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Caprice and Rosamund stared silently at their menus, obviously eavesdropping on the conversation.
“He picked quite the place. The food’s extravagant and beautifully presented.” Mark ignored her tablemates, hesitant to take his eyes off her. He leaned in and whispered. “You look amazing, by the way.”
Alex’s toes curled. She pinched her hand under the tablecloth as a reminder to breathe. “How long have you worked here?”
“A year. A struggling actor has to pay the bills somehow.” He continued down the table and beamed back at her while discretely handing menus to the guests. Alex gave his butt a good stare, but she wasn’t the only one.
“Ooh, he’s yummy. I know what I want for my main course.” Caprice couldn’t peel her eyes away. “He’d make a nice change from my monthly pity bonk with Tom.” She redistributed her chesty arsenal, like a courtesan preparing to seduce a reluctant prince.
“Stop flashing your assets, Caprice. Can’t take you anywhere.” Rosamund glared at her friend, then looked back at Alex. “How do you know the Irish hottie?”
She winced at their interest. “He’s a friend.”
“Just a friend? That sparkle in your eye tells me you fancy him,” said Rosamund.
Alex fiddled with the cutout hem of her dress. Shoot, too obvious.
Rosamund licked her lips and excused herself from the table. “I need to reapply my lipstick. I’ll be…right back.”
She pranced away in her Louboutin heels, stopping briefly at the far table to whisper in Olivia’s ear. They both laughed, and she toddled off. Olivia glanced over, smiled, and raised her glass to Alex.
• • •
“I’d like to propose a toast.” Harry’s voice commanded his guests’ attention in the private dining room. “As you know, Bespoke has been a passion of mine for some time. Creating a refined, upscale private members club for my friends, family, and business associates is a dream come true. A place to unwind, enjoy fine beverages and food, and network without the intrusion of the general public—Bespoke is for all of you.”
All of us? Alex squinted at her water glass.
“It’s taken plenty of blood, sweat, and tears to reach this point. Bespoke is officially open tonight. And I’m thrilled to be able to share this moment with you.”
Harry smiled and looked at his dad sat two seats away on his right. “I would be amiss if I didn’t thank two people. First, my father. He could’ve easily dissuaded me from taking on this challenge and ushered me into commercial property development like his dad did with him. But he took a gamble, put his trust and a few quid behind me, and well…here we are.”
The three tables erupted in applause and cheers. His dad raised his hand to acknowledge their kudos.
“The second person needs no introduction.” Harry took a deep breath, inching closer to Olivia on his left. “You all know how important she is to me. Everything I do is for her…”
“Aw, so sweet.” Caprice couldn’t help herself.
“…I’m a better person because of her.”
Olivia stared up at him and placed her hand over her heart. Alex swore a single tear rolled down his girlfriend’s cheek. She’s good; right on cue.
Tom yawned and jumped the gun on Harry’s toast, swigging his champagne.
Harry lifted his glass into the air and surveyed the room. “So please raise a glass to Dad, to Olivia, and finally to Bespoke—entertainment tailor-made for a different class.”
The chosen few toasted Harry’s speech, sipped their champagne and then returned to their conversations. Alex didn’t join in. A more pressing concern held her hostage—hunger. It somersaulted in her belly. She glanced over the set menu. Options included shellfish cocktail, Dorset crab, and Orkney scallops as starters. The mains boasted Grilled Wester Ross salmon, a shrimp burger, or dressed Portland crab.
Unlike most natives of the Florida coast, Alex suffered from a serious seafood allergy. Oysters, lobster, shrimp—she couldn’t eat any of it unless she fancied a date with the nearest emergency room. The only fish she seemed able to eat without problems were haddock or cod. Shame traditional beer battered fish and chips didn’t make this menu’s cut. Not posh enough for Olivia’s palate, obviously.
A waitress placed an artistically arranged salad in front of her. Sprigs of mesclun greens stood piled high like a grassy teepee, garnished with walnuts, chunks of beets, and goat’s cheese. Alex watched Rosamund for guidance on which fork to select and began picking apart the salad’s red oak leaf lettuce, baby spinach, and curly endive layers. Did any shrimp or lobster pieces lurk underneath? All clear.
The server returned, cradling a basket of thickly sliced artisan bread. Alex loaded up her side plate. Caprice and Rosamund each tossed the blonde a dismissive glance.
“Steady on, Alex. That’s a lot of carbs,” said Rosamund. She smirked and resumed her banal conversation with Caprice about handbags, blowouts in Kensington, and how to land a role on a reality TV show called Made in Chelsea.
Alex slumped in her chair, alone but for the slices of bread and a blob of butter on her side plate. Mark hadn’t returned to her end of the room. Harry’s table had the pleasure of his service. She watched his every move, hoping he would break away and speak to her again.
• • •
