Page 25 of Mayfair Madame
“So, a table for how many on Saturday?” he asked, keeping the conversation light.
“Probably four, maybe five? You’ll join us at Sam’s later, right?”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll need to close up the restaurant first. Who’s going?”
“Me, Melinda, Oscar and Marco. Ellie will meet us later.”
“Is she a new girl? I’ve not heard of her.”
“She’s new, but not in that sense. Oh, and I was going to ask Felicity too.”
“The girl from the bakery? She’s sweet. Cute little thing.”
“Melinda thinks so. I’m sure Sam and Julian will join us at some stage. Oh, and Fletcher, maybe. I’ll need to check his schedule.”
“Arsehole.” I looked over at him, a scowl on his face.
“You don’t like Fletcher? He’s the nicest guy. How can you not like him?”
“I have my reasons. Everyone thinks he’s so wonderful. I know better.”
“Seems like we both have some news to spill. Has he hurt you? Upset you?”
“It was a long time ago. I’d rather not talk about it.”
His prerogative, and I’d not push him to tell me something he didn’t want to.
“Well, he may or may not be there, so that’s your heads-up. Don’t let it stop you from coming, though. And anyway, why aren’t you at the restaurant? It’s Wednesday.”
“I took the night off. Had some things I needed to take care of. The restaurant is open. Isabetta is there this evening.”
Isabetta was his older sister. I didn’t know her as well as I knew Lorenzo. She always appeared aloof when we spoke. As if she judged me for my career choice.
People could judge and scoff all they liked. At almost thirty-five, I could afford to retire should I wish, and I was sure not many could say that.
But I loved my job, despite the worry of the past week. It was nothing I hadn’t or couldn’t handle. I’d been around the block a few times and always came out fighting.
I didn’t doubt the same would happen this time.
Chapter Eight
Ellie
The rest of the week flew by, and now it was Saturday evening. I’d showered, shaved, and stood in front of my wardrobe for an inordinate amount of time looking for something to wear.
The pile of clothes on the bed had steadily grown, but still I’d found nothing remotely suitable. Sweats were too casual, suits too professional.
I chucked the last shirt onto the pile and threw myself back onto the bed. This was a bad idea. Why was I even bothering to do this?
If I didn’t go, would she miss me? Would she even notice that I’d bottled it? That my insecurities had got the better of me?
God, I was so stupid agreeing to go, but Josh’s words sounded in my head.
“What’s the worst that can happen?”
“I fucking hate you, Josh.” I climbed off the bed and went to the kitchen.
Maybe I needed a little drink to give me courage. I cracked open a bottle of beer and drank half of it down in one. God, that was bitter, but I knocked the rest of it back, the bubbles fizzing up my nose.
