Page 11 of 56 Days
Another staff member, a glossy brunette, greets them at a hostess stand and directs them into the bar. When she says, “Right this way,” she says it to him from beneath a fluttering of long, dark eyelashes.
The bar is a feast of mirrored things and shiny edges, of crystal chandeliers and glasses, of plush leather upholstery and marbled surfaces. Hundreds ofdifferent-coloredbottles line the wall behind the counter. The lighting, like the rest of the hotel, is low and warm. A real fire burns at one end. More uniformed staff stand waiting to tend to them.
It’s like a movie set and, for a moment, Ciara feels a little mesmerized.
The place is practically empty, with only a handful of patrons, who all sit around one table at one end, by the roaring fire. They are directed away from them to a cozy, circular booth at the other end.
When prompted, she hands over her coat to be disappeared to some plush coatroom and tries not to think about the hostess seeing the “Primark” printed on its tag. Then she chastises herself for thinking about that at all. Oliver gives the hostess his suit jacket without even looking at her.
They sit down.
He unbuttons his cuffs and starts to roll up his sleeves. His forearms are pale and covered in coarse, dark hair. He wears a silver watch that looks heavy.
“So what do you think?” he asks. He waves a hand to indicate that he’s asking about her thoughts on the bar.
“Bit grubby, if I’m honest. They couldreallydo with sprucing the place up a bit, couldn’t they?”
He grins. “You should see the bathrooms, they’re absolutely disgusting.”
“Better or worse than those holes in the ground they have in France?”
“You’llwishyou were in one of them.”
Their banter feels like rapid gunfire and after each successful exchange, she feels a bit dizzy with relief, like she’s gone over the top in the trenches and made it to cover without taking a hit.
A waiter approaches them with two cocktail menus.
“Ah, we’ll have two”—Oliver looks to her—“What are they called?”
“French 75s. Please.”
“Excellent choice,” the waiter says. “Will I leave the menus?”
“Please do.” She reaches to take one from him. “Thank you.” And then, to Oliver, “Let’s see what else they’ve got in here...”
But what she’s really looking for is the price of the drinks they’ve just ordered. She flicks through, pretending to muse with deep interest over the other cocktail options. She tries not to react when she turns a page and sees it: the cocktails aretwenty-foureuros.Each.
“Speaking of bathrooms,” Oliver says, sliding to move out of the booth. “I’ve drunk about a liter of coffee today, so...”
“Don’t fall in the hole.”
“If I’m not back in five minutes—”
“Wait longer, I know.”
She watches his back disappear through the bar’s doors. Then she pulls her handbag onto her lap and starts fishing around in it for her wallet. She does a rough calculation of the creased notes inside: enough to cover the cost of two rounds of these drinks plus a cab home, just about.
He’ll probably pay. He’lllikelypay.
But still.
She slides two fingers into the little pocket attached to the bag’s lining and relaxes slightly when she feels the thin hardness of her debit card, the raised text on it against her fingers.
She’d rather not have to use it, but she can if need be.
She’ll figure something out.
They have just ordered a third round when he says, “You’re not going to believe this.”
