“At about six o’clock,” he said, “a lady called and asked to add twelve guests to your party and upgrade the whole room to our premium open bar. She said to put it all on the host’s account.”
He didn’t look at Lauren. He didn’t need to. The whole room did.
“The additional charge is two thousand one hundred and forty dollars. We don’t make changes without the account holder’s signature. So. Do you approve it?”
I finally understood who the people at the long table were.
Twelve of Lauren’s friends. Her book club. Her neighbours. Two women from her gym. Not one of them had met Tom more than twice.
She hadn’t moved me to make room for family. She’d moved me to make room for her own party — on my credit card.
I looked down the table at Lauren.
Then I closed the folder and handed it back.
“No. I don’t approve it. But I’m sure Lauren would be happy to pay for her guests herself. She’s been working on tonight for months.”
The silence went on for a long time.
Tom’s mother put her fork down. “Lauren. Is that true?”
Lauren went red from her collar to her hairline. She said something about a misunderstanding. About how she’d thought I wouldn’t mind. About how she’d been going to pay me back.
The manager waited, very politely, holding out the card machine.
