Page 9 of In the Frame

The wet sheep and spilled drinks combo soaked into his suit is pungent. Wisely, I keep my mouth shut on that topic so as not to disturb the peace.

For a moment, a fleeting thought crosses my mind, which is if I had to be stuck with someone from Table 23 in a lift (and I’m still not sure if that’s the right table), why couldn’t it be Billy? Because at least he seems up for a laugh.

But it’s Florian who’s here beside me.

I will say Florian’s attractive. And right now, quiet and not making noise, he seems surprisingly young, his expression softer. Like, he can’t be that much older than me, even with all of his posh looks. He seems vulnerable, fidgeting and occasionally looking down at his phone, where the lack of signal stubbornly persists.

Tentatively, I try a peace offering. “It won’t be a couple of days. Before someone comes looking for us, I mean.”

His head snaps up, and he glances over at me, brow furrowed. Florian opens his mouth.

Before he starts up again, I launch in quickly. “It won’t be a couple of days because your boyfriend will notice, and he’ll come looking for you well before then. Tonight, even.”

The sad flip side of this is probably nobody would come looking for me, because I don’t know a lot of people in London, at least not at that level where they’d come looking. Work would just think I’d flaked off. My best mates are back in Brighton, and they knew I was working this weekend.

Florian’s eyes widen slightly as he gives me another look. “What boyfriend?” he asks suspiciously.

“I swear to God, this isn’t a trap. You know, your boyfriend? The guy back at Ivan’s? The nice one? You, for the record, are the sour one.”

He grunts an unhappy sort of grunt, but apparently, he follows my line of thinking. “You mean Billy.”

“Yes. I mean Billy. Obviously, he cares about you.”

“He’s certainly not my boyfriend.”

I blink in surprise. It’s my turn to give him a quick look over, trying to appraise his expression. Frustratingly blank. If anything, it’s his default annoyed look. “Are you sure about that? He seems into you.”

Florian scoffs, brushing that off with a hand. “Ex-boyfriend. He’s simply being polite, trying to counteract my usual boorish behavior.”

“Ex-boyfriend?”

God, so many questions, so little time. So many ways to get him going again in a confined space. Yet I’m really curious, though it’s very much not any of my business. And it’s not like we’re going anywhere or have anything to talk about so far.

“Yes.” The familiar irritation creeps back into his voice. “Firmly ex-boyfriend. He’s just a friend.”

I hold up my hands in surrender. “Okay, Billy-your-just-friend will come looking for you, along with the rest of your friends at that table, because they seem to like you for some reason which I can’t explain, and they’ll notice that you didn’t come back. I’ve got to take it you’ve got some good qualities—because otherwise, you’ve been a complete arsehole, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Florian opens his mouth and snaps it shut again. Weary, he rubs his face with his hands again.

“Like, I get I’m just a bartender and not so hot at my job, and a nobody to you. But I really didn’t mean anything by it, the spilled drinks. I didn’t spill them on purpose. It was an accident.”

Deflated, his shoulders slump. “I realize. I’m… I’m sorry. I’ve behaved poorly.”

Even to my ear, it sounded awkward. Like sorry is a word he isn’t used to saying, foreign and salty on his tongue. But it did sound genuine, at least, so I’ll take it as some kind of truce.

Satisfied, I smile. “’Kay. Thanks for that.”

He gives me a sharp look. “I’m not used to apologizing.”

“That’s painfully obvious. Probably I’m guessing that’s why Billy’s your ex-boyfriend?”

He glares and looks ready to erupt. “You don’t know the first thing⁠—”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. That was rude of me. It just slipped out. Not an excuse, but… shit, you’re not an easy person, are you? You must really be used to getting your own way for some reason.”

Such as, is he a spoiled only child? Royalty? A top ten billionaire? Except billionaires don’t go to Ivan’s, that I’m aware of.

He chews on his lower lip. “You could say that.” But he doesn’t offer anything up, whether he’s in the billionaires club or confirmation it’s just my imagination. Florian glances at his phone again, restless. He drums his fingers on his leg. “I should have rang my assistant to bring me a suit. That would have been an intelligent course of action.”