Louis is waiting for me at the front desk. There is a gigantic bunch of red roses beside him. They look unreal—as in, they genuinely look fake, so perfect is every petal and upturned leaf. They’re tied with a thick white ribbon and there’s an embossed note beside them. My heart sinks. This is really not my sort of thing.
“Open the card,” Louis says, tapping it against the desk.
I flick the envelope open. Join me for dinner at the Angel’s Wing tonight, it says.
“Louis . . .” I begin.
The Angel’s Wing is a super-posh restaurant near Brockenhurst—it’s the sort of place London types go to when they want to be in the countryside but still eat like they’re in the city. It’s got a dress code and everything.
“Too much?” he says.
I can’t precisely say why I don’t want to go. I was up for it when we had our swimming date, and there are plenty of reasons to give things a try with Louis: he’s good-looking, he’s attentive, and he’s definitely got the drive and ambition that Sameera thought I should look for in a man.
“The Angel’s Wing is really expensive . . .” I say.
“It’s on me,” Louis says. “I should have mentioned that.”
“Izzy!” Lucas barks from the direction of the kitchen. “Arjun needs you!”
Seriously? I just saw Arjun. I don’t know where Lucas has emerged from, and it is completely typical that he is now insisting on my presence despite being MIA for at least an hour himself.
Louis nods to the flowers and card. “I just thought a romantic gesture would be the right thing to go for, given . . .”
“Isabelle!” Lucas shouts.
Isabelle? Excuse me? Only Jem gets to call me Isabelle, and that is because she was my friend when I was eight years old and has earned the right over the last two decades to call me whatever she likes.
Lucas comes marching out of the kitchen. As his eyes move over the bunch of roses, his face flickers.
“Am I interrupting?” he says in a tone that suggests he knows very well that he is, and feels strongly that there should be no moment for him to interrupt.
“Just give us a minute, would you?” Louis says with an uncharacteristic touch of irritation.
Lucas’s cheek twitches. “Izzy is needed. She is working. She will be available to discuss personal matters at five p.m. when her shift ends.”
I gawp. Honestly, the cheek of him. Suddenly he’s Mr. Not in Working Hours after spending yesterday dancing to Anitta in a flat in Little Venice. Part of me is glad he’s being his usual self now we’re back—it’s easier to forget the man I saw laid bare in that hotel room, or dancing with me in Shannon’s flat. It’s easier to imagine that the last twenty-four hours never happened.
It’s also easier to make this decision.
“Thank you, Louis,” I say, turning to him with a smile. “I’d love to go for dinner tonight. See you at seven thirty.”
* * *
? ? ? ? ?
I’ve not lived with a friend since Drew, and this is the first time I’ve regretted the decision to live alone. I can’t decide what to wear, and nobody is replying to my frantic WhatsApp requests for outfit advice. I’m trying to focus on the date ahead, but instead I keep thinking about Lucas’s judgemental face as he said, Am I interrupting? Eventually, after getting mascara on the bridge of my nose for the third time, I figure out why it’s bothering me so much.
I think Lucas was jealous. Not just judging me for being unprofessional—jealous.
But what the hell am I supposed to make of that?
As I fasten three of my favourite necklaces, I realise my hands are clammy. I haven’t been on a date for a while. It wasn’t a conscious decision to stop dating, I just got sick of trawling through Bumble and shaving my legs for men who wouldn’t prove worthy of seeing them.
I look at my reflection and the memory shoots up yet again: Lucas’s lips against mine, and then that awful, awkward silence as he turned his back on me.
So humiliating.
At least I won at strip poker. Though is it really winning if the consequence is having an image of Lucas looking unspeakably sexy in nothing but his boxers seared to the insides of your eyelids?
* * *
? ? ? ? ?
When I arrive at the Angel’s Wing, Louis is waiting outside in a suit with no tie. He opens the door for me, then the next door, and then he takes my coat and pulls out my chair for me. I say “thank you” too many times and end up a bit flustered.
The date itself is . . . nice. Louis is fun to talk to—there’s nothing not to like. And the food and drink are amazing. Arjun’s a fantastic chef, so I’m used to good food, but he doesn’t really go in for the cream-laced French stuff they do at the Angel’s Wing.