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It probably wasn't the best idea to go to a restaurant in the public eye, as everyone was already on the lookout for someone just a little too cool to be an everyday person. Everyone was already on the lookout for him.
"Hello, my name is Chloé. I will be your hostess for tonight. How may I help you?" the woman in front of them said, her perfect, dainty hand retracting from the machine in front of her to sit nestled safely on the desk ledge.
Cecile and I stood at the entrance to this large restaurant—the one that Sonya had told me of, actually. Aliments Comestibles. Red carpet was splayed all over the spruce wood floors, tables with patrons eating and laughing scattered around every plant, bend, and curve. The atmosphere was dim, yet very cozy and welcoming. But also very haughty-taughty snooty richness.
The woman—Chloé, she said her name was—pinned her sharp, blue eyes right on my face and the fake glasses and fake piercings that that hid my face.
"Hi, yes. We have a booking for Cecile Quentin atFive. P. M." She gave a harsh yet subtle tug on my arm that I hadn't realise had her own arm coiled around it. We were only—I looked at the nearby clock—four minutes late; I didn't see the big deal.
Chloé shook her long, blond hair a little, flicking it behind her left shoulder, before typing something on the machine in front of her.
"Not . . . an issue," she looked up, "Please," and stood away from the little desk to grab four menus before walking away and into the restaurant, "follow me."
The two of us wandered along the carpet to a rectangular table with four, matching chairs. Cecile had requested—and paid extra—for a slightly more secluded area of the restaurant, behind some big plants and shoved in a corner somewhere. We were going to be meeting with the director and the writer for the movie.
Now, this time, I actually had read the script. I had gotten through all of it, too. I was very proud of myself for that, mind you.
She placed the menus down before us, adjusted the drinks menu that sat on the centre of the table, and stood back.
I thanked her quietly for the menu.
"Your waiter for the night will be here to take your orders soon."
"No, no," Cecile interrupted, a little bit too snappy not to cause Chloé's face to twitch. Her hand slid the menu along the table so she could pick it up and scan over it, her jade bracelet jangling against her bangles, "We're still waiting on the rest of our party; thanks."
"Of course."
"Help me, oh my goodness," she grumbled, bursting into the kitchen like she owned the place, "We have two—one, at least—rich people sitting at table six. The woman just—" Chloé shivered jokingly to show her distaste— "rubs me the wrong way; seems like she would click at me to get her to come over to her table. They're yours now."
