Chapter Fourteen
Olivier – The Royal Pavilion
When they got into the bar there was no sign of Romesh or James. Ashleigh pulled out her mobile phone and checked it. ‘Right, they had to go home. Apparently, he was in complete agony.’
‘You sound sceptical.’
‘I think he may have been exaggerating his injuries.’
‘To get James to himself?’
She hesitated a moment before answering. ‘Yeah. Probably. James has been on nights this week and Ro’s quite nervous about this social worker visit tomorrow.’
‘Would you like to get something to drink anyway or would you prefer to go home? Have your feet had enough?’ he asked as they hovered by the door.
‘To be honest, it’d be nice to give them a rest before walking back up the hill.’
He let out a breath of relief. He would have been disappointed to leave this gorgeous bar. Yes. That was what it was. The bar.
They moved over to a table by the window as someone else vacated it to take their turn on the rink. The sofa was squishy so they sank into the middle towards each other, his knee brushing hers as she moved to take her coat off. She had a pretty shirt and vest combination on, the wide, rolled-up cuffs floral and the deep fuchsia of the vest matching some of the flowers.
‘Is this one of yours?’ he asked, touching the edge of one of the floppy cuffs and then hurriedly withdrawing his hand.
‘Well, I didn’t steal it if that’s what you’re insinuating.’
‘I meant, one you made.’ He laughed.
‘Oh. Yes.’ She smiled and fiddled with the button on the cuff, which was a silver skull.
‘It’s lovely.’ He didn’t ask her any more about the wedding dress project though. He didn’t want her withdrawing the way she had out on the rink. He leaned back into the corner of the sofa, trying to relax and keep his hands from accidentally touching her again. A server came over to ask for their orders and he was forced to move forward again to quickly scan the menu with her. Their shoulders pressed together this time.
‘We should get that. It’s perfect.’ She pointed out the French 75 with a Christmas twist – orange instead of lemon to go with the champagne and gin, as well as a hint of spice. He smiled and they ordered, struggling to get back into their respective corners of the sofa but it wasn’t co-operating. ‘So, has this helped inspire you for your chocolate display?’
He looked back out of the window at the ice-skaters still out there, lit up by spotlights and the beautiful building behind it. ‘It’s wonderful. You see, the way all the lights and the reflections from the skaters’ clothes look like drops of ink in milk?’
‘I didn’t notice.’
He moved up onto one knee and she did the same so they could lift up just enough to get a view over the wooden barrier. He glanced at her and saw the way her bright blue eyes, almost neon, when framed by the thick flicks of black liner she wore, took in the details.
‘I had this idea that I was going to make the ice-rink out of glacier mint before I came, but now I think I need it to be white chocolate, and I can marble in the colours reflecting in it.’
‘That’s so clever.’
‘Well, that’s the theory. We’ll see what happens in practice.’ He laughed and dropped back down.
She settled opposite too but kept looking out of the window, resting her chin on her arm as she laid it along the back of the sofa. Her hair flowed down her back, nearly all the way to her waist now.
‘Why haven’t you visited in so long?’ she asked, almost making him jump as she broke him from his daydream and by reading his mind.
He rubbed his hand across his jaw, and she rested her head on her cheek to look at him. She gave a lopsided smile. ‘Sorry. That’s probably a bit personal isn’t it? I have no filter.’
‘I remember.’ He laughed. ‘It’s okay. Of course you can ask personal things. We’re friends, aren’t we?’ It felt a little bit of a lie though, because if theywerejust friends, surely she would have kept in touch with him when he gave her his number? Even if it was to simply tell him the dance meant nothing, and they were going to ignore it.
But theywereacting like friends now, and he was glad of it. If she’d moved house or simply not wanted to talk to him, he would have been deeply disappointed, he had to admit.
The server arrived before she could respond and they each took their tall champagne glasses. There were curls of orange peel draped over the rims and bobbing gently within as the bubbles fizzed. He took a sip, the citrus and cinnamon warming him as he wondered whether he still needed to try and answer her question.
His phone began ringing. He pulled it out of his pocket and checked the screen. Auguste. He hadn’t spoken to him since Sunday. That was the longest he’d gone without talking to his papa in…years. He watched the screen flashing and debated whether to answer or not. Did he really want to interrupt his night out with a conversation with Auguste?
