‘I won’t.’
‘Good.’
‘I’ll jump out here. You can slip up that side street and avoid the traffic.’
‘No, I’m in no rush.’ He brushes me off and proceeds to join the other horn-happy drivers, smacking his palm into the centre of the wheel.
‘That’ll get you nowhere,’ I laugh. ‘And, anyway, I am in a rush. I can’t be late.’ I peck his lips and jump out of his Mercedes.
‘Olivia!’ he shouts after me.
I turn and bend to get him in my line of sight. ‘It’s a couple of streets away. I’ll be there in two minutes.’ I smile at his scowling face and shut the door, hurrying to the pavement.
I lose myself amid the sea of people, all scurrying to their places of work. It’s familiar to me, comforting, but the strange sensation I’m feeling as I scamper like an ant with my fellow Londoners isn’t. I reach up to my shoulder and brush away a tingle, shivering when it immediately jumps back onto my skin. Something tells me to look behind me so I do, but I only note a mass of bobbing bodies following the flow of foot traffic. My Converse speed up without any prompt from my brain, and I start overtaking people, uneasy but with no explanation. As I round a corner, I look back again, a familiar chill resonating through me, the hairs on my nape rising.
‘Oh!’
‘Watch where you’re going!’
I stagger, taking the man’s briefcase with me, the expensive leather getting tangled between my clumsy legs. ‘I’m sorry!’ I yelp, catching the side of the brick wall to steady myself.
‘You’ve scuffed my case, you stupid woman!’ He snatches up his property and brushes it down, grumbling and huffing his aggravation.
‘I’m sorry,’ I repeat, straightening myself out, bracing myself for a further verbal bashing.
‘Fucking imbecile,’ he grunts, stomping off into the crowd, leaving me being sidestepped by more impatient pedestrians.
My eyes dart everywhere, scanning faces coming towards me and the backs marching away from me, my internal alarm screaming. Reaching up, I run my palm over my nape, smoothing down the hairs. I feel a stupid sense of relief when they remain flush with my skin once I remove my hand. But my stomach is turning, anxiety gripping me. I’m circling on the spot, unease lingering deep and fretfulness plaguing me.
I turn and hurry across the road to Del’s, constantly looking over my shoulder.
The bistro is the last place on earth I want to be right now. I feel nauseous, and my dread at facing my colleagues is only amplified when three sets of cautious eyes monitor my walk from the door to the kitchen. I feel judged. I am being judged. They all think I’m daft, but they haven’t experienced Miller when he’s not armoured up in one of his fine three-piece suits. They have drawn their conclusions on the little information they know, and I’m past the point of feeling the need to justify my relationship with London’s most notorious ex-escort, to Sylvie, Del, Gregory, or anyone for that matter. It’s exhausting enough trying to justify it to Miller, and he’s the only one who really matters. God help me and my ears if any one of these people were to discover Miller’s history. To them, he is simply an uptight arsehole who’s played me. And it’ll stay that way.
‘Morning.’ Sylvie’s tone is lacking its usual chirpiness, her hands redundant on the filter handle of the coffee machine.
‘Hi.’ I flash a small smile. ‘Oh, I have a new phone. I’ll text you the number.’
‘Okay.’ She nods as I pass her, entering the kitchen and immediately getting into my apron.
Paul follows me in and takes up position behind the stove, lifting and tossing a pan full of onions. ‘You have a good evening?’ he asks. I detect genuine interest and look up to find an expression displaying indifference.
‘I did, thank you, Paul. You?’
‘Sure,’ he grunts as he slides two plates across the counter. ‘Tuna Crunches for table seven. Let’s have some service around here.’
I swing into action and grab the plates, bypassing Sylvie and Del on my way out, my boss remaining tight-lipped, my friend’s lips remaining pursed. ‘Tuna Crunches?’ I ask, sliding them onto the table.
‘Ta, darlin’,’ a pot-bellied man sings, all happy, almost dribbling as he pulls both plates towards him while licking his lips. His big mouth wraps straight around one corner and he looks up at me, smiling, soggy bread spilling from his chops. I grimace. ‘Fill this up, will ya?’ He pushes his coffee mug into my hand and my stomach turns when a lump of tuna slips past his lips and splatters on the floor at his feet. I follow his finger as it swoops down and mops it up. Then I watch with horror when he takes the half-chewed food and laps it off his pudgy finger with a tongue lathered in Paul’s secret recipe. I gag, my palm slapping across my mouth as I sprint across the bistro, thinking Miller would have a seizure if he witnessed the display of such caveman manners.