from.’
I feel the blood fall straight from my face into my stomach, then down to my toes.
Ridiculous. Paranoia. There are at least a dozen places in London that fit that description.
‘And it’s three Russians who own it?’ Three Russians, three Russians, three Russians . . .
‘A Russian, a Dutch guy and an American . . .’
‘In Mayfair?’ though I know already it is not.
‘Back inthe Square Mile.’
No. No, no, no . . .
‘. . . it’s got the worst name of any restaurant I’ve ever worked in – LuxEris. Are you OK, Laura?’
I swallow the acid that’s just shot up the back of my throat. ‘That last dumpling . . .’ I stand and rush to the bathroom. Perhaps there’s a small window I can climb out of, or even get wedged in, like a dim sum in my mouth. Anything to get me out of thismess.
Worst Sunday ever.
There is no way I can tell him. That would be insane, I’ve only just met him and I’ll probably never see him again.
But if I ever do want to see him again – and I do, I really do – then I should go back out there, tell him the truth, because maybe he’ll see the funny side of it. Maybe in years to come it’ll be a hilarious anecdote, ‘How I met your mother,’ ha di haha . . .
There I go again, getting carried away! From the first time I wrote Laura Loton on my Form II maths book, after Jamie Loton copied my homework, I’m fifteen steps ahead of myself, thinking and hoping something will come of nothing. And this is nothing, a meaningless, drunken Sunday, some random guy who cheered me up in the aftermath of the loser known as Russell. That’s all.
So no, I’mnot going to tell him, why would I? What? Just because I felt more comfortable with him after five minutes than I did with Russell after four dates? Because I feel like I’ve known him far longer than an afternoon? Because I have the strongest sense he is going to be significant to me? I have been semi-drunk since before midday ; there is a reason people don’t normally drink gin and tonics at 10.30a.m., and this is that reason .
The weirdest thing is, I don’t recognise him from the open kitchen. You have to have a good memory in my job and I am pretty sure the chef on the pass last Thursday was blond underneath his backwards baseball cap – he reminded me of evil King Joffrey in Game of Thrones . I would have remembered a face as handsome as Adam’s.
Maybe he’s lying? But why would he lie?This is crazy . . . I wish I hadn’t drunk so much, I can’t think straight.
OK, take a breath, go back out there. It’s fine, it’s none of his business. Say nothing, you owe him nothing. Pay for the dinner, though, definitely don’t let him pick up the tab.
I splash my face with cold water and head back out. He’s standing by the table looking towards the toilet anxiously. He puts his arm out totouch my back but I freeze.
‘Are you OK? Were you just sick in there?’
‘I felt a bit nauseous, that’s all,’ I say, reaching for my wallet. ‘Please, let me pay for dinner.’
‘Paid already. Are you sure you’re OK? You look a bit pale.’
‘Too much to drink. Sorry. Listen, I’m going to head off . . .’
‘Can I take your number at least?’
‘. . . I’m not . . . I don’t think . . .’
‘Is this becauseI’m not a banker?’ he says, incredulously.
‘No, of course not.’
‘Did I say something wrong?’
How can I not give him my number? Look at him, those big blue eyes looking at me like he’s actually disappointed. I grab a paper napkin from the table and scribble down my number before I change my mind. It’s not like he’s actually going to call, given the number of times I’ve embarrassed myself inthe last ten hours. He’s just asking to be polite.
He moves to give me a kiss on the cheek goodbye but my body stiffens, as if he’s about to hit me.
‘Are you sure you’re OK? Let me give you money for a cab at least, I don’t think you should get on the tube if you’re feeling
I feel the blood fall straight from my face into my stomach, then down to my toes.
Ridiculous. Paranoia. There are at least a dozen places in London that fit that description.
‘And it’s three Russians who own it?’ Three Russians, three Russians, three Russians . . .
‘A Russian, a Dutch guy and an American . . .’
‘In Mayfair?’ though I know already it is not.
‘Back inthe Square Mile.’
No. No, no, no . . .
‘. . . it’s got the worst name of any restaurant I’ve ever worked in – LuxEris. Are you OK, Laura?’
I swallow the acid that’s just shot up the back of my throat. ‘That last dumpling . . .’ I stand and rush to the bathroom. Perhaps there’s a small window I can climb out of, or even get wedged in, like a dim sum in my mouth. Anything to get me out of thismess.
Worst Sunday ever.
There is no way I can tell him. That would be insane, I’ve only just met him and I’ll probably never see him again.
But if I ever do want to see him again – and I do, I really do – then I should go back out there, tell him the truth, because maybe he’ll see the funny side of it. Maybe in years to come it’ll be a hilarious anecdote, ‘How I met your mother,’ ha di haha . . .
There I go again, getting carried away! From the first time I wrote Laura Loton on my Form II maths book, after Jamie Loton copied my homework, I’m fifteen steps ahead of myself, thinking and hoping something will come of nothing. And this is nothing, a meaningless, drunken Sunday, some random guy who cheered me up in the aftermath of the loser known as Russell. That’s all.
So no, I’mnot going to tell him, why would I? What? Just because I felt more comfortable with him after five minutes than I did with Russell after four dates? Because I feel like I’ve known him far longer than an afternoon? Because I have the strongest sense he is going to be significant to me? I have been semi-drunk since before midday ; there is a reason people don’t normally drink gin and tonics at 10.30a.m., and this is that reason .
The weirdest thing is, I don’t recognise him from the open kitchen. You have to have a good memory in my job and I am pretty sure the chef on the pass last Thursday was blond underneath his backwards baseball cap – he reminded me of evil King Joffrey in Game of Thrones . I would have remembered a face as handsome as Adam’s.
Maybe he’s lying? But why would he lie?This is crazy . . . I wish I hadn’t drunk so much, I can’t think straight.
OK, take a breath, go back out there. It’s fine, it’s none of his business. Say nothing, you owe him nothing. Pay for the dinner, though, definitely don’t let him pick up the tab.
I splash my face with cold water and head back out. He’s standing by the table looking towards the toilet anxiously. He puts his arm out totouch my back but I freeze.
‘Are you OK? Were you just sick in there?’
‘I felt a bit nauseous, that’s all,’ I say, reaching for my wallet. ‘Please, let me pay for dinner.’
‘Paid already. Are you sure you’re OK? You look a bit pale.’
‘Too much to drink. Sorry. Listen, I’m going to head off . . .’
‘Can I take your number at least?’
‘. . . I’m not . . . I don’t think . . .’
‘Is this becauseI’m not a banker?’ he says, incredulously.
‘No, of course not.’
‘Did I say something wrong?’
How can I not give him my number? Look at him, those big blue eyes looking at me like he’s actually disappointed. I grab a paper napkin from the table and scribble down my number before I change my mind. It’s not like he’s actually going to call, given the number of times I’ve embarrassed myself inthe last ten hours. He’s just asking to be polite.
He moves to give me a kiss on the cheek goodbye but my body stiffens, as if he’s about to hit me.
‘Are you sure you’re OK? Let me give you money for a cab at least, I don’t think you should get on the tube if you’re feeling
Similar Books
