Page 2 of In the Frame

Excellent. I’m already being trolled by the customers, then.

“I mean, nothing. Just… coming up.” My voice falters. Did I actually just say coming up? I shake my head at myself. Then I realize they probably think I’m shaking my head at them. “Your drink, that is. Nothing else coming up. At all.”

Shit. I definitely shouldn’t have said anything about coming up, because they both lose their composure there and then, laughing with squeals of delight. Hottie #1 tosses fifty quid onto the bar like it’s nothing. “Get one for yourself too.”

“Um, cheers?” I blink, automatically taking the bills. I glance from them back to the pint before setting the glass on the counter and getting to work with some vodka and passion fruit puree and liqueur to start the cocktail. Despite the offer, I definitely don’t need a drink. Especially not a cocktail. Even cocktail is an unfortunate word. The more I think about it, the worse it gets. Neither cock nor tail helps me in the least. Why must all of these words around drinks be so sexual?

Not that I have a problem with sex.

I mean, I like sex. Sex is great. Maybe the problem’s I don’t get enough of it. Maybe it’s been so long since I’ve had a boyfriend that I’ve forgotten what that’s like. Drunken hookups once in a while at the uni bar were more my speed. Except uni’s over.

And London, let’s face it, is intimidating. Especially since I’m not from here, and I swear everyone can tell I don’t belong. That’s my real problem. Plus, I’m too broke for big nights out or even moderate nights going out, because that doesn’t go well with trying to pay my bills. Also, I can’t pull where I work.

Mercifully, I serve both drinks without further incident.

But I can’t even take a sigh of relief through the thudding music when Alexander gestures me over. As ever, he’s no-nonsense as he directs me curtly. “Take these drinks to Table 23.”

That’s one of the tables with premium table service. Which is definitely not my area of expertise. Not here. Not now.

“Right.” Judging from the look in Alexander’s eye confirming that I’m on thin ice, or quite possibly already fallen through, it’s not the time to ask him for a reminder of where exactly Table 23 might be or if he really thinks I’m the best choice to go out there. I’ll figure it out.

With care, I lift the tray holding several glasses with practiced ease. At least that’s a familiar enough act, something almost comforting about the weight and balance of the drinks on the tray, weird as that may sound. It’s something grounding. Kind of like a weighted blanket, except cocktails.

Don’t start thinking about cocktails again.

Or cocks again. Or tails either. Or⁠—

Stop it.

Sidestepping around Alexander, I go off in the general direction of the right table —confident in that much at least—through the boisterous Saturday crowd, adeptly weaving my way through people due to some latent experience kicking in. Table 19 is the one in the corner, and around the corner into the adjacent room are Tables 30 and up. It’s indecent that there are so many tables, and there isn’t exactly a map of them for me to look at. Or signs on the tables.

I count my way in through to what has to be the right table. Or is it the next table? Both tables seat six. It has to be one of these two. Process of elimination.

For a moment, I hesitate, glancing at the drinks on my tray, then toward the seated customers. Which lot of six looks like the cocktail crowd of Table 23? Hanging back, I’m not sure, torn between the table of the bespoke young businessmen in their suits and shirts or the sporty-looking crowd with their flipped-up collars at the next table over. Everyone’s having a great time at both tables, all laughs and selfies.

Just pick one. Don’t overthink it, Matty. Be breezy. That’s what people want in a server. Key word: service.

Which also sounds terribly suggestive.

The businessmen are closer, so I approach them to ask if they ordered cocktails. My gut tells me the sports boys want lager. Dodging the knot of people standing nearby with their drinks, I head toward what has to be the right table when someone crashes into me from behind.

I stumble hard.

In a horrible slow-motion moment, each of the artful drinks slides right off the tray, one right after another. They careen through the air. And then they all crash spectacularly more or less directly onto the table—and onto the lap of the closest business suit.

Glasses shatter in an explosion of safety glass—on the table. On the floor. With a series of bangs, as a crash of ice cubes hit the hard floor. They careen every which way.

Even through the din, the man’s shout rings out along with the cries of surprise from his mates as they noisily shove back their chairs from the table to escape the liquid cascading over the tabletop along with the bits of glass and ice which somehow missed hitting the guy closest to me.

“What the actual fuck?” yells the suit.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry—” I stammer, wide-eyed, clutching the very wet, very empty tray against my chest. Reflex. Or possibly as an instinctive shield. “Are you alright? Don’t move⁠—”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” he thunders with a roar to envy Alexander’s, whirling to meet my gaze.

The suit is, well, gorgeous. Dark hair, vivid eyes, pale skin.

Gorgeous to paint.