It hits me then, as we get caught in the evening traffic. I’m in London. In a squat black cab, next to a woman I barely know.
And I like it.
Our destination is nestled in a strip of tall, tightly packed brick buildings with shops and restaurants along the first floors. “Bestplace to shop,” Delaney says as I pull out my camera and get a shot of the gleaming gold store windows.
“Oh yeah?” I murmur, distracted by the view. Twilight is settling in, layering the picturesque shops, busy sidewalks, and tall red buses with diffused blue softness. I think about how this image will look after the shot of the private jet this morning—was that still this morning? Arthur’s lonely money juxtaposed with this bustling street, all these people walking together, laughing, happy, with shopping bags swaying from their arms.
“This is Chelsea,” Delaney says. “King’s Road, to be exact.”
I glare at her. “Is that a King Arthur joke?”
“No, you’re in London, Lilah. Every street is the King’s Something.”
I get a few more shots of the street, before it’s too dark and the menagerie of lighting turns into a battle with my exposure settings. Then I drift after Delaney toward a restaurant that, unfortunately, isn’t one of the smaller, affordable-looking bistros. When you have to think about your bank account whenever you eat, you get pretty good at spotting restaurants out of your budget, and this one has all the red flags: plain all-black front, shaded windows, the wordsBunny Hoppainted above the awning in trendy gold letters. If a place doesn’t let you see inside from the sidewalk, I can’t afford to eat there.
My fears are justified once we go inside. The warm smell of freshly baked bread and hard-to-place vegetables makes my fingers curl with want, and my eyes drop to the glossy black-and-white tiled floor as Delaney speaks with the hostess. Through the arched doorway, I get a peek of the dining room, and there areflowershanging from the ceiling. Fat white roses. Hanging. From the ceiling.
God. I’m going to have to say I need to leave. In Delaney’sdress, after her tourist cab ride. It’ll be humiliating, but oh well, what isn’t? I start to open my mouth, stumbling toward the truth, when I hear a low hum.
“Look at you.”
I jump. Arthur’s to my right, a smug smile on his face—though his eyes are on Delaney’s dress. He’s changed out of his plane clothes, too, and now he’s in black pants and a white button-down, and the uncomplicated combination makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Without any Ignition logos or his orange race suit, Arthur Bianco looks like a semi-normal person, and I don’t know how to react to that.
“Don’t you clean up nice,” he says, and right. Gross.
“I, um—don’t say that—also, I should go.”
His eyes widen, too hazel in the soft light. “Right now?”
Okay, I’d spoken too soon before. TellingArthurthat I can’t afford to eat here is much more embarrassing. “This isn’t exactly in a filmmaker’s budget.”
A line creases his forehead. “You aren’t paying.”
“I’m definitely paying for myself.”
The line goes away as Arthur seems to register that it isn’t that I want to skip dinner—it’s that I think I have to. “No.” He laughs, a little rougher than usual. Travel-worn, I guess. “This is my treat, for my team. That currently includes you, doesn’t it?”
“Arthur. There’s ethics. Subject matters can’t spend money on—”
I try to put up more of a fight, only Delaney appears with the hostess, and I’m collectively rich-people-smiled into silence. Okay, so a documentarian absolutely shouldn’t accept any form of gift or money, including fancy food. Staying in a five-star hotel on the company’s dime? Also bad.
But… if I turn down dinner now, the team might be suspicious. And I’d miss this chance to film Arthur’s tradition.
Would one dinner hurt?
Swallowing my integrity like an extra-large pill, I follow my group through white tablecloths and beautiful people enjoying beautiful meals, to a cozy private dining room off the rose-covered main room. I linger in the doorway, casting another look at the floral centerpiece on the ceiling. “Can I film in here?”
“Sure,” Arthur says confidently, right as Delaney says, “I wouldn’t.”
I look between them, hesitating, then take Arthur’s lead. As I lift my camera to my eye, I nearly miss his quick slip of a smile, there one second then gone the next. He stands next to me as I slowly pan the roses, only speaking when a waiter asks if we’ve received permission to film. “We’re fine,” he mutters. “She’s with me.”
When I’m satisfied, I find Arthur smirking at me. “Is there an Oscar for ‘best movie featuring a ceiling’?”
“You act like it’s normal for a restaurant to spend thousands on florals.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.”
