Page 67 of The Revenge Game
My mouth goes dry. Justin has never video-called me before.
Has he somehow linked the anonymous date who never showed up with me? Is the whole thing about to blow up in my face?
I answer with shaky fingers. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Justin’s sitting at a white-clothed table. Behind him, the floor-to-ceiling windows show the city lights dancing on the water of the Thames.
I manage to make my voice sound casual. “What’s up?”
“I was just wondering what you’re doing right now? Because my date never showed, and Maria said everything’s been prepaid and that I should invite someone, and I was just thinking…” Justin adjusts his collar, a flush creeping up his neck. “I mean, if you’re not busy… It would be a shame to waste these reservations, right? So, I thought you might want to join me? Have you eaten dinner yet?”
I push my glasses back on my face. “Um…I’m just starting to eat now.”
“Well, now’s your chance for an upgrade on your microwave meal.”
I look down, eyeing my sweatpants.
“I’m not sure the TING will cope with myStar Warstrack pants,” I say. “It’ll take me a while to get dressed appropriately and get to you.”
In the video, Justin’s perfect forehead furrows. “How did you know I’m at the TING?”
Shit.
My heart starts to race and my face feels hot.
“Ah… You must have mentioned you were having dinner at the TING? Or maybe someone at the auction mentioned where the date was happening.”
Justin’s face clears of all suspicion. “Tell you what, you get ready as fast as you can. I’ll send you a photo of the menu, you can decide what you want to eat, and I’ll order it for you. Deal?”
“Deal,” I say, my voice wobbly.
I end the call and get to my feet.
It would be strange if I declined his offer, right? I mean, Justin and I are friends, and I’ve spent lots of time at London tourist attractions with him, plus eaten many meals together. Combining the two in what was originally meant as a date isn’t weird, is it?
I set a land speed record for how fast someone can get ready, pulling on the suit I wore for the shelter fundraiser.
It’s not until I’m in the Uber that my phone pings with a photo of the menu and a message.
I had to Google a whole lot of things to work out what everything was, so I can explain anything you want interpreted, but I’m figuring you’re not going to go past the beetroot salad for your appetizer and the salmon for your main course, right?
I look at the menu.
And he’s right. That’s exactly what I want to order. Justin apparently clocked how much I enjoyed the beetroot in the hot vegetable salad he made last week. And when we ate together after visiting Hampton Court, he’d teased me as I’d practically inhaled the hot-smoked salmon, telling me it was a “borderline inappropriate display of fish appreciation.”
My fingers tremble as I type the message back.
Yup, those sound great, thanks. Your psychic food powers are amazing.
After I’ve sent the message, my head falls back, clunking against the backseat of the Uber, as I clench my eyes closed.
I should find the fact that Justin knows exactly what I would order disturbing, right?
Or maybe it’s just a sign of how well I’m managing to carry off this revenge plan. Justin knows me well enough to predict my eating habits. It’s the ultimate sign of friendship.
But I can’t stop my stomach from churning, nausea surging inside me.
When I arrive at the restaurant on the thirty-fifth floor, I follow the hostess through what feels like an obstacle course of wealthy diners, trying not to knock over expensive wine bottles with my elbows.
