Promised (One Night 1)

‘Sure.’

‘Sylvie?’ he asks, nodding at her as she works her way out of the bistro with the mop.

She pivots on her biker books and smiles sickeningly sweetly. ‘No,’ she says simply.

Our boss leaves grumbling something about ‘help these days,’ while Paul laughs and I try not to.

‘So,’ Sylvie begins, after Paul has also said his goodbyes. ‘I’m hoping your good mood is because Friday night with Mr Wide Eyes went exceptionally well.’

I cringe. ‘He was nice.’

‘Is that it?’ she asks incredulously.

‘Yes.’

‘Fucking hell, Livy. If you’re going to nab a decent bloke, then you need to be a little more enthusiastic.’ She’s glaring at me, and I’m doing everything to avoid it. ‘So what’s made you so chirpy?’

‘I think you already know.’ I’m not looking at her but I know she has just tried to disguise an eye roll and an exhale of worried breath. ‘Miller’s picking me up,’ I tell her, glancing down the road. ‘He’ll be here in a minute.’

‘Right,’ she says, short and clipped. ‘I’m not sure—’

‘Sylvie.’ I stop and turn, placing a hand gently on her arm. ‘Your concern is appreciated, but please don’t try to stop me from seeing him.’

‘It’s just . . .’

‘A nice girl like me?’

She smiles mildly. ‘You’re too nice. That’s my worry.’

‘This is right, Sylvie. I can’t walk away. If you had led the life I have, you might see this for what it is.’

I can see her face drift into thought, trying to surmise what I mean. ‘What is “this”?’

‘A chance for me to feel alive,’ I admit. ‘He’s a chance for me to live and feel.’

She nods slowly and leans in to kiss my cheek, then wraps me in her arms. ‘I’m here,’ she says simply. ‘I hope he’s everything you want and need.’

‘I know he is.’ I take a deep breath and break free from Sylvie’s hold. ‘Here he is.’ I leave Sylvie and make my way over to the black Mercedes, sliding in and giving her a quick wave. She returns it as she slowly backs away.

‘Good evening, Olivia Taylor.’

‘Good evening, Miller Hart,’ I counter, pulling my belt on, smiling when I hear Crystal Waters ‘Gypsy Woman’. ‘Have you had a nice day?’

He pulls into the traffic swiftly. ‘I’ve had a very busy day. And you?’

‘Busy.’

‘Are you hungry?’ He looks over to me, face straight, no expression.

‘A little,’ I reply, feeling a little chilly in the air-conditioned car. Looking at the digital display on the dashboard, I note masses of switches and dials. There are two temperature displays and a dial next to each, both reading sixteen degrees. ‘Why are there two temperature gauges?’

‘One for the passenger side, one for the driver’s side.’ He keeps his eyes on the road.

‘So you can set two different temperatures?’

‘Yes.’

‘So my side can be twenty degrees, and your side can be sixteen degrees?’

‘Yes.’

I reach forward, thinking it’s such a ridiculously stupid piece of gadgetry, and turn my dial up, making my side of the car twenty degrees.

‘What are you doing?’ he asks, starting to twitch in his seat.

‘I’m chilly.’

He reaches for the dial and turns it back until the display reads sixteen degrees again. ‘It’s not chilly.’

Looking across the car to him, I begin to work out the issue. ‘But isn’t that the point of having dual temperatures? So both passenger and driver can set their own comfort level?’

‘In this car, they stay the same.’

‘How about if I turn them both up to twenty degrees?’

‘Then I’d be too warm,’ he answers quickly, replacing his hand on the wheel. ‘The temperature is suitable as it is.’

‘Or the matching digits are suitable,’ I say to myself, sitting back in the seat. I can’t imagine how stressful it would be to live in a world where the desire to have everything a particular way is so compulsory, it pretty much takes over your life. I smile to myself. Actually, I can, because not only has my life been turned upside down by this confounding, fraudulent gentleman sitting next to me, his particular ways are having a funny effect on me, too. I’m becoming very aware of how things should be, even if I’m not quite sure how to get them there. But I’ll learn, and then I can help make Miller’s life as stress-free as possible.

The club looks entirely different, all lit by natural daylight, the blues that illuminated it by night absent, leaving frosted glass everywhere I look. Now the space is empty; only the staff scattered here and there stocking the bars or buffing a section of the large expanse of glass. And it’s so much quieter, with only Lana Del Rey humming softly in the background about video games. It’s a million miles away from the hard beats of the club on Saturday night.

A well-built, stocky guy, all suited and booted, is waiting just beyond the dance floor, sitting on a Perspex stool sipping from a bottle of beer. As we approach, he lifts his bald head from the paperwork he’s perusing and signals the barman, who immediately prepares a drink for Miller, placing it on the glass surface of the bar in time for our arrival.

‘Miller.’ The guy stands, holding his hand out.

My neck is released and Miller gives him a firm, manly shake before indicating for me to sit, which I do without delay. ‘Tony, this is Olivia. Livy, Tony.’ He waves his hand between us before wasting no time taking his drink and knocking it back, immediately signalling for another.