were, in fact, in perfect order, which was not surprising, seeing as Margot already had a team of financial advisors keeping them that way.
Clearly, she did not need any help with them. She did , however, want to talk about Lottie and Ollie’s break up. Margot was devastated that my half-brother had “fucked up so stupendously,” as she put it.
Truth be known, I was devastated too. Ollie had said some terrible things to Lottie after my breakdown at the gala, blaming her for what happened, and Lottie and Hayley had moved out of Buckingham House the following day.
So far, Ollie’s sustained attempts to win her back had been firmly rebuffed.
Now, I carried the guilt of that too. If I’d been able to tolerate some fireworks like a normal human, Ollie would never have said what he did to Lottie.
And Lottie was sad. Even I, with my terrible empathy, could intuit this.
Lottie was one of my favourite people, and I didn’t want her sad.
She helped me so much, in so many ways, and I found it incredibly frustrating that I couldn’t in turn help her with this, especially as I viewed the whole thing as my fault.
I’d decided to keep the Big Mike Date a secret from Lottie and Ollie.
They had enough on their plate at the moment, and I knew that Ollie would be worried for me.
Seeing as his overprotective tendencies towards me were what led to the breakdown of his relationship with Lottie in the first place, I didn’t want to involve him yet.
Margot had agreed to keep the date a secret as well.
When Mike picked me up tonight from Buckingham Manor, I’d explained to him, again , that he didn’t need to go through any of this in order to have sexual relations with me. That he didn’t need to lie about liking me.
He looked furious for a moment but then cleared his expression before checking if he could take my hand and leading me to his Land Rover.
Before I could say anything more, he’d wrenched open the passenger door, lifted me into the seat (after asking if he could put his hands on my hips), and then stood in the door, caging me in and frowning down at me.
“I can see that our discussion on Sunday didn’t quite penetrate,” he said through gritted teeth. “But that’s okay. Actions speak louder than words anyway, and so we’re going on this goddamn date and getting to know each other whether you like it or not. Because, baby, I like you. Remember?”
All I could do was nod wordlessly, and he’d slammed the door and stalked around to his side of the car. As we drove in silence to the restaurant he still seemed cross, so I didn’t want to question where we were going.
I should have questioned it though, because now I was going to look like a freak again.
“So, what can I get for you this evening?”
My anxiety ramped up another notch as I glanced up at the waiter who was now hovering next to our table. There was a long silence.
“Vicky?” Mike prompted. “What would you like, love?”
I swallowed against my dry throat, and to my horror, I felt my eyes start to sting. Ugh, please don’t let me be this pathetic and cry over a simple food order.
The writing was swimming in front of me now as I tried to focus on it.
“Um… I…” I cleared my throat. “C-could I have the green salad with no dressing please?”
Mike slammed his menu down on the table, making me jump.
When I looked up at him, his expression was furious.
“Listen, mate,” he said to the waiter. “Could you give us a sec?”
“Yes, of course.” The thoroughly confused waiter backed away.
“Vicky, look at me,” Mike said in a gentle voice, which was in sharp contrast to how angry he seemed a second ago.
When I looked up at him, I saw the fury in his expression had morphed into concern and a little frustration. “You know I think you’re beautiful, right?”
“Er… yes, you have consistently expressed your satisfaction with my outward appearance.”
“You know I wouldn’t want you to change anything about yourself, about your appearance?”
I frowned at him. “What has that got to do with anything?”
He sighed. “Vicky, you’ve been losing weight.”
I looked to the side to avoid his searching gaze as he continued.
“Look, I don’t want to push you on this, but when I take a woman I care about out to a restaurant with the intent of spending time with her and feeding her up a bit, I become a bit concerned when she only orders a side salad with no dressing.
Baby, please, you don’t need to lose weight.
You can’t afford to lose weight. There’s nothing of you already. ”