Chapter 11
Eleven
Twelve Years Earlier
EMILY
The middle-aged man with the tan is watching my legs again.
I can feel his eyes even when I turn my back to stack glasses—a prickle at the back of my knees, like greasy fingers lingering.
I angle the tray so it catches a reflection in the chrome coffee machine. There he is with his tango-orange tan, a too-tight Paul Smith shirt, and a chunky gold watch flashing every time he lifts his glass.
He’s been in the bar three nights this week with three different girls. But none has looked as uncomfortable as this one.
The girl he’s brought in tonight can’t be more than eighteen. She’s wearing a clip-on ponytail and thick lashes, her hands wrapped too tightly around the stem of her wine glass. She keeps trying to cover the rim with her palm, but he laughs and pours anyway.
He’s the kind of man who isn’t used to being told no and he’s just ordered another bottle of champagne.
The hotel bar, with its fake leather stools and plastic plants, is half empty. At the far end, a guy in a cheap suit has been nursing a Diet Coke for forty-five minutes while he frowns at a spreadsheet. He has a good jawline and broad shoulders, but his hair is crying out for a slick of wax.
He keeps looking over there. Not at me, at the over-tanned perv. Getting the measure of him.
The girl gives another nervous giggle, glancing at the door as the man leans in.
‘Top up, sweetheart?’ he says, already reaching for her glass.
‘No! I said no—’
‘Ssh,’ he says. ‘You’re prettier when you don’t complain.’
I’m already moving by the time he finishes speaking.
I sweep over, my smile bright and my voice breezy.
‘Sorry, can I just check something?’
He scowls. ‘We’re fine.’
‘It’ll only take a moment.’ I turn to the girl. ‘Can I see your ID again?’
Her eyes flick to his. Then back to me. She fishes it out of a tiny handbag with shaking fingers.
‘What’s the problem?’ he growls.
I glance at the ID, then lower my voice. ‘I’m really sorry, your order’s been flagged on the system. We can’t serve you any more alcohol tonight.’
Her face brightens with relief.
‘What?’ he snaps. ‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘I know,’ I say sympathetically. ‘It happens sometimes. It’s a system thing.’
‘Since when?’
‘Long enough,’ I say lightly. ‘Licensing is getting stricter, and the hotel chain is paranoid. Sorry.’
It’s all lies, of course, but he doesn’t know that.
I turn to the young woman. ‘Soft drinks are fine. Or if you’d rather . . .’
She doesn’t hesitate. ‘I think I’ve had enough. I feel a bit unwell.’
‘Will you be settling your tab, sir?’ I say with a smile.
‘Bloody great night this is turning out to be.’ He glares at his date and at the fresh bottle of champagne. ‘Wait for me here.’
He slaps a gold credit card down on the bar.
‘No limit on that,’ he says, leaning close enough I can smell his sour whisky breath. ‘Bet you don’t see many of them.’
‘Dangerous thing to tell a barmaid,’ I tell him.
He gives a smug grin and heads off to the bathroom.
‘There’s a cab rank just around the corner,’ I tell her when he’s out of earshot. ‘I’ll keep him here as long as I can.’
Her eyes shine. ‘Thank you. I never thought I’d turn down champagne, but he’s a real creep.’
I nod. ‘Better to buy your own. I keep threatening that one day I’m going to treat myself to a bottle of proper pink champagne. Rosé Moet.’
I swipe the credit card and add on a hefty service charge before completing the transaction.
When he comes back from the bathroom, I’m polishing glasses, my posture relaxed, smile already in place.
‘Where’s she gone?’ he demands.
‘I got her a cab,’ I say. ‘She wasn’t feeling well.’
His face darkens. ‘What are you playing at? You’ve no right to—’
‘Actually,’ I interrupt gently, ‘I have every right.’
I lean in, just enough to keep my voice private.
‘She told me you were pressuring her, and that’s something we’re supposed to log.’ I pick up his credit card and read out loud, ‘Richard Armstrong of FND Logistics. I’ll need that for the database. Of course, if this becomes an incident, we’d have to pull the footage.’
His colour drains as I hand back the card.
‘Come on, there’s no need for that,’ he says quickly, reaching into his jacket.
He pulls out a folded wad of notes and presses it into my hand.
‘For your trouble,’ he mutters. ‘Let’s just forget about it.’
I smile. ‘It’s already a blur.’
He leaves without finishing his drink, taking the unopened champagne with him.
At the bar, Spreadsheet Guy exhales slowly.
‘Now that was impressive,’ he says.
‘Was it?’ I walk closer.
‘You didn’t even have to carry out your threat,’ he says, eyes bright now. ‘You just let him imagine it and the cash appeared. You’re a hustler.’
I shrug, pleased. ‘He was a creep, and he could afford it.’
‘I’m Oliver,’ he says, holding out a hand. ‘I work in an accounts office across the road.’
I grin, taking his hand. ‘Explains the spreadsheet.’
He blushes. ‘And the Diet Coke. The numbers start to blur otherwise.’
‘I’m Emily.’
‘Well, Emily . . .’ He hesitates, then smiles. ‘Do you fancy a drink somewhere that isn’t your workplace . . . when you’ve finished your shift, I mean?’
He smiles, and I notice, properly this time, his clean teeth and smooth olive skin. The way he holds himself like someone more self-assured than he really is.
‘I’d love to, but I don’t finish until eleven thirty.’
‘You’re worth the wait,’ he says simply.
Something warm flickers low in my stomach.