Owen

I UNLOCK THE DOOR TO the storeroom, looking for a nightcap. This is where the big ticket items are kept: wine and booze and anything else the lower-wage staff can't be trusted with. Fran doesn't keep anything more alcoholic than kombucha in the apartment and I couldn't sleep.

I spy a bottle of English Pinot Noir (apparently the latest big news in wine, and Fran likes to stay on-trend), reach to lift it down from the shelf.

"Good evening."

"Christ!" I knock the bottle, just manage to catch it mid-flight.

It's Michelle, Francesca's lapdog, who has just appeared out of thin air like a rogue fucking genie. I don't know how she managed to be so quiet in those shoes when she usually click-clacks around like she's announcing her presence as loudly as possible. Why does she wear those prissy little heels when all the rest of the staff wear trainers?

"Oh, it's you, Mr. Dacre," she says.

"Owen," I say, "please." Less because I want the intimacy of first names than because there was something off about the way she pronounced my surname. Perhaps it's just because her accent's vowel chowder: Queen's English strewn with chunks of broad Dorset. As a key member of front-of-house staff, Fran had her take elocution training; she felt the local accent "wasn't quite right for the ambience." With Michelle it's only half paid off and the result—a mutant pick-and-mix of pronunciation—is almost worse.

"Owen," Michelle says. "My apologies." She's standing too close and I don't like it. I can feel her studying me, her eyes tracking over my face. I'm glad of the dim lighting in here. "Do you know," she says, "I think this is the first time we've properly met, you and I."

It's definitely the first time we've ever been in such close quarters. I've managed to avoid her, up until now. I take a step back.

"She's so capable," Fran said. "And so eager. She really wants this job, you can tell. She'll be so grateful for it." If I didn't know my partner better, I'd say she also wanted someone she could totally control. "Besides, my darling," she told me. "It's so important to have a sprinkling of locals on the staff. Councils love a local employer and I do so want them to look kindly on our future plans."

Michelle nods to the bottle, which I've been trying to hide behind my back. "Ah," she says, "I wondered why the inventory wasn't adding up. Assumed it was a member of staff." She taps the side of her nose, smiles. "Don't worry—your secret's safe with me."

I scowl at her. For God's sake. Now I'm annoyed that I took any pains to conceal the wine. I feel like a truant who's been caught smoking round the back of the bike sheds by a prefect. And yet I'm her superior—her boss, to all intents and purposes. If I want to take anything from the store I bloody well will.

"I've got nothing to hide."

"No. Of course not." She shakes her head earnestly, cheaply highlighted hair spilling around her shoulders. Can't Francesca see how tacky she is? Then she smiles. "Local, right?"

"What?" I snap.

She nods at the bottle. "One of the local reds, isn't it? Just don't think it's a match for the French stuff. Always tastes a bit fishy, if you want my humble opinion."

"Yeah? I don't think I do." It comes out even harsher than I intended. Her eyes widen. I realize my hand is clenched around the wine bottle, my shoulders up like a boxer readying for a fight. I force myself to relax. "Sorry," I say. Stupid, overreacting like that.

"No worries," she says, but she still looks a little shaken. And then: "Would you mind...?"

I realize I'm standing in front of the door, blocking her exit. I move to the side.

Our eyes meet as she passes. Her expression a mix of wariness and intrigue. I drop my gaze first and she slips out the door.

It's only when the bottle slips from my hand and shatters on the stone, wine hemorrhaging across the tiles, that I realize quite how rattled I am.