London Belongs to Me

by Jacquelyn Middleton

  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.

  The wait staff hovered, hastily collecting empty dishes before the arrival of the dessert, or pudding course as it was labeled on the menus. Alex’s plates were spirited away virtually untouched, her involvement in the meal stretching to a few seasoned spring potatoes. She thought about sneaking off to the loo to gobble her last package of Twizzlers stashed in her clutch, but spotted Harry strolling around her table, asking his guests how they enjoyed the meal.

  “Olivia outdid herself again.” Rosamund’s diamond earrings glittered and swung with each compliment. “Such succulent scallops. Just excellent.”

  “Alex, did you enjoy it?” Harry smiled.

  Caprice jumped in before Alex could speak. “She ate bread and potatoes. Someone’s carb loading. What’s next, Alex? A pre-Bespoke pit stop at the golden arches.” She slurped her fourth champagne and giggled.

  Alex scowled at her. “It was either that or go hungry. Or to the ER.” She turned to Harry. “My seafood allergy… remember?”

  “Oh bugger, right. Sorry, I completely forgot. The menu was Olivia’s baby; I had no control over it. By all means, fill up on pudding. Don’t leave here hungry.”

  “You can have mine,” Caprice butted in. “It’s not a good look, eating pudding.”

  Harry ignored her and kneeled down. “Are you feeling okay? I was worried about you last night. You weren’t yourself.” He leaned in, speaking behind his hand. “Panic attack?”

  Why was Harry showing discretion now? He had already blabbed her anxiety secret to Olivia…why not the rest of the world? His disloyalty stung.

  “It was all a bit much.” She nodded. “The curse of the unexpected.”

  “I should’ve told you Isabella was invited, given you time to get used to the idea, so you weren’t overwhelmed. I’m really sorry.” Harry stood up, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  Alex wanted to tell him the truth—that Isabella’s appearance wasn’t to blame—but one glance in Olivia’s direction put paid to that fleeting notion. Harry’s girlfriend stared at her, like she could read lips from across the room.

  “Look, don’t worry about it.” Alex’s eyes dove to her lap so they didn’t betray what she really wanted to say.

  “I should head back. Olivia’s in a foul mood.”

  Alex squinted. “Oh yeah?”

  “One of the waiters, the Irish bloke. He’s wound her up something awful. First of all, her wine was warm. Then her meal was cold, so she sent it back. She says he’s getting everything arse-backwards. I hate seeing her irritated. She’s worked hard putting all of this together. If he thinks he’s getting a tip, he’s got another bloody thing coming.”

  Alex’s mouth fell open. The only jobs she’d ever held were service positions—in bookshops, theatres, department stores, and now in the café. Not easy work by any means. She guessed Harry had never served a demanding customer in his life.

  He looked back at his table. “But enough about some silly waiter. Enjoy your pudding. And save me a dance at Bespoke, okay?”

  A false grin flashed across her face. It didn’t register with Harry. He hurried back to his seat, squeezing Olivia’s right shoulder before sitting down. She cuddled into the crook of his neck.

  Alex rubbed her brow. Harry’s comments reminded her of that old saying—something about gauging people’s character by the way they treated waiters. Wow. Was Harry always condescending to people serving him? How did she miss it before? She slouched in her chair as the waitress wheeled out the pudding trolley with a choice of Kir Royale sorbet, William Pear Tarte or a chocolate and clementine bomb. Alex half-heartedly chose chocolate. She’d eat around the hideous orange wedges.

  Harry’s words clouded her thoughts—’He’s wound her up something awful.’ She hadn’t known Mark long—but he was warm and friendly, if nothing else. Surely the problem lay with Olivia and not Mark’s serving skills…

  She sipped her water, her eyes glued to the far side of the room. Mark reappeared through a doorway, expertly presenting pudding with a smile for each guest. He didn’t give off any vibes of impertinence or incompetence.

  Next, Olivia’s turn. Mark approached her left side, his arm steady and the plate’s delivery smooth. But as his hand withdrew, a splash of wine flew into the air, sloshing Olivia’s chest. She shrieked and jolted out of her chair like she had been zapped with a taser.

  “You IDIOT!” Olivia raised her arms to shoulder height and shook them with a dramatic flourish like an injured bird trying to take flight. “You did that on purpose. You’ve ruined my Matthew Williamson!”

  The empty crystal glass shimmered in the light as it rolled across the sopping tablecloth before it disappeared towards the floor, shattering into countless slivers.

  Alex gagged on her water. What the…

  An uneasy buzz swept across the room like storm clouds rolling in over a once tranquil lake. Harry shot up, shoving his chair backwards, the surge hurling it onto its side where it landed with a wooden crack.

  “I’m sorry, Miss.” Mark’s
eyes widened. “I thought I stayed clear of your glass…let me get you some towels…”

  “Okay, fella. That’s enough.” Harry threw his napkin onto the table and clasped Mark at the shoulder, guiding him forcefully through the private dining room’s door and into the public section of the restaurant. The heavy wood door slammed, concealing any further interaction between the two.

  Guests exchanged accusatory whispers and indignant looks. Alex sprang up onto her toes for a better vantage point. Olivia’s mother rushed to her daughter’s aid.

  “Oh, Mummy.” Olivia wobbled on the cusp of collapse and sank into her mother’s arms.

  “Just awful.” Rosamund leapt out of her chair to support her friend. Caprice, on the other hand, remained planted in her seat, tossing back her fifth glass of champagne.

  Grabbing every clean linen napkin handed to her, Olivia’s mother blotted the chest and hip area of Olivia’s pale pink dress. “Thank God you weren’t drinking red,” said Rosamund, snatching extra napkins from the table.

  Olivia tore her hands away from her eyes, throwing her friend a dirty look. Rosamund gulped. “Granted, Livvy, it won’t be fun wearing a wine-soaked dress to the club…”

  Tom, with his front row seat to the pantomime, cocked an eyebrow, and stuffed an unlit cigarette between his lips. He plucked a fellow diner’s full wine glass from the table. “Well, that’s me done. Hope you enjoyed the show, folks. We’re here all week. Try the veal.” He loosened his tie and strolled off laughing towards the exit. His father bristled with disapproval.

  Olivia’s dramatic wails continued. Alex shook her head. If a stranger had walked into the room, you couldn’t blame them for thinking Olivia had been the victim of a serious assault, not a spilled glass of wine. So over the top.

  “I had every detail organized…” Olivia laid it on thick. “…and then this lowlife ruins it in a single second.”

  Her gathering sycophants agreed and continued to tend to her ego and damp dress.

  It didn’t look that bad. A wet splotch the size of two small hands, maybe? Alex scrunched up her nose. And seriously…lowlife? Mark was a waiter, not a petty criminal.

  Two servers dashed into the room overburdened with white cotton towels to mop up the spill. A third brought a dustpan and brush to sweep up the glass shards.

  Harry slipped through the door, red in the face. He dragged his hand through his blond hair. “Sorry, everyone, can’t get the staff these days!”

  The room laughed at Harry’s inside joke—everyone except Alex. She drooped into her chair.

  As the guests returned to their seats, the owner of Winston’s stepped into Harry’s shadow. “I’m terribly sorry for this unfortunate accident, Mr. Manville. You can rest assured; we’ll make this right.” He signaled to the staff to top up everyone’s glasses.

  Olivia’s mother piped up, a little too loudly. “Let this be a lesson, Harry. When it comes to cleaning or gardening staff, one simply doesn’t have a choice. But if I were you, I’d avoid hiring immigrants as staff who deal directly with your customers.”

  Harry snickered. “Oh, Penelope. You know very well you can’t say that sort of thing in public these days. It’s not politically correct.”

  “After my fifth martini, darling, I say whatever I please.”

  Friends and family guffawed. Alex cringed. God—Lucy’s right. These people were awful.

  The hovering owner snatched Olivia’s wine-soaked leather chair and replaced it with a dry one. She gingerly sat back as he nudged it underneath her. He whispered something in Harry’s ear and retreated back into the public section of the restaurant.

  Harry addressed his guests. “Sorry for the unexpected drama. Enjoy your pudding and flag a server if you’d like more wine or champagne. Tea and specialty coffees are also available for those pacing themselves for the night ahead.” He placed a reassuring hand on Olivia’s neck and gently kissed her lips.

  Alex’s chocolate dessert teased and tempted, but she pushed it away without even a taste.

  Seventeen

  Four shiny limousines whisked Harry’s younger guests to Bespoke. The parade of cars didn’t have far to go, only five blocks. Blisters ringed her heels, but Alex wanted to walk. The stuffy, narrow-minded snobs surrounding Harry made her want to throw up. Worse still, he acted like a completely different person. Sure, side with your girlfriend, but don’t manhandle a waiter out of the room, belittling him in front of everyone.

  Her eyes searched Winston’s main dining area on the way out. No sign of Mark—anywhere. Wait staff buzzed around the tables, balancing large platters piled high with crab’s legs and lobster. Still no Mark. She wrapped her trench coat around her slight frame and teetered outside onto the wet pavement.

  “Alex. Where you going? Get in the car.” Tom lingered outside Winston’s with a smoke, his habit holding up the last limo from departing on its ridiculously brief journey.

  “Go without me. I’ve got a headache. The fresh air will do me good.” She also needed time to think without banal mentions of polo parties or expensive skiing holidays in France.

  Tom stubbed out his cigarette on the sidewalk with his shoe. “No, you don’t. Come on. Besides, you won’t get in the club if you walk up to the bouncers on your own.” He slinked over to her and slipped his arm around her waist.

  She shot one more look towards the restaurant’s entrance and climbed into the empty car. Tom pounced in behind her, prattling on about the DJ at Bespoke and what great mates they were—like she cared. She ached to talk with Mark and make sure he was okay.

  The silky voice of Beyoncé floated out the front door of Bespoke. Red velvet ropes and two burly bouncers with Bluetooth earpieces guarded the entrance like tuxedoed trolls. Tom wrapped his arm around Alex’s shoulders and slid them both through the crush of models and trustfunders. He winked at Harry’s PR girl. She blew him a kiss and checked off his name.

  She yelled in his ear. “Who’s your plus one, Tom?”

  “Alex.” He looked over the PR woman’s shoulder, scanning the room while removing his tie.

  She flipped the page on her clipboard, her eyes searching back and forth. “Alice? Your name’s Alice what?”

  Alex helped her out. “No, my name is Alex. Alex Sinclair.”

  “Alice Sinclair…I can’t find you.”

  Alex rolled her eyes. “No. It’s Alex… A…L…E…X..”

  “Right…Found you.” Her pen ticked the page. “Go in.”

  Tom dropped his arm from Alex’s back, tuning his radar to a nearby trio of overly tanned women wearing skirts so short that they’d make a gynecologist nervous. He leaned down, shouting in Alex’s ear. “You good?”

  She winced. “I’m fine. Go. Have fun.”

  He scampered off, grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing tray. He disappeared under six enthusiastic orange arms.

  Alex squeezed past a group of boisterous men and removed her trench. The coat check girl gladly accepted it, handing Alex a small silver button in return. Cute. It matched the Bespoke tailoring theme.

  Harry’s club gleamed in polished chrome, glass, and mirrors. Modern and sleek in design, the vibe leaned more towards cool and stark than welcoming and relaxing. A narrow hall gave way to a large room, its outer reaches accessorized with onyx leather banquettes and booths. Servers of both sexes dressed in tailored black shirts and trousers doled out champagne and specialty cocktails. Another wave of staff offered fancy finger foods—mini burgers, crispy squid skewers, and black paper cones filled with fries drizzled with truffle oil. A long bar decorated in gold and black ran the length of the right side of the venue, and the DJ—Tom’s new best friend—rallied the elite crowd of celeb A-listers, models, and hedge funders from a perch high in the far left corner. London’s beautiful people spilled out onto the dance floor; designer mini dresses, and sharp cut suits ruled the night.

  Alex limped to the bar and kicked off her right heel, bending down to inspect her foot. An orange blur bounced behind her
, hollering in her ear.

  “Alllll-ex. You’ll never guess who’s here…Pippa Middleton.” Caprice weaved. “I wonder if her sister’s hot brother-in-law came with. I would’ve asked her, but she’s surrounded by a swarm of Russian money.” She gulped her glass; a cascade of champagne slopped on her heaving breasts.

  Alex backed away from the spluttering socialite, but someone blocked her escape.

  “There you are.” Olivia smiled down at both Caprice and Alex. “Caprice, darling, Rosamund’s looking for you. Head towards the VIP area; you’ll find her there. Last I saw, she was chatting with Emma Watson.”

  Alex’s pulse raced. What did Olivia want now? Her eyes narrowed as she stuffed her foot back into the torture device disguised as her shoe.

  “Emma Wa—? I’m so there. Maybe I can bag a Russian billionaire while I’m at it. Thanks, babe.” Caprice toddled off precariously, turning an ankle in the process. Her boozy haze probably numbed any pain.

  “Isn’t this a fantastic evening?” Olivia’s eyes danced across the room. “It’s turned out even better than I imagined.”

  Alex bit her tongue.

  Olivia leaned in and stretched her right arm and fingers across the bar, like a feline unfurling its claws. Alex couldn’t budge. “Rosamund told me something fascinating at dinner.”

  “So?”

  “The Irish waiter? He was quite the dish.” The brunette chuckled, her breath champagne-soaked. “When I found out you two were friends, I decided to have some fun with him.”

  Alex’s eyebrows scrunched.

  “I complained about the wine, sent my meal back.” She snickered. “But actually, nothing was wrong. Everything was perfect. And he handled my outrageous requests professionally and patiently. So boring. So I upped the stakes.”

  “What?” Alex scowled.

  “He didn’t knock over my glass. I did!” She smoothed down her dress. Damage from wine-aggedon? Not a trace.

  “I suppose most waiters would just receive a reprimand for being clumsy, but I told you, didn’t I? Our families are well connected. We’re some of Mr. Winston’s most valued customers—and he was mortified to see how upset I was.”