The Fortunate Ones

“Yup. He’s in the dining room. There’s a luncheon benefitting the less fortunate.”

“Is he alone?”

She hesitates before she replies, “No.”

Just past the swinging door that divides the kitchen from the dining room, there’s a small dark alcove where servers use a mounted tablet to put in orders with the chef. I stand there, half hidden behind the wall, spying on James as he enjoys lunch with Lacy Nichols. They’ve been placed at one of the tables near the fireplace, slightly secluded from the crowded charity luncheon taking place around them. They’re in profile, which affords me the perfect vantage point. Lacy looks radiant in a fitted light pink wrap dress, and her blonde hair tumbles down her back in old Hollywood curls. I reach up and self-consciously touch my messy bun.

James is wearing a charcoal gray suit. I wonder if he just came from the office or if maybe he took the day off to spend it at the event with Lacy.

“Spying on them?” a server asks behind me.

“Who?” I ask innocently, my gaze on James and Lacy unwavering.

He chuckles and brushes past me to deliver food. “The fortunate ones.”

Just then, Lacy leans forward and wraps her hand around James’ on top of the pristine white tablecloth. The swinging door behind me whips open and a commotion draws my attention away from their locked hands. Three servers follow after the head chef, a stout, angry man I’ve only had the displeasure of being around a handful of times. Apparently the club poached him from a Michelin-starred restaurant, and he has the ego to prove it.

I watch as he orders the servers to straighten their shoulders and “act like you’ve been here before. Jesus.”

“Yes, Chef,” they reply with clipped, respectful tones.

With impatience, the chef steps forward and points to each dish, reminding them of what they’re holding on their trays. “Bouillabaisse with poached lobster. Crispy oysters with vegetable salad and citrus mayonnaise. Sea bass with prawn tortellini, fennel purée, and white wine sauce. Serve Ms. Nichols first, and then Mr. Ashwood. If they ask about a dish and you don’t know the answer, for the love of god, keep your mouth shut.”

Then he turns and finally sees me standing there, watching. “You,” he says, pointing to me. “Come help serve.”

I pale. “Oh, I can’t. I’m stationed at the cabana.”

He’s taken aback at my audacity, his oily face turning bright red with anger. “I didn’t study at Hyde Park to be refused by a fucking cabana girl.”

He shoves a small tray at me and releases it, so I have no choice but to grasp it tightly or let it crash down to the floor. The servers eye me with mild curiosity as they pass and then I fall in line, using the last server as a shield between me and our final destination. I could bolt at any moment, but it doesn’t seem worth it; I don’t want to incur the wrath of Mr. Michelin Star.

We descend upon James and Lacy, and I hover in the back, behind the servers and the chef. I can barely see James, which means he can’t see me. Thank goodness.

The chef steps forward and addresses them. I’m shocked at how quickly he can change his tone. Out here, he sounds gentle and kind. “As promised, we have the next round of courses for you both to sample.”

Lacy claps gleefully. “Oh wonderful! It looks amazing.”

“Yes, we’ll just clear these dishes off for you. I’m sorry, that should have been done already. Let me just—”

He turns and peers around the servers, pushing one of them aside until he finally gets to me.

“You,” he clips out impatiently. “Come clear these.”

Another server steps to the side and my cover is blown. There I stand, a few feet from James and his date, wearing my pleated skirt and Twin Oaks Polo. I know how I look: bags under my eyes, messy hair, slightly skinnier than I was a few weeks ago. Still, I try to lift my chin as I step forward and reach for the empty plate in front of James. He’s so close I can smell his cologne, and yet he doesn’t say a word. Maybe he’s shocked to find me here suddenly, but then again, so am I.

My hand shakes as I clear the dishes out from in front of him, and I come an inch away from toppling his wine glass. He reaches out to steady it, for which I am eternally grateful. I’m pretty sure the chef would flay me right here if I spilled wine on James Ashwood.

“Thank you,” he says with quiet formality as I stand and turn to Lacy.

Our eyes lock, and she tilts her head in recognition.

I hurry and collect the few dishes in front of her, but before I can turn and scurry away, she leans forward.