Just one
Table for how many?’ the waiter asked. He tapped two menus against the counter, scouring the restaurant for a cosy nook. He would be hard-pushed to find one. It was 7pm on a Saturday night, and everyone who was anyone in Edgbaston was out enjoying their weekend and a meal they wouldn’t have to wash up.
Or should that be anyone who had anyone?
‘Madam?’
‘Just one,’ Rebekah replied.
She hoped the waiter wouldn’t hear the tremble in her voice over the roar of diners on their second bottle of house white. The last thing she needed was to break down in front of a dashing young Italian with a jawline straight from a perfume advert
