“I just want to say — I’ve been working on tonight for months. Nothing’s too good for my baby brother.”
Everyone clapped.
Tom looked over at me, at the kids’ table, and then looked away.
Later, by the coat rack, I asked him quietly.
“Did you see where she put me?”
He sighed. “It’s one night. Please just let it go. You know what she’s like.”
So I let it go.
I sat at the kids’ table. I cut up pasta for a four-year-old. I helped my nephew draw a fishing boat.
And I smiled at everyone who looked at me with pity.
Then, just before dessert, the door opened.
The restaurant manager walked in. Dark suit. Black leather folder.
He looked up and down the long table. Then at the kids’ table.
And he said, loud enough for the whole room:
“Excuse me. Which one of you is Mrs. Rachel Bennett? You’re the only person authorised on this booking, and I need you to see this before we go any further.”
Lauren’s wine glass stopped halfway to her mouth.
I raised my hand from the kids’ table.
“That’s me.”
The manager walked over and laid the folder in front of me, between the crayons and a half-eaten breadstick.
Inside was an amendment form, and his handwriting on a sticky note.
