Chapter Fourteen
“Iput an outfit on the bed for you, wear it, it’s perfect for the Holliday Club.” Arabella says this to me, then, “Cynthia! Calm down, fucking hell!”
Cynthia is clearly still not over the other night. I don’t really blame her. I tried to apologize as I hadn’t really understood they were together together, but she waved me off. I hear her saying, “You want to talk, let’s talk, but chill the fuck out. She has a meeting with the Cavendishes—she can’t be dealing with all this shit before that.”
Cynthia’s rage pauses as she looks at me. “The Cavendishes? Clementine and Alistair?”
I nod.
Cynthia gives Arabella a meaningful look. Maybe Cynthia is one of the friends Arabella mentioned the other night.
“I’m going to get ready,” I say.
“Go,” says Arabella. The two of them start yelling again in Spanish.
I go into Arabella’s room. I see the outfit she’s picked out.
It’s a nude bodice dress from Dolce the leather seats are as soft as butter.
The driver gets in his seat and says, “Ready, miss?”
“Um—yes! Thanks. Yeah.”
I’m a nervous wreck.
He glances at me before saying, “There are champagne splits in the middle console, miss.”
I look where he indicates, and then open the narrow door to see six small bottles of Mo?t & Chandon. On a ribbon on the neck, there is a tiny gold cone I know is for putting in the top of the bottle so you can drink straight out of it without it backing up and exploding all over.
“Thank you,” I say.
I’m not sure if it’s the smartest thing to have champagne from the car they sent to pick me up—what if it’s some kind of test?
But I could do with some liquid courage and I always get about twenty-five percent more charming after a drink or two.
I think it before I remember that it’s something my mom used to say about herself.
I pop open the bottle. I deserve it.
It tastes incredible. I can’t help but smile as I look out the window at the night lights of London from this absolutely over-the-top car. Where I’m drinking one of my favorite champagnes.
A wave of nerves comes over me again as I remember that I have to go impress two complete strangers. Two complete, powerful strangers.
I’m just starting to think maybe the champagne was a test when the car slows in front of a gorgeous, grand building that looks like a hotel, but which has no sign out front.
“Here we are, miss.”
—
I’m taken to the top floor of the building in a tiny, gold elevator by a man in white gloves and a perfectly pressed, perfectly clean uniform.
The elevator opens on a glamorous, very modern, very beautiful restaurant. A woman with crossed hands is waiting for me as the doors open. She is in an all-cream linen outfit.
“Ms.Banks?” she asks.
“Uh—yeah, yes. Sorry.”
A man, also in cream linen, appears and hands the woman a small glass of something pale and pink.
She in turn offers it to me. “This is an aperitif that we recommend to those of our guests who will be imbibing alcohol with their meal.”
I take it, my heart pounding. This place is so soothing and relaxed, and yet I feel nothing but my nerves.
“I’ll lead you to the table. Please feel free to sip as we walk.”
As I follow her, I think about the local “nice” restaurant in my hometown. It was called Shister’s, which was obviously mercilessly mocked by every child, teenager, and adult. When we’d arrive at Shister’s, the hostess there would take a break from texting on her phone to demand to know how many of you there were, and then she would take however many menus needed—always covered in something sticky—and slap them down on a dirty table before saying something like, Svedka will be right over to take your order.
This is…a lot different.
The floor is a pale pink carpet, and the windows are floor to ceiling. The ceilings are low, but it lends an intimate, interesting feel to the place. I realize that every color is nude, cream, or this very soft salmon. Even the guests’ outfits. Thank God I let Arabella dress me. If I’d been on my own, I probably would have worn something like a maraschino-red satin dress. It would have looked absurd here. Like spilled blood on a white sand beach.
As we round a corner, I see the table she is leading me to. There is only one occupant, and he is unmistakable. Even among all the wealthy diners here, his wealth just emanates off of him differently.
Max looks up and sees the hostess and me.
“What the fuck?” I say under my breath.