Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
The restaurant was so quiet that every sound seemed to ring in Debra’s ears.
The scrape of chairs, the shuffle of coats as people drifted in and out, everything felt amplified as she scanned the space for the millionth time since she’d been shown to her table.
She sat by the window, her untouched glass of wine catching what little sunlight slipped through the clouds.
She’d arrived early.
Half an hour early, in fact.
And now, fifteen minutes past the time they were supposed to meet, doubt had started to slowly creep in.
Billie wasn’t coming; she was sure of that now.
Debra could feel the truth of it, the rejection once again, settling deep inside of her.
She didn’t know why she was doing this to herself.
She didn’t know why she had walked into Brown & Co.
today, knowing at the back of her mind that Billie wouldn’t want to have lunch with her.
As she sat there, she wished Billie had just been forthcoming with the truth the moment she’d invited her to lunch.
Her heart had been lodged somewhere near her throat since she’d left her flat an hour ago.
She’d dressed with the kind of effort that she hoped didn’t show—dark jeans, a cream blouse, and her hair styled the way she used to wear it before her ex-husband dismissed it as ‘too slutty.’ She didn’t miss those days, but she did miss having someone to talk to other than Maeve.
This isn’t a date, she reminded herself, even though her pulse refused to behave like it understood.
She checked her phone again.
Still nothing.
Billie had absolutely changed her mind. Or maybe it had been nothing more than a polite performance out on the shop floor, when really it was just another line Billie had never planned to cross.
Debra sighed and reached for her wine. She would finish it, and then she would ask for the bill. She didn’t have an issue eating alone, she’d done that plenty of times over the years, but knowing she should have been sitting across from Billie, and now wouldn’t be, had ruined her appetite.
She barely had time to brace for the ache of disappointment before—
“Ms Allen.”
Her head snapped up.
Billie stood to the side of the table, framed by the restaurant’s soft lighting.
Her overcoat hung open, the crisp white shirt beneath it almost glowing.
She looked exactly as Debra expected her to, only now she carried a faint breathlessness, as though she’d hurried, even though Debra knew Billie didn’t hurry for anyone.
“Sorry I’m late,” Billie said. “Traffic.”
Relief rushed through Debra so quickly that it left her a little lightheaded. “I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind.”
“I considered it.” Billie slid into the chair opposite her. “But here I am.”
The waiter appeared, and Billie ordered coffee while Debra stuck with the wine she already had. When he left the table, silence settled over them, sparking with something Debra couldn’t quite put her finger on.
It’s just the relief of her showing up for you.
Billie glanced around, smiling, and then her eyes landed on Debra. “You chose well. It’s lovely here.”
“I come here with a friend when we’re able to catch up,” Debra said. “She swears by the risotto, and I can confirm that it’s very good.”
“Then that’s what I’ll have.” Billie folded her napkin neatly on her lap. “You look…well.”
Debra lifted a brow. “That sounds like a line.”
“It’s not. I promise you.” Billie lifted a hand. “You do look well. You look lighter.”
The compliment landed in a place Debra didn’t realise had been empty. “I’m not sure that’s true,” she said as she cleared her throat. “I think I’m just good at pretending.”
“Pretending can be useful. It buys us time to become whoever we’re pretending to be.”
A small laugh escaped Debra. “And what are you pretending to be?”
“That’s quite the question.” Billie looked down at her coffee as the waiter placed it in front of her. “Uncomplicated, maybe?”
That honesty knocked the wind out of Debra, but she wouldn’t delve too deep. Right now, she was just happy to be sitting across from Billie.
When their food arrived, the conversation shifted in a different direction. Debra talked about her new flat, about burning her first roast chicken in said new flat, and about fixing a dripping tap with a YouTube tutorial while swearing at the screen.
Billie listened the way she always did. With a focus that felt like warmth settling over Debra’s skin.
It wasn’t until Billie asked, “So, what do you do?” that everything stilled.
Debra’s fork hovered mid-air. “Do?”
“For work,” Billie clarified. “You strike me as someone good at whatever she puts her mind to.”
Debra smiled, even though she hated talking about her lack of career or life over the years. “That’s generous, but no. I don’t have a career. Never really did.”
A faint crease formed between Billie’s brows. “I’m sorry?”
“I was a housewife.” The words felt antiquated as they left her mouth, but it was the truth. That was all she’d been for as long as she could remember. “For twenty-three years.”
“That’s work,” Billie said. “And it’s harder than most paid jobs.”
“Not work that earns you a pension or a personality.” Debra set her fork down, her appetite no longer where she wished it was. “He was very traditional. I ran the house, raised the children—now nineteen and twenty-three and both away at university—and smiled when people told me how lucky I was.”
“And you don’t think you were?”
Debra met Billie’s gaze. “Luck isn’t the same as happiness.”
Billie’s nod held a weight that made Debra wonder what parts of her Billie understood.
“Since the divorce, I’ve been trying to work out who I am when I’m not standing in someone else’s shadow. It’s harder than I expected.”
“You’re doing it, though.”
Debra frowned. “Doing what?”
“Becoming you.” Billie searched Debra’s eyes. “You underestimate how extraordinary that is. Rebuilding yourself from the ground up. Most people never even bother to try.”
Emotion welled in Debra’s throat. “You have a way of making people sound far better than they actually are.”
Billie shook her head. “No. I just see what’s there.”
“You did for me at one time.”
“Yes.” Billie smiled faintly. “I remember.”
“And now you’ve decided I’m not worth the full service anymore.
” The moment the words left Debra’s mouth, she wished she could pull them back.
Still, she’d always wanted to know what was so wrong with her that Billie didn’t want her.
“So, you’re either lying when you tell me what you see in me…
or you’re very good at pushing people away simply because you want to. ”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Can I be honest with you?” Debra took a breath when Billie nodded. “It felt a lot like rejection dressed up as professionalism.”
“Cancelling your appointment last week…” Billie lowered her gaze, her fingers squeezing around her espresso cup. “It was never about your worth.”
“Then what was it about?”
An awkward silence stretched between them, and when Billie finally looked up, something guarded settled over her features. “Boundaries I don’t trust myself to keep.”
“Right.”
“I know it’s probably not a good enough answer for you, but it’s the only one I can give.”
Debra clenched and unclenched her hand beneath the table, wanting to restore the lightness they’d somehow found only a few minutes ago.
It felt as though one wrong move and this would be over in a split second.
Debra didn’t want that. Still, as she searched Billie’s face, she caught a hint of vulnerability in her eyes.
Then Billie exhaled a slow, measured breath and said, “Do you cook?”
Debra’s brows drew together. “W-what?”
“You mentioned the roast chicken before.” Billie smiled. “I wondered if you’d mastered it yet.”
“Oh, no.” Debra laughed and waved a hand between them. “I pick a rotisserie up whenever I feel like indulging. It saves me a lot of stress.”
“Good call.”
“Do you cook?” Debra didn’t know much about this woman, but she suspected she knew her way around a kitchen. Billie just had that air about her. As though she could turn her hand to anything at all.
Billie smoothed her fingers over the edge of her napkin. “I can cook three things. Steak, risotto, and an omelette that could easily be used as a blunt-force weapon depending on my mood.”
A smile tugged at Debra’s lips. “Interesting mix of dishes.”
“I had to learn. My mother insisted that women who cooked became dependent.”
“And…did they?”
Billie laughed, and the sound hit Debra square in the chest. While she’d seen hints and glimpses of a smile or a minute laugh here and there, this one had the hairs on the back of her neck standing upright. “No. They just became better cooks.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever tried my hand at risotto…”
“If you’re serious about learning,” Billie said, “I can give you my risotto recipe. Though you’ll probably curse me halfway through. It requires patience.”
“I’ve spent my life being patient in one way or another,” Debra murmured. “I’m sure I can handle the risotto.”
Billie leaned in a little, catching Debra off guard. “I know you likely won’t believe me when I say this, but I am glad we met, Debra. Regardless of what you think of me, no matter how we met, I…wouldn’t change any of it.”
Billie’s eyes warmed, slowly and intentionally as they lingered in a way that unsettled every steady breath Debra took. The moment held, Debra ached to reach out and take Billie’s hand, and then the waiter arrived with the bill, breaking the tension with impeccable timing.
Billie reached out first, already sliding her card forward. “This is on me.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary.”
“It is,” Billie said, her tone making it clear she wouldn’t be argued with. “It’s the least I can do.”