Page 23 of Wreck Me

Chez Blanc is a Michelin-starred restaurant offering French-inspired dishes in an elegant and intimate setting. Two weeks ago, it would have been so far out of my price range it’s not even funny. After a couple of weeks dancing in the Luxor Lounge, it’s irrelevant.

Large windows line one side of the restaurant, allowing the natural light to flood in and offering a spectacular view of the bustling city streets below. The Southside of Dublin has a completely different vibe to the North side, where I grew up.

‘Can I help you?’ A waitress approaches before I have time to stumble too far down memory lane.

‘Table for two.’ I force my lips into a wide smile.

She takes me to a table in the window. The weak wintery sun spills across the spotless tablecloth. I slip into the high backed seat and stash my handbag beneath the table.

‘I need details.’ Avery squeals as she parades into the restaurant two minutes later in a cloud of Jo Malone perfume and knee-high Jimmy Choo crocodile boots.

Her shoulder-length blonde hair falls freely over her camel-coloured cashmere coat and she looks every bit the privately educated college graduate she almost is.

Mind you, in a Ralph Lauren shirt dress, and a pair of last season’s Claudie Pierlot ankle boots, (Avery’s cast-offs, of course), I do, too. No one in their right mind would ever suspect we’re a couple of high-end pole dancers.

Avery slides into the plush velvet seat opposite me, excitement dancing in her eyes. ‘Details. Tell. Me. Everything.’

‘Can we at least order a drink first?’ It’s midday somewhere and I’m not working later.

‘Fine, but make mine a champagne.’ Avery slips her coat off and slings it on the back of her chair. ‘This life is for living. There will be days where we get away with bubbly breakfasts, and there will be days where we’re bogged down with menial duties like dropping kids to school and holding down real jobs. I say, let loose while we can.’

Kids.

A family of my own.

A pang of longing hits me like a train. One day, maybe. One day.

Let loose is all very well coming from a woman who’s biggest worry is if she’ll be able to snag one of the ten limited edition Givenchy handbags coming to Brown Thomas next week.

The waitress drops two menus to the table. I scan mine mindlessly.

‘What are you thinking?’ Avery asks without looking up.

I’m thinking about James Beckett.

About his big molten eyes.

Eyes that I could drown in.

‘Earth to Scarlett.’ Avery waves a hand in front of my face. ‘What are you thinking?’ she repeats slowly.

‘Sorry.’ I blink. ‘Avocado toast with poached egg and microgreens. Are you working tonight?’ I place the menu onto the crisp, white linen table cloth.

‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘Stop deflecting.’

The waitress chooses that precise moment to return to take our order. Only when the bottle of champagne is open and poured do I start talking.

‘Christopher offered me twenty-five grand to dance for him.’ I run my finger up the stem of the champagne flute.

Avery hunches closer across the table. ‘The going rate is five. He must have really wanted that dance.’ She emphasises the worddance. ‘Cole can be a bit… intense.’ She frowns.

‘James overheard and offered me fifty. Christopher’s proposal sent him all alpha.’ More alpha, I should say. The man radiates sex hormones like a silent mating call. ‘Next thing I know, I’m drinking champagne with him in a private room.’ I lift the glass and bring it to my lips, watching over the rim as Avery’s chin practically hits the table.

‘No fucking way!’ she shrieks, attracting the attention of several neighbouring diners.

I shoot them an apologetic wince. ‘Shh. Keep it down,’ I plead. It’s one thing being looked at on the stage, in a wig and enough make-up to conceal Beyonce’s identity, but here in the city, even on the Southside, you never know who’s around.

Which is why,ifI agree to fake date James, he’ll have to promise me I won’t be photographed in those high society magazines that he so regularly features in.

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