Page 7 of The Invitation

“Happy ...” I scan the bar in front of him. A laptop. A pen. Of course. He’s here on business. A meeting? A conference? What does he do? “Happy working,” I say, smiling sweetly and lifting my bag. “I’ll be off for my body wrap.”

His eyebrows raise, and his eyes, which I can now see are somewhere between blue and green, fall down my body. “Lucky body wrapper.”

Oh my God.“Nice talking.”

“It really was,” he murmurs as I inhale deeply, pivoting and walking out, trying to adopt a shameless sashay but, I fear, achieving only a pathetic, trembling stagger.

I make it to Charley and Abbie in the lobby, a hot fucking mess. “I’m ready,” I squeak.

They look me up and down. “What’s up?” they say in unison.

“Nothing.” I pass them aimlessly, not knowing where the hell I’m going but hoping I can cool my flushed cheeks before they get close enough to see them. “I’m ready to be wrapped.”Lucky body wrapper.I stop and search for a sign that’ll point me in the right direction.

“Maybe a mimosa first,” Anouska suggests.

“Oh yes, a mimosa first,” Charley chirps.

“Let me show you the Library Bar.” Anouska motions toward the bar, and my heart flutters. It bloody flutters. My heart has never fluttered, not even for my ex, and it’s in this moment I realise, after weeks of examining our breakup, it wasn’t just talk of babies that scared me off. It was this missing feeling. Except I didn’t realise it was missing, because I’ve never felt ... this. And what isthis? Insane attraction? Not just attraction, but the crazy, knee-knocking, heart-pounding kind.

I watch Charley disappear into the Library Bar, Abbie and Anouska following, and I stand there staring, a little breathless, a lot wobbly. Abbie looks back at me, an unsure smile on her face. “Are you coming?”

Am I? My legs don’t seem to be working. I clear my throat, take in some air—and confidence—and force my feet to move. No sashay in sight.

I breach the entrance and immediately find him still at the bar. “Oh God,” I whisper to myself, accepting the glass being handed to me by the waiter. “Thank you”—I read his name badge—“Clinton.”

“Drink first, wrap later?” he asks, smiling.

I take a long swig, practically polishing off the whole glass in one glug. “Looks like it.”

“I’m around all day, so let me know what cocktail takes your fancy and I’ll rustle one up for you.” He tops me off and gets back to rearranging the back shelf.

“Oh my,” Abbie whispers, her glass at her lips as she watches the barman work. “Someone’s sweet on you.”

My eyes naturally fall to the end of the bar. He’s lost on his mobile. “Behave,” I say, absent-minded.

“Clinton is an award-winning mixologist,” Anouska informs us, pulling the cocktail menu over. Charley places her glass on the bar and helps herself, filling up, shrugging when I throw her a look. “All of the Arlington Hall specials are his creations, except for this one,” she says, pointing to the one at the top. “That one was created by the woman behind Arlington Hall.”

I crane my neck to see the menu. “Hey Jude,” I muse.

“Yes, she named it after her son.” Anouska smiles. “And the Beatles track, of course. It’s very popular.”

“Is that the woman in the portrait in the lobby?” I ask.

“That’s her. Evelyn Harrison. Absolute style icon.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“Was,” Anouska says, her voice lowering to a whisper. “She passed away.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“You should try Hey Jude. You’ll love it.”

“You won’t have to ask me twice.” Charley perches on a stool. “So, does Arlington Hall often give away spa days for next to nothing for mere commoners like us?”

“Speak for yourself.” Abbie laughs. “This is right up my street.”

I smile, looking to the end of the bar again. He’s still on his phone.

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