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14
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The restaurantsI normally go to don’t have security on the door, or photographers hanging outside chatting to them as if they’re long-term work colleagues. These men are good looking, designer suited with earpieces and not the roughed-up bouncers from nightclubs back home, but they’re still security and there’s a reason for them to be there. From the outside, the place is understated, ‘The Cauldron’ is written in small green letters beneath a covered entrance where the photographers lurk. The bouncers stand at a heavy, open black door and the windows are obscured by blinds making it difficult to see — or photograph — the diners.
To me, the place doesn’t look much different from the ordinary Italian place I went to in Bristol. But this restaurant doesn’t contain ordinary people, and I doubt any ever come here. Nobody looks twice at Dylan and me as we walk through the dining area, apart from a couple of curious glances from the waitresses. I grip Dylan’s hand and he strokes his thumb across mine in a gentle reminder he understands my discomfort.
The stone-topped tables are arranged far enough apart for discrete conversation, although I notice some are closer than others are. The section of the restaurant we’re seated in is partially screened by a huge aquarium filled with brightly coloured blue and yellow fish, and I suspect our table for two is one of the most sought after for privacy. Dylan orders expensive champagne before the waitress has a chance to leave and I pull a face at him.
“Stop being flashy.”
“Don’t you like champagne?”
“Yes, but— ”
“Then let me date you the way I want.” He attempts a stern tone, but there’s a hint of a smile at his lips.
I kick him under the table. “You’re lucky I agreed to come.”
“You look beautiful,” he says and leans over the table to kiss my nose.
“You’ve told me approximately twenty times since we left your place.”
His eyes zone in on my breasts, and I flick him a look. The dress is elegantly perfect for the location. The knee-length dress made of a satin fabric hugs the curves Dylan loves, a flattering shape and dark blue colour. I’d choose this myself and I do feel happier to be dressed like this in the environment I’m in. The neckline is scooped a little lower than I’d have chosen though.
“Just saying,” he says.
Dylan’s tattoos are covered with a blue shirt tonight, the top two unbuttoned and a hint of colour contrasts nicely at the top of his chest. Nicely? Am I starting to like tattoos? My mind wanders off on its own course, remembering other parts of Dylan’s tattooed body and realising I now associate ink with mind-blowing sex. I breathe out heavily and he gives me a curious look.
A woman at the nearby table watches us, no longer paying attention to the man she’s with. He’s older with salt and pepper hair, designer suited and impeccably groomed. She's my age and is perfectly made up—face, hair, and clothes. I managed the dress part; my hair and make-up are not up to her standards. My girlish fantasy of wearing designer dresses and stalking around with a hot as hell, famous guy allows me to return her scrutiny with a smug smile.
I study the menu. “This is English but reads like a foreign language? I don’t understand any of these words.”
“They’re trying to make the restaurant sound as exclusive as the prices.”
I attempt to decipher the words and I’m unable to figure out what any item contains. "Whatever you say, I'd rather eat fish and chips on the beach. Or a bacon sandwich."
Dylan looks at my mouth and moistens his lips. "Me too. Maybe next time."
The champagne arrives and the waiter pours two glasses. Getting pissed off with the scrutiny of the woman opposite, I fix her with a ‘what?’ look as I drink. Maybe I should sip. But I don’t sip. I set the glass back down and Dylan reaches across to place his hand over mine.
“I heard Kelly and Tate are coming later; they’re over from the States and currently more interesting than me. The paparazzi can focus on them instead.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of them which means they must be more famous than you.” Dylan pokes his tongue out. Well, they are Hollywood A-Listers and I know more movies than music.
Dylan pours me another glass. Crap, did I drink all the champagne already? “They’re small glasses.”
Laughing, Dylan empties his glass and refills his too. “I’ll keep up.”
I don’t want Dylan to drink, but I don’t say anything. The fact he is drinking indicates he’s as nervous as I am. I agreed to the date but everything is fragile.
The appetisers appear; salmon and asparagus with a weird looking bread that seems stale to me, in the middle of huge square white plates.
“No wonder famous people are skinny,” I say a little too loudly and the woman at the next table who’s interested in Dylan looks over.
Despite our attempts to avoid Christmas, subtle decorations adorn the walls as a reminder and there’s a meal on the menu that possibly reads as Christmas fare. It’s difficult to tell.
“Why do you hate Christmas so much, Dylan?” I ask.
