Page 2 of Lovers' Dance: Vol. 2

“Yes, I’ll be leaving straight from the office as I’m swamped with work. I swear there aren’t enough hours in the day to get everything done. And the bloody media! The last thing I wanted was for our engagement to be blasted across the papers before I’d even had the chance to share our news with my family.” A frustrated sigh whispered down the line. “Hence this dinner invitation tonight.”

My smile softened. I could picture him behind his desk, jacket off and shirt sleeves rolled up as he and Adam ruled their empire from Central London.

“Poppet, I don’t want you to be nervous about tonight,” he suddenly said.

“I’m not,” I said.

It was the truth. I wasn’t nervous, I was way past nervous. Scared shitless and envisioning a scene where Matt’s mom tossed a drink in my face while calling me a gold-digging hussy. Of course, that would never happen. Portia Bradley oozed upper class superiority, creating a scene in public would be beneath the likes of her.

“Hmm, I don’t believe you.” Matt mused.

I stopped picturing the drink in my face and focused on the most pressing problem about the pending dinner. “What shall I wear, Matt?”

“I’m sure whatever you wear will be nice.” Matt replied. I could tell he was only half paying attention to me now and the muffled sound of someone talking in the background could be heard from his side.

“Matt, I want to make a good second impression, wait this will be the,” I recalled the number of times I’d seen Matt’s parents. “Third time I’m meeting them. I want to make a good 3rd impression.”

“Anything you wear will be fine, poppet. Look, I must dash. Love you and see you at seven.”

I held the phone against my ear, listening to that dial tone. Ah. He was so very lucky I loved him the way I did. I put the phone back in its cradle, smiled tightly at Gloria who was trying to act like she hadn’t been eavesdropping on my conversation, then hurried away. I would worry about dinner later, right now I needed to dance my toes off.

Dante wasn’t pleased with me leaving at 5:30. We had so much to do and so little time, at least we were sold out, silver lining and all that. Dante had also repaid Geoffrey while I was home, I mean, New York. I had to stop thinking of it as home. Home was synonymous with family and I was now an outcast. I consoled myself with the fact it hadn’t even been a full week since the blow-out. Maybe Aunt Cleo would forgive me and call, I had sent Jenny the cheque. That had to give me some sort of edge. I let out a bitter laugh as I walked towards my vehicle, ignoring the flurry of activity at the front gates. The police hadn’t come as per Gloria’s request. It seemed being houndedby the press wasn’t a crime. They told her unless a danger was being posed and they were off private property, there was nothing they could do. I made sure the doors were locked once I got behind the wheel then pulled out of the parking lot, beeping my horn furiously when some fool of a man placed himself in front the Cayenne. The stall in the vehicle’s movement was enough for the others to swarm around. Flashing lights and shouted questions assailed me. I sighed and pressed the horn again. I did not need this crap. Revving the engine, I gave the man a death stare through the windscreen. If it was his wish to be mowed down by a SUV, I would certainly grant it. He had five more seconds. I revved the engine again and he must have finally noticed the crazed look on my face because he jumped aside, allowing me the chance to escape with a screech of wheels. They would eventually give up. Right?

Half an hour later I parked in front my house and hurried inside with my stuff. I was sweaty, my hair needed a wash, and I had no idea what to wear…I really didn’t want to have dinner with Matt’s parents. Every time his mom looked at me, I felt like something she’d scraped off her shoe. All thoughts of wowing them had flown out the window after dinner at their place those months ago. At least in a restaurant the chances of me humiliating myself were slim. When the knock on my front door came I was ready, just barely, and my hair although pulled back into a neat side bun, was still damp. I grabbed my purse up and headed out the front door.

A growl of annoyance left my mouth at the limo parked across the street. The driver was already hurrying in front of me to reach the door before I could. My choice of outfit was a no brainer. I had no idea where we were having dinner tonight and I couldn’t go wrong with a black cocktail dress. The blue silk scarf knotted around my neck was the only splash of colour on my body. Oh wait, the massive red diamond on my left hand added some colour. I nervously fiddled with the pearl studs in my ear.

“Do you know where we’re heading?” I asked the driver through the open partition and ignored my inner voice saying:of course he does, you fool, he’s driving you there!

“Yes, Ms DuMont,” he answered jovially, catching my eyes in the mirror. “It’s Sketch in Mayfair.”

I chewed my glossy lips. “I’ve never been there before. What type of restaurant is it?”

“French,” the driver supplied. “Some big name Frenchie with too many Michelin stars founded it. If you ask me, our home grown lads are just as good. You want to buckle up, Ms DuMont? That’s a French sounding name. Are you French?”

“No, ah, no, I’m English.” I replied, wondering how much conversation I should have with the man. Matt was quite a stickler for propriety when it came to things like these.

“English?” he barked out as the limo lurched into motion and I buckled up rather quickly. “You don’t sound English. Sound more like a yank to me.”

“Ah, well I grew up in the States,” I volunteered.

The man gave me a teasing grin. “I’m just joshing you, Ms DuMont. I know who you are. You’re Mr Bradley’s bird. Read about you two in the papers today.”

“Ok.” I said. Maybe I should press the button to close the partition. Where was the button?

“Told my Missus I was driving you tonight and she got all excited. Wanted me to ask you all sorts of questions,” He sent me a quick glance in the mirror again. “But I told her I’m a professional driver and we don’t question the people we’re driving around.”

Where was it? Damn button, hiding from me.

“I’ve been doing this for about ten years now. Driving rich people about-”

“I’m not rich.” I responded without thinking.

“Oh don’t worry about it. You’re all set to marry Mr Bradley, right? Like I said, I read about you two in the papers today, and he’s as minted as they come.”

Oh crap. This was definitely not the accepted passenger/driver conversation to be having.

“But you’re a normal bird,” he mused. “I can tell from one look at you. No airs and graces at all. Ha. I’m sure you go to your local on a Friday night with your friends.”

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