8. Eight

Eight

I pull on the simple, strappy black sundress, slip my feet into flip-flops, pull my hair into a ponytail, and apply a little make-up before joining Art in the kitchen.

Two mugs of coffee are waiting on the glass dining table, next to two plates of toast and two bowls of something colourful and appetising. I'm pleased to find that the gentle breeze wafting through the open windows has helped get rid of the cigarette smoke and alcohol smells, erasing the final piece of evidence from the previous twenty-four hours.

"Breakfast is served, madam." He gestures towards the dining table with a grin and pulls out a chair for me before settling down in the seat beside it.

"What do we have here?"

"Toast and fruit salad." He picks up his mug and takes a sip.

"You're branching out with your culinary skills," I tease, picking up a fork and diving into the bowl of assorted fruit.

"Cooking's not my strong point," he admits, putting down his mug. "And I know this isn't technically cooking, but for you, I'll try."

I beam, warmed by the fact that he's trying for me.

My phone vibrates against the glass tabletop, and I pick it up.

Three text messages from Lucy. I skim through them; all are asking how I am. I should have texted her back last night, knowing she was bound to worry. But Art's too much of a distraction, as always.

He takes a forkful of strawberry and glances at the phone in my hand. "Lucy?"

"Yeah, just checking how I am," I reply as I text back.

Don't worry. I'm fine. We're fine. See you tomorrow x.

He nods. "Actually, I've a text from Mum. She's invited us to a charity thing she's organised."

I lift my eyes to his and pop a segment of orange in my mouth. "Charity thing?" I repeat, unsure exactly what he means.

"Yeah, she's a patron of a fostering charity, and she's hosting the annual reception."

Reception?

"Erm … where's it going to be held? At the hotel or something?"

"At home," he replies simply, as if it were a normal occurrence.

I frown. "You mean … as in the house where you grew up?"

"Yes."

I take a long sip of coffee. I know his family is loaded, but the house must be huge if they can host a reception.

"Since Dad died, Mum's done more and more charitable work. It helps keep her busy, I suppose." He finishes his fruit salad, putting down his fork. He looks awkward. "I'd like for us to go."

I smile. I'm pleased that he wants to share this with me, but I have to ask, "I'd like that, of course, but what do I wear to a reception?"

He picks up his mug, and a faint smile twitches at the corners of his lips. "They're quite formal, so a dress."

I've got dresses, sure, but I haven't got fancy dresses fit for a reception. This is the first time I'll be going to Barbara's house and no doubt meeting her friends. I want to look nice.

My worry must translate onto my face because he breaks out into a smile.

"You'll look beautiful in whatever you wear, but if you want, I'll take you shopping."

"Thank you because I'm not sure whether I've got much of a clue," I admit, taking a mouthful of honeydew melon.

He raises his cup to his lips and takes a sip. "Mum said she enjoyed meeting you yesterday. Actually, she's asked if we'd like to meet her for afternoon tea one of the days this week."

Yikes.

Barbara seemed lovely, but I can't help feeling nervous.

"That would be nice. Where?"

"The Ritz."

My mouth falls into an O as I turn over what he said. Afternoon tea at The Ritz.

Did I really expect anything less by now?

"Lovely," I reply. "Sounds … posh."

He smiles. "It's not that posh."

I think we're going to have to agree to disagree on that one.

"So, what did you and Mum talk about the other day?"

I rest my fork on my plate and hesitate. I'm not going to lie to him. "Your childhood." I pause and decide to tell him everything. "Your birth mother."

His shoulders stiffen a fraction, and he puts his mug down, keeping his eyes on the table. "So, you know why I was taken off her? What she did for money?"

"Yes," I reply.

A crease line appears on his forehead, and he's still not looking at me. "What else do you know?"

"How you had a difficult time in foster care …" I stall because I don't even want to say the next sentence. "How your previous foster carer—"

His dark eyes snap to mine, and he cuts me off, "It seems as though you pretty much know everything."

I frown. "Not at all. I think your mum …" I trail off as he gets up, grabs the dishes from the table, and heads into the kitchen.

He throws them onto the counter with a clatter, and then he turns and stalks into the hallway. "Come on. We're going to the club," he tosses over his shoulder.