I watch as she steadies herself, then I glance back at the restaurant. I pretend to scan the menu that’s posted in the window while I look through the glass for Polly, but I can’t see her.
For the first time, I begin to question my decision to follow Marissa’s assistant. I’m not going to learn the reason why she came here by simply standing outside in the rain. But if I go in, there’s a good chance she’ll spot me.
I’ll deal with that complication if it presents itself, I decide. I pull open the heavy glass door and step inside. Luckily, the bistro is half-full, and the lighting is dim. It’s an upscale place, the kind you don’t frequent on a saleswoman’s salary, adding to the mystery of why Polly came here.
I scan the bar, but I don’t see her among the half dozen or so patrons claiming the polished wooden stools. I make my way to an empty one on the side, which gives me a better view of the restaurant’s floor, and its patrons.
Polly is seated at a table for two toward the center of the room, chatting with a waiter. I angle my body so that I’m slightly blocked by a pillar, but she never even glances my way.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asks, pulling away my attention.
“Tequila on the rocks with a few limes.” Mindful that I’m driving tonight, I add, “And a water, too, please.”
“You got it. Want to see a menu?”
“Sure.” If Polly is staying for dinner, I will be, too.
Polly must have ordered a glass of white wine because the waiter delivers one to her on a tray. She takes a sip. Even from a distance, I can see she’s wearing a bright shade of lipstick and her hair looks freshly brushed.
Polly glances at the door, and so do I, just in time to see the brunette in heels from across the street walk in. She strides directly to the bar, stepping into an empty space a few feet down from me. But she doesn’t claim a stool. She simply looks at the bartender while he prepares a martini in a silver shaker, apparently waiting to get his attention.
Polly is still sipping her wine, but she has now pulled out her phone. I’d give anything to be able to see the screen.
“… to drink?” I catch the tail end of the bartender’s question to the dark-haired woman.
“Actually, I’m picking up a take-out order. For Matthew Bishop?”
The name sends a shock wave through my body.
Don’t react, I warn myself, quashing my instinct to whirl around and stare at the woman.
This intersection of Polly and Matthew can’t be a coincidence.
“Sure.” The bartender checks the paper receipt stapled to a brown paper bag by his register, then carries the bag to the woman. “Medium-rare burger with lettuce, avocado, and tomato?”
“I think so.” The woman hands over a credit card.
“Don’t worry, it’s his usual.” The bartender smiles at her as he swipes the card through a machine. “Matthew must be busy tonight; usually he comes in himself.”
“Yeah, he was just walking out when he got a call from overseas.” The woman signs the receipt.
“Tell him Jimmy says hi. And I’ll have his Scotch waiting for him next time he comes in.”
I catch sight of the credit card as the woman tucks it back into her wallet. It’s an American Express corporate card, but I can’t see the lettering that identifies the company.
I don’t need to, though.
I pull out my phone to confirm what I already know: Matthew’s company, Bishop, Simms & Chapman, is located in the elegant building directly across the street.
I move a few feet to my left, so that Polly’s view of me is almost completely blocked by two men who are at a high-top table near the edge of the bar area. Before I wasn’t too concerned about her spotting me; now it’s vital that I stay concealed.
I watch the dark-haired woman as she disappears through the door, my mind scrambling to sort the information I’ve just gathered into a cohesive narrative: Matthew must be a regular here on nights when he works late. He probably sips a Scotch at the bar, chatting with the amiable bartender, while he waits for his food to be prepared. Then he brings his styrofoam container back to the office and puts in a few more hours.
But tonight, he sent someone else—an assistant, or a junior colleague—to retrieve his dinner.
His routine changed at the last minute.
I observe Marissa’s assistant take another sip of wine, wondering when she’ll realize that Matthew isn’t going to wander into the restaurant tonight.
What was Polly’s plan? To pretend to “bump into” him and invite him to join her at her table?