‘Hey!’
I jump out of my skin, the tray tumbling from my hands, and I can do nothing to stop it. The glasses seem to float down to the marble, champagne trickling slowly from the flutes, the tray spinning in mid-air until it all comes together in a collective crash on the hard floor, silencing the room. I’m frozen on the spot as broken glass dances around my feet, seeming to take forever to settle, the piercing, drawn-out noise ringing through the quiet space around me. My eyes are cast downward, my body tense, and I know all attention is pointed at me.
Just me.
Everyone is looking at me.
And I don’t know what to do.
‘Livy!’ Sylvie’s panicked voice snaps my despairing head up, and I see her hurrying towards me, her brown eyes concerned. ‘Are you okay?’
I nod and kneel to start collecting the broken glass, wincing as a red-hot pain shoots through my knee, and the material of my trousers is sliced through. ‘Shit!’ I pull in a sharp breath, tears immediately pinching the backs of my eyes. They’re a combination of pain and pure embarrassment. I don’t like any attention on me, and I do a good job to avoid and repel it, but I can’t escape this. I’ve brought a room full of hundreds of people to an eerie quiet. I want to run away.
‘Don’t touch it, Livy!’ Sylvie pulls me up, giving me an all-over assessment. She must conclude that I look ready to break down because I’m quickly dragged to the kitchen, removing me from my audience. ‘Jump up.’ She pats the counter and I lift myself, still fighting back tears. She takes the hem of my trousers and lifts up until my wound is exposed. ‘Youch!’ She flinches at the clean slice and steps back, looking up at me. ‘I’m shit with blood, Livy. Was that the guy from the bistro?’
‘Yes,’ I whisper, shrinking when I see Del approaching, but he doesn’t look annoyed.
‘Livy, are you okay?’ He hunkers down and performs his own little grimace at my leaking kneecap.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I don’t know what happened.’ He’ll probably sack me on the spot for causing such a spectacle.
‘Hey, hey.’ He straightens his body, his narrow face softening completely. ‘Accidents happen, honey.’
‘I’ve caused such a drama.’
‘That’s enough,’ he says sternly, turning to the wall and unhooking the first-aid case. ‘It’s not the end of the world.’ He opens up the box and fishes around until he lays his hands on an antiseptic wipe and tears it open. My teeth grit as he gently swipes it across my knee, the stinging making me hiss and stiffen. ‘Sorry, but it needs cleaning.’
I hold my breath as he undertakes my clean-up operation, finishing by taping square gauze to my knee and lifting me down from the worktop. ‘Can you walk okay?’
‘Sure.’ I flex my knee and smile my thanks before collecting a new tray.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he asks, frowning.
‘I . . .’
‘Oh no,’ he laughs. ‘God bless you, Livy. Go to the loo and sort yourself out.’ He points to the exit across the kitchen.
‘But I’m fine,’ I insist, even though I don’t feel it, not because my knee’s sore but because I’m not looking forward to facing my spectators or M. I’ll just have to keep my head down, avoid a certain steel stare and see my shift through with no further mishaps.
‘Toilet!’ Del orders, taking the tray and placing it on the counter. ‘Now.’ He rests his hands on my shoulders and guides me to the door, not giving me the opportunity to protest further. ‘Go.’
I force a smile through my lingering embarrassment and leave behind the chaos of the kitchen, stepping into the huge room and striving to hurry through unnoticed. I know I’ve failed – the feeling of sharp blue eyes prickling my skin everywhere confirming it. I feel like a let-down. I feel incompetent, foolish and fragile. But most of all, I feel exposed.
I navigate the plush carpeted corridor until I push my way through two doors and land in the ridiculously extravagant washroom, kitted out in cream marble and shiny gold at every turn. I almost don’t want to use the facilities. The first thing I do is take the fifty from my pocket and gaze at it for a few moments. Then I screw it up and throw it in the bin. I’m not taking money from a man. I wash my hands before presenting myself to the gigantic gold-framed mirror to retie my hair, sighing when I’m confronted by haunted sapphire eyes. Curious eyes.
I don’t pay much attention when the door opens, and continue to tuck some wayward strands of hair behind my ears. But then there’s someone behind me, casting a shadow over my face as I lean into the mirror. M. I gasp and jump back, straight into the body that’s just as hard and lean as I’d imagined.