Chapter Eleven Asher
For the last decade I’ve successfully managed to, for the most part, avoid the galas and events, art galleries and parties and exclusive restaurants the entirety of our so-called high society seems to revolve around.
Teddy is the one more suited to things like this.
Even Andreas, who is also somewhat of a recluse, would be less a fish out of water than me right now.
But it’s me standing outside the hidden entrance to The Opal Vault, a charming, ivy-covered facade on a quiet Mayfair side street.
If you didn’t know the restaurant was here, you’d probably walk right past it and never know that behind this door is a room filled with some of the city’s most elite.
Celebrities. Politicians. Top models. Business tycoons.
Being able to wrangle an invitation to The Opal Vault means you’re a somebody, and there’s nothing somebodies love more than being seen in a room full of other somebodies.
I knock twice on the door and it opens immediately.
A stony-faced man steps out with a tablet and looks me up and down.
Apparently the vibes I’m giving off label me as someone who belongs in an establishment like this, because the stony expression quickly disappears and is replaced with a cloying one.
‘Do you have a reservation, sir?’
I nod, tell him my name, and he scans the tablet for a few seconds before nodding approvingly. ‘Wonderful, Mr Vouvalis. Please come inside. It says you’re expecting a guest?’
‘She’ll be here soon.’
‘Excellent. Follow me.’
He leads me through a dark, dimly lit corridor that smells overwhelmingly of oud.
It opens out into a deceptively large dining room with a vaulted ceiling with several chandeliers hanging from it.
The room is buzzing with the hum of conversation, soft laughter, and the clinking of glasses and cutlery to plates.
I spot a few vaguely familiar faces as I follow the ma?tre d to my table.
There’s Sidney Morrow, a social media mogul, talking animatedly with a politician who has recently had his fair share of scandal.
At a table near a window, there’s a woman I’m pretty sure is a top model (and also pretty sure she once dated Teddy) clinking champagne glasses with Nate Burnstone, a Formula One driver.
There are also people I don’t recognise dotted around on different tables, but I can tell from the cut of their suits or the way they laugh, or even just the way they carry themselves, that they’re from money.
The ma?tre d takes me to a table covered in a white cloth in the middle of the room, which wouldn’t have been my first choice but the decision doesn’t surprise me.
As well as the tables nestled into dark corners in the room, there are also several private booths in the back with velvet curtains closing them off from the rest of us in the main room.
If this were any other night, I would’ve preferred one of those but tonight isn’t about confidentiality or discretion.
Tonight is all about being seen. Our fathers have made it abundantly clear, and Imani and I are more than happy to oblige.
A waiter appears just as I sit down and places two pristine glasses and a tall bottle of ice-cold water in front of me. He takes a step backwards, ready to disappear back into the shadows, but I stop him.
‘Would you mind bringing some sparkling water out too?’
He nods. ‘Of course, sir. Iced?’
I try to remember what Imani had in her glass that one afternoon and then nod. ‘Please.’
‘Very good.’ He disappears, leaving me alone. Although it doesn’t feel like it.
I fidget uncomfortably in my seat. It’s not as bad as it was after the incident at the gala, but I can feel several pairs of curious eyes on me.
I wonder how many of these people follow @TrustFundTea – an account I still can’t quite believe actually exists – and how many of them saw the photo and then, two days later, the video of Imani throwing her drink over me at the gala.
I’ve rewatched it countless times now, and every time I notice something else.
The last time I watched it, it was the way Imani’s eyes widened as the drink made contact with my shirt, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she’d just done.
The time before that, it was the way her hips swayed in the few seconds of movement before she threw the drink. Hypnotising.
I pull out my phone to give me something to do while I wait and open my message history with Imani.
I scroll up to a few days ago, after we’d both been told, in no uncertain terms, that we needed to fix things.
Or, rather, that we needed to make a show of fixing things.
I think it was her father who suggested The Opal Vault, so here we are.
Imani
Have you ever been to a restaurant and been sat by the kind of couple that just oozes ‘we should’ve broken up months ago’ energy?
Asher
… No… No, I don’t think I have
Imani
Oh come on, you definitely have!
Or maybe you’ve been sat by a couple on a first date that is going terribly?
I was sat next to a couple once and the guy kept going on and on about how his ex used to do this and do that, and he didn’t seem to realise his date was definitely not into it.
Pretty sure he called her the ex’s name too.
They got separate cars home, lol.
Imani
Anyway… I’m feeling inspired.
Asher
***
Imani
Our fathers want us to be seen together. So let’s make them regret that.
No drinks will be thrown this time, I promise, lol.
Her plan for tonight is simple but should hopefully be an effective one. As long as we both play our parts well and, after the morning at my father’s office a few days ago, I’m ready to do just that.
The waiter returns with a cool pitcher of sparkling water just as the ma?tre d leads Imani into the dining room.
She looks beautiful, as usual. Her eyes meet mine almost immediately and I’m treated to a brief grin that lights up her whole face.
It’s so brief, most people would miss it, but I catch it and commit it to memory before she remembers she’s supposed to be displeased to see me and the smile drops from her face.
Show time.
The ma?tre d guides Imani to our table and I make a pointed show of not getting up from my seat to greet her. The rudeness of it all makes me cringe inwardly but, I remind myself, it’s all part of the plan.
‘Asher,’ Imani says frostily as the ma?tre d, after waiting a beat too long and realising I’m not going to step up and do it, pulls out her chair and gestures politely for her to sit.
‘Imani,’ I say, forcing any warmth out of my voice so it comes out equally as cold.
The ma?tre d looks between us, a small frown puckering his brows in the middle, but doesn’t say a word. A true professional. Once Imani’s settled in her seat, he bows his head and then trots off back through the door and into the corridor.
‘You’re late,’ I say, taking care not to lower my voice to the same politely hushed levels of the other diners seated around us.
‘I had better things to be doing,’ Imani says, pointedly not looking at me as she settles into her seat. Instead, she pulls her phone out of her handbag and begins tapping away, seemingly deeming me less worthy of her attention than whatever is on her screen.
Out of the corner of my eye I spy one of the expensive suit-wearing men beside us give our table a disapproving once-over before turning his attention back to his own meal and guest.
‘I’m told you wanted to apologise,’ I say.
At that, Imani scoffs loudly, earning herself a few pointed glares from some of the tables around us. ‘I—’ She seems to falter for a second under the weight of the scrutiny from our fellow diners but then picks herself back up right where she left off. ‘I have nothing to apologise for.’
‘Ha,’ I bark, and this time the man in the expensive suit actually snaps his head around in my direction and glares at me for a full five seconds. ‘My shirt would say otherwise.’
‘I did you a favour,’ Imani sniffs. ‘That shirt was hideous. If anything, I’m sorry it took that long for someone to do something about it. Though fashion taste was never your strong suit, was it?’
‘You embarrassed me in front of just about everyone we know,’ I hiss back. ‘I think, at the very least, I’m owed an apology.’
The model glances over her shoulder then turns back to her date and whispers in his ear. In the general quiet of the room, her voice travels and I hear Asher Vouvalis and Imani Davies come from her lips in barely hushed tones.
‘I told you I never wanted to see you again,’ Imani says, raising her voice ever so slightly. ‘After how you treated me, you’re lucky all you got was a spilled drink.’
That gets a little more attention. I can even see some of the waiters now, hovering on the sidelines and watching our table with undeniable interest. I wonder who’ll be the one to get in touch with @TrustFundTea about this.
Will they try and sneak a photo or video?
It feels wrong, but I fix a hateful scowl onto my face, just in case.
‘After how I treated you? The way you were acting, you’re lucky I—’
‘I’m so sorry to interrupt, but are you ready to order?’ Our waiter appears from seemingly nowhere, a bead of sweat trickling down his nose like he had to be forced to come out here and interrupt us mid argument and he’s not sure how we’ll respond.
Imani turns to him, and her entire demeanour changes almost immediately. She beams up at him and makes eye contact the entire time as she places her order.