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“Oh, I wouldn’t dare.”
She lets out a reluctant huff of laughter and guides me into a wide room dominated by a stage. Round dining tables populate the room, heavily decorated with flowers and candelabras and crystal carafes. The lighting here is dimmer, a thousand candles reflected off a thousand wineglasses.
Dame Fletch, with steely authority, leads me to the largest table, calling out, “No need to worry, darling! I’ve found her.”
Luca, his tuxedo jacket unbuttoned, sits at the table, tapping the white tablecloth with his fingertips. He looks like he’s got his shit back together—his trousers are done up, his white shirt is creaseless, his hair is slicked back and gleaming like pale silver in the abundant candlelight. His gaze meets mine when I follow his mother to the table, and his eyes tell me the real story.
Luca’s tallying up my crimes against him, and punishment is inevitable.
“Willow,” he says softly.
I blow him a kiss. “Hi, Luca.”
Dame Fletch takes a seat at the table like a queen resuming her throne and gestures at the chair next to her.
“Sit, sit. I’ve been positively dying to get to know you.” She raises her hand, and a waiter glides past to put a flute of champagne in it. “And so how did you meet my son exactly? I would love to hear more of this unlikely love story.”
“Unlikely?” I murmur sweetly.
“You’re going to scare her away,” Luca says, addressing his mother but looking at me.
Dame Fletch waves a hand. Her eyes, too, are on me. “Nonsense. My son does not fall in love easily, you see. It must be an extraordinary tale.”
“Unconventional rather than extraordinary.” I glance in Luca’s direction, not at his face, but at his arm on the edge of the table—his two fingers tapping the white cloth. “You’re probably not going to believe this but the first time we met—well, he almost killed me.”
Something flashes in Mrs Fletch’s eyes. There’s a twitch along the column of her neck, as if she wants to look at her son but stops herself. “How?”
“He hit me with his car.”
Now Mrs Fletch looks nonplussed. “Pardon?”
I delicately peel back a corner of my skirt, revealing a white flash of bandaging. “Yes. You might have noticed my slight limp. Well, now you know.”
“Does your father know?” Mrs Fletch asks, turning to throw a look full of urgency at her son.
“It’s nothing serious, Mother. He doesn’t need to know.” His tone is calm, but the muscles in his jaw tighten, deepening the carved shadows in his cheeks. “Our darling Willow is making the story far more dramatic than it was.”
I lightly tap Mrs Fletch’s gloved hand. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause concern. It wasn’t so dramatic, and Luca was sweet enough to take care of me when I was injured, and, between you and me”—I lean forward to murmur discreetly in her ear—“there is some paperwork in place to legally assure discretion—from both of us.”
This calms Mrs Fletch straightaway and earns me almost half of a smile. Luca doesn’t let me revel in this brief victory.
“My mother was just asking me earlier which school you went to,” he says with dangerous sweetness. “I realised you never told me.”
“Where is it you grew up again, my dear?” Dame Fletch asks, and her sweetness is a lie because there’s a callousness in her eyes like she’s readying the knife she’s about to dissect me with.
Luca smiles at me, a smile that seems to saynow what, bitch?
“Greenleigh,” I answer Dame Fletch. I raise my hand in perfect imitation of her gesture earlier, and a waiter deposits champagne into my waiting hand. “You won’t know it, I’m sure, but you’ll probably know my school, St Agatha.”
“Oh.” And now, Dame Fletch is actually surprised. “You went to St Agatha’s Girls School?”
“In Hammersmith—yes.”
“For how long?”
“Until the end of Senior School.”
She tilts her head. “Did you enjoy your time there?”
