Chapter Eleven Asher #2
It’s strange what you can learn about someone when you least expect it.
I’ve gone to countless dinners like this over the years and watched as the people around me treated the staff like nothing.
My father in particular is one of the biggest offenders here.
I don’t think he’s ever actually looked a member of serving staff in the eye.
But Imani makes a point of actually talking to our waiter like a human being and not a robot programmed to serve her.
It shouldn’t be refreshing to see, but it is.
The waiter makes a corny, food-related pun and she laughs like it’s genuinely the funniest thing she’s heard all day.
An unexpected spike of jealously stabs at me. While I’m subject to, admittedly fake, scowls and scoffs, he gets her undivided attention, laughter, and the kind of smile that could put the sun to shame.
‘And you, sir?’ the waiter asks, reluctantly turning from Imani to look at me.
As soon as his attention is off her, Imani’s smile drops and she’s back to glaring daggers at me from the across the table.
I know they’re fake and that this is all part of the ruse that I agreed to, but I still squirm in my seat a little.
Being on the receiving end of Imani’s ire isn’t fun.
I give my order and our waiter – Thomas, I can see from the thin name tag pinned to his lapel – swiftly disappears into the shadows once again, leaving us alone. Or, as alone as we can be given that half the restaurant are unabashedly staring at us now.
Imani’s well aware that we have an audience. She crosses her arms over her chest and leans back and curls her lips up into a sneer that doesn’t suit her. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you ordered the most boring thing on the menu. Asher Vouvalis, always taking the safe route.’
‘I know what I like,’ I retort, loud enough that the couple behind her, who have been pretending not to listen, both pause in the middle of raising their forks. ‘And I’m not in the habit of wasting my time.’
Her eyebrows arch like daggers, and for a second I could believe I’ve genuinely offended her. ‘This is a colossal waste of mine.’
‘And yet here you are,’ I shoot back. ‘Having dinner with me.’
‘Only because I was forced.’ She says this with the kind of venom that carries, letting it drop into the room like broken glass. Heads turn. Someone says, ‘Goodness.’ The man in the expensive suit beside us is practically salivating at the drama of it all.
We hold each other’s gaze, both of us simmering in manufactured disdain, until the plates arrive.
Thomas places mine down with professional precision, but when he sets Imani’s in front of her, she smiles sweetly again, thanking him with warmth that isn’t even remotely faked. The contrast is dizzying.
Once Thomas is gone, Imani eyes my plate and then rolls her eyes dramatically. ‘Do you ever get tired of being so predictable? So mediocre?’
‘Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?’
She gasps and clutches at her chest like I’ve wounded her. ‘You’re unbelievable.’ She leans forward and hisses with a stage-whisper, ‘You think you’re clever, Asher, but you’re not. Everyone knows you’re nothing more than your last name.’
That one lands harder than I expect, even though I know it’s for show. My jaw tightens despite myself. Around us, whispers ripple across the tables like a current.
Okay, that should be enough for tonight.
‘This was a mistake,’ I say. ‘Clearly you can’t be reasonable.’
Imani gives me a humourless smile. ‘I was just about to say the same about you.’
We finish the rest of our meal in brittle silence, though every action is still deliberate: her sighs, my cold stares, the way we both pointedly avoid any kind of conversation between us.
When the dessert menus are offered, I wave mine away. ‘Separate cheques,’ I say loudly.
A scandalised murmur rushes through the dining room as Imani lets out a sardonic laugh. ‘You haven’t changed.’
When we finally push back our chairs, it feels like half the room is openly watching us and I’m certain I see at least two phones pointed in our general direction.
We walk out in frosty silence.
I keep my eyes forward as we pass the ma?tre d’, whose polite ‘Have a good evening, Mr Vouvalis, Ms Davies,’ comes with the faintest note of relief, as though he’s glad the tension is leaving his restaurant with us. I don’t blame him.
Our footsteps echo in unison down the narrow corridor until the heavy front door opens and the most exclusive restaurant in the city spits us back outside. A gust of cool air hits my face, clearing away the cloying scent of oud and expensive wine that clung to the dining room.
We barely make it ten steps away from the entrance before Imani breaks.
A high-pitched sound bursts out of her and, for a second, I think she’s violently sneezing.
But then she doubles over, clutching at her stomach, and I realise that it’s laughter spilling out of her.
Pure, unrestrained laughter. She’s in hysterics.
‘Oh my God. That was—’ She cuts herself off with another delighted cackle.
‘Yeah,’ I agree, a smile tugging at my own lips.
‘People were definitely filming,’ she says, after another bout of unrestrained laughter. A triumphant grin spreads over her face. ‘If we’re not all over the gossip pages by midnight, I’ll eat my shoe.’
‘I don’t think you need to worry about that. Did you see the guy next to us?’ I ask. ‘He wasn’t even bothering to hide his phone by the end. We’ll be on that account within the hour.’
‘Excellent,’ she says, straightening slightly as she wipes at the corner of her eye. ‘They all definitely think we hate each other.’
‘Oh, one hundred per cent.’
‘I’d say that’s mission accomplished then.’ She lifts her hand for a celebratory high five.
We’re standing beneath a streetlamp, and the warm yellow glow from it softens her face, highlighting the curve of her cheekbones and the glint of pure mischief still sparkling in her eyes.
It’s a shame I’ve had to spend the entirety of tonight focusing on the act we’re attempting to pull off instead of admiring the woman standing in front of me, because I’d much rather be doing the latter.
I smack my hand against hers and the clap rings out in the quiet street.
Her expression softens, just a fraction. ‘I hope I wasn’t too harsh in there. I don’t like talking like that. Especially not to you. Promise, if I ever take it too far, you’ll tell me, okay?’
‘Like throwing a drink at me too far, or…’
She pulls a face and I get the feeling that if I reached out to touch her cheeks right now, they’d be warm. ‘Exactly like that. I’m serious though – I don’t like being rude to you.’
‘Good,’ I say, and for some reason that makes her laugh again. It’s a small, quiet laugh this time, but it’s no less genuine.
We stand there for a beat, the noise of Mayfair nightlife drifting in from the main road a few streets behind us. I could let us part ways now and both of us could head right on back to our separate worlds, but that feels wrong.
Too abrupt. I remember that afternoon at the member’s club and how nice and easy it had been talking to her.
I glance sideways at her. ‘How about a walk? Just so we don’t end the night on a sour note.’
Imani tilts her head, considering. ‘A walk?’
‘Yes. That thing people do when they’ve just caused a minor social earthquake and don’t want to go straight back to their living rooms, obsessively refreshing an Instagram gossip page for the rest of the night.’
She snorts. ‘You know what? You’re right. Let’s do it.’ She gestures down the street, where the quiet Mayfair side road eventually turns into a busier thoroughfare. ‘Lead the way, Mr Vouvalis.’
I start walking and she falls into step easily beside me. For the first time all evening, we’re not performing.
And I like it.