Page 27 of Sing For Me

“Do you want to move? A lovely table has opened up over there, by the far end of the window.”

“But I love this sweater!” the woman behind me says. I can hear the hurt in her voice.

“I’m only telling you this because I care about you. You know that right? Right sweetheart?”

The woman in front of me meets my eye, and I see the same fiery rage in her eyes as I feel in my chest. “Thank you, but I’m fine,” she says. “Though you may regret giving me this as I feel like I might be about to make a scene.” A tiny vein pulses under the swoop of hair at her temple.

I smile politely.

“Sherry, listen, I know what’s best for you, and I’m telling you, you need to order something low-fat, and then you need to get down to that gym.”

“Norm, Jesus, would you stop!” Her embarrassment is painful to hear. Mostly because it’s so familiar my heart thunders as if it were me at that table.

“I’m just telling you what you need to hear. Trust me. You trust me right?”

“I—”

But he doesn’t even let her speak. Because of fucking course he doesn’t.

“What’s with this menu? They must have dumbed it down for the TV show.”

It’s the menu that’s the final straw.

“Sir,” I say, turning around, blood boiling. “I couldn’t help but overhear.” I want to tell him to leave his girlfriend the fuck alone. To shove him off his chair, then turn back to her and tell her it doesn’t have to be like this. She doesn’t have to listen to a man who tells you sweet things just enough to keep you strung along while he bears down on what’s left of your self-esteem.

But I can’t do that.

So I do the other thing.

“I’m so very sorry you feel that way about L’Aubergine. Yes, one wing of the resort is still under renovation. But I assure you, both the hotel and L’Aubergine are doing everything to keep our guests’ experience five stars.”

I may be seething at how he talks to his girlfriend, but digs about my restaurant make me angry too, and that’s something I can actually address. I may not have my heart in this industry, but L’Aubergine is my baby. Cassandra gave me free rein over shaping it into what it is today—from middling to gold star, thanks to me and Jacques and my incredible staff, several of whom I know are watching this play out as they move around the floor.

“Is there anything I can do to make your experience more pleasant?”Besides removing you.I’m one step away from doing that anyway.

“Well you can start by bringing me one of those,” he says. He’s eyeing the woman’s mimosa. “Two, actually. I’m thirsty.”

Two mimosas he wants. Not one for him and his girlfriend, but both for him. It’s almost funny.

But I’m not laughing.

I feel eyes on us—from patrons sitting nearby, and in the corner of my eye, from someone who’s just come into the restaurant and has paused by the bar. Once, I loved being the center of attention. That man who talked to me like this one does to her did his very best to snuff that out of me. But anger is bubbling up to that dangerous point now where I forget that.

I can’t see anything but red. Which is why my body works without my brain’s permission, revolting against all my service industry training to always act my best.

“Oh,” I say, turning back to the woman behind me. “Do you mean—”

She hasn’t touched her drink yet. “Do you mind?” I whisper to her.

She gives me a nod that’s like a signal between two soldiers.

“You want one of these?” I hold the mimosa up. “The thing is, these are complimentary and exclusively for valued customers.” I brush my fingers along the napkin I lay on the woman’s table, and in one quick move, I brush it to the floor.

“And sir,” I whisper, leaning in. “You’re not one.”

But as I make like I’m going to return the glass to the woman behind me, I hook my foot under the napkin.

I gasp, arranging my face in a hopefully believable expression of shock as I let my feet stumble. Then I jerk the glass forward. An arc of orange juice and champagne flies from the rim, landing exactly where I want it to—directly onto the crotch of the man’s pale chinos.

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