‘Sit,’ I say.
Seeing his face up close makes my memory of the other night so much clearer. He’s not quite the image of perfection I’d convinced myself he was. There’s a spot under his chin and the hint of wrinkles around his eyes – but he’s still good-looking. He’s got dark designer stubble and his hair is thick and swept back as if he’s on a cliff-top photoshoot.
‘Do you want to make a scene?’ I ask quietly.
The restaurant is far from full but Stephen glances around at the meagre number of patrons and retakes his seat.
The person from the agency who I spoke to on the phone chose well. Marco’s is a nice place. It’s all high ceilings, bright lights, potted plants and gentle music. I imagine it’s the type of place with a wine cellar, or where companies will book the whole place out for a Christmas party.
Stephen is looking anywhere but at me. I was ten minutes late, wanting to make sure he was in place so that he couldn’t spot me early and disappear.
Before either of us can say anything else, the waiter has swooped, filling glasses with water. He has a Mediterranean accent that sounds a little exaggerated and says he’ll be back shortly for drinks orders.
I sip the water, waiting for Stephen’s attention.
He stares at a spot towards the door, doing all he can to avoid my stare.
‘You were far chattier the other night,’ I say.
‘Yeah, um… I think I should probably go.’
‘I think you should stay.’
He doesn’t move, so I reach into my bag and remove the envelope, pushing it across the table. ‘That’s your five hundred,’ I say. ‘Count it if you want.’
Stephen reaches for the envelope instinctively but withdraws his hand without picking it up.
‘My daily limit at the cash machine is three hundred,’ I tell him. ‘I had to split it between my credit and debit cards. It’s all there.’
‘You should keep it. I’ve got to go.’
He starts to stand but I grab his wrist once more, squeezing harder this time. ‘Sit down and listen to me.’
The woman two tables away has noticed something’s happening and is starting to stare. Stephen flashes her a toothy grin to let her know all is well and then he slips back onto the chair. He’s in a slim-fit suit, with a skinny tie and glimmering cufflinks. It’s a bit overdressed for an afternoon in this Italian – but I’m not fussed if he stands out.
‘What do you want?’ he asks.
The waiter arrives before I answer and I order a sparkling water. Stephen says he’s fine with the standard table water and the server scuttles off once more, clicking his heels as he goes. That’s his actual heels. He’s wearing a pair of Cubans, adding at least half an inch to his height.
I have a large sip of my own table water, taking my time.
‘I think you know what I want,’ I reply.
Stephen’s fiddling with his cufflinks, spinning the crystal stud one way and then the other. It’s far too shiny to be a real diamond. He says nothing.
‘Is Stephen your real name?’ I ask.
‘What do you think?’
‘I think it’s probably a work name.’
He shrugs.
‘You get paid to spend time with women.’
Stephen undoes the cufflink entirely, dropping the two pieces into his jacket pocket. He wriggles his shoulders and slips the jacket off before starting to roll up his shirt sleeve.
‘You spent most of an evening with me and yet I never paid you,’ I say. ‘That means you either did it out of the kindness of your heart, or someone else paid you.’
He undoes the other cufflink, puts that into his pocket and rolls up the second sleeve. That done he presses his forearms onto the table, interlinks his fingers and leans forward.
‘That’s private,’ he says.
‘Are you joking?’
‘Does it sound like I am?’
He stares at me now and there’s little trace of the flirty stare I so remember. He’s not angry; he’s cornered and doesn’t know what to do. He’s older than I thought; older than his profile claims. There’s no way he’s twenty-four, he has to be at least thirty. The creases around his lips are the giveaway.
‘How can it be private?’ I say. ‘I thought you were interested in talking to me. I thought we had a fun evening. If I’d known you were being paid—’
He cuts me off: ‘Then what? What would have been different? All of that still happened. Why does it matter?’
‘It matters to me.’
He holds up both hands. ‘How? Explain it. Is music better if you get into a gig for free? Is a meal better if someone else pays? The experience is still the same. If you enjoyed something, then what does it matter about the other stuff?’
I start to reply but realise that I don’t have an answer. I’m not convinced it’s the same thing and yet there’s an element of his argument that’s unquestionably true. The parts of the evening I remember were good.
He shows no joy at leaving me speechless and I get the sense he’s argued this point in the past. Probably to friends, possibly to girlfriends. Maybe even his parents.
Before either of us can say anything else, the waiter hustles over with glass of fizzy water for me. He asks if we’ve had a chance to look at the menu but I tell him I think we need more time.
I wait until he’s well out of earshot and then lean forward, speaking firmly but quietly. ‘You conned your way into my bedroom.’
His eyes widen: ‘Now you are joking.’
‘Why would I be joking?’
He stares, his perfectly manicured eyebrow twitching: ‘Don’t you remember?’
‘Remember what?’
‘That evening.’
‘Flashes – that’s all. I remember eating by the window and then going back to the bar. I remember the lifts kept dinging while we were waiting to go upstairs. You lowered me onto the bed in my room. That’s it. I think I drank too much.’
He leans in slightly and then presses away again. It’s like he’s trying to read my mind, to make sure I’m not lying.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘I really should go.’
I end up banging the table with my palm. It’s louder than I meant and the three or four couples dotted around the restaurant all stop to look. The envelope of money remains untouched on the table.
‘You owe me an explanation,’ I hiss.
Stephen glances around and sighs. The other sets of eyes slowly shift back to their own tables. Of course, it’s at this minute that the waiter reappears, full of a thin-lipped smile.
‘Have we had a chance to examine the menu yet?’ he asks.
‘Can I have the spaghetti bolognaise,’ I ask.
I’ve not looked at the menu but spaghetti has to be a solid bet in an Italian.
The waiter smiles and makes a note on a pad before turning to Stephen: ‘And you, Sir?’
He sighs again but doesn’t touch the menu.
‘Order something,’ I say.
The waiter turns between us and there’s a moment in which it feels like we’re all looking to each other. He knows something odd is going on but can’t delve into what. Instead, he asks if we need another minute.
‘No,’ I tell him firmly and then turn back to Stephen, repeating that he should order something.
‘Lasagne,’ Stephen says. He hasn’t looked at the menu either.
‘Very well, Sir.’
The waiter collects both unopened menus and does a very good impression of someone who has witnessed a perfectly normal occurrence.
‘Who paid you?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Come on. That’s rubbish.’
‘It’s really not.’
‘So how was it set up?’
‘It’s private.’
Stephen squirms like a kid on a church pew and I realise that the confidence is all a shield. He’s immature, probably broke. This is one of the few things he has going for him.
‘This was off the books, wasn’t it?’
I’m not sure how I know but Stephen gives enough of an answer by wriggling even more.
‘I’m going to call your boss,’ I say. ‘That woman from the website. Ask her if she knows you were working for someone else on Monday night.’
‘Don’t!’
He hisses the reply and then glances over his shoulder to make sure he’s not being overheard. ‘Please don’t,’ he says, far more quietly.