When I first saw the roof disappearing from above my head, I did worry about what kind of mess my hair would be in by the time we arrived at the restaurant, but the car has been built in such a way that my hair remains impressively unruffled. And the V8 engine is so brilliantly noisy with pops and bangs on the overrun that there’s no need for conversation at all as we speed down empty back roads.
The noise also means that we’re constantly the center of attention everywhere we go. It’s a lovely summer evening and people are sitting outside restaurants, pubs and bars eating and drinking—so that makes for a lot of attention. And when we make a traffic light stop, excited tourists lift their phones and film the car.
He drives up to the Rubik’s Cube’s pillared entrance, gets out, and opens my door. Putting his hand lightly on the small of my back, he throws the keys to the parking jockey who catches them neatly. Even though his hand is barely touching me, I’m conscious of it as he guides me up the glossy granite steps. The imposing entrance has an air of intimidation about it, as if one runs the risk of being challenged by the staff with the question, ‘Are you rich enough to be here?’ The answer to which in my case is clearly no.
But apparently Dom is.
The doormen are impressively enthusiastic in their welcome, and it’s instantly obvious that not only is he a regular here, but he must also be a tipper of massive proportions.
The restaurant is on the first floor, and we climb a sweeping, black-carpeted staircase. Upstairs, the interior of the restaurant is breathtakingly sumptuous with über-classy black and white velvet walls and huge arrangements of lush, exotic flowers at the front desk and in the middle of the restaurant. All the chair frames are made of some matt silver metal and the thickly padded seats and backs are covered in multicolored velour: orange, gold, red, green, blue, brown.
We’re shown to what seems to be the best table in the place: an elevated platform next to a super-modern cascade fountain piece. Waiters swarm around our table pulling out chairs, bowing, scraping, smiling, nodding. Next to me, a waiter lifts the napkin from the charger plate, gently unfolds it, and courteously lays it across my lap. Bemused, I thank him. He nods solemnly in acknowledgment.
Another jacketed man flourishes menus at us. A complimentary, pink-tinged champagne cocktail appears magically on my right, but I notice that a glass of amber liquid is being offered to Dom. A young man of Middle Eastern descent smiles sweetly when I thank him.
A man oozing obsequiousness in a black suit materializes at Dom’s elbow. The display of excessive servitude is quite frankly startling, but Dom seems accustomed to it.
‘Would you like me to choose the wines to complement the dishes, Mr. Eden?’ the man asks ingratiatingly. Ah, a sommelier. Well, well, I’ve never been to a restaurant that was swanky enough to hire a sommelier!
‘Pair them with the lady’s meal,’ Dom says. ‘And just my usual.’
‘Very good, sir,’ he says with a nod and a quick glance in my direction, and exits the scene.
I turn my attention to the menu. The combinations of ingredients are unusual and fascinating. I look up once and Dom is watching me. For a moment we stare at each other then I feel myself start to color and have to drop my eyes back to the menu. When Dom lays his menu down I do the same. Almost instantly the headwaiter is at my side. We place our orders and he diplomatically compliments us on our excellent choices.
A small plate of beautifully colorful miniature amuse-bouches is placed in the middle of the table. The waiter who brought it explains what the little titbits are, but his French accent is so thick I catch only the words ‘black radish’, ‘fromage frais’ and ‘steamed mussels with pickle and Guinness’. He disappears as silently as he had arrived.
I pick up one of the ceramic tasting spoons holding a little cube made from three brightly colored, unrecognizable ingredients, sitting in a pool of soy sauce, and slip it into my mouth. There’s a delicate burst from the green base of avocado, the rich meaty taste of tuna tartare and a complete texture and taste change with the rice crispies and deep fried shallots on the top.
‘Good?’ Dom asks.
‘Very,’ I reply sincerely.
He pops one of the smoked salmon shells between his lips and suddenly I find myself hungrily watching his incredibly sexy mouth. I drag my gaze away quickly and cast it around the opulent room.
If his intention is to dazzle me then yes, I’m dazzled—the suit, the car, the impossible to miss deference of the waiting staff toward him, the splendor of the restaurant, the five star excellence of the food—but it doesn’t mean a damn thing.
That strange look we shared in his empty restaurant is worth more to me than one thousand nights in the lap of unrivaled luxury. I know that moment is gone forever. The man in front of me is wearing a mask and he has no intention of ever letting me see underneath the mask again.
He is either with me now because he wants to take me to bed or he is trying to get some information out of me. Most likely a bit of both. I won’t give him any information, but I also know I can’t be the one to hurt him either. Not after what I saw this afternoon.
Tomorrow, I will tell Rob that I want to be taken off this case. He’ll ask why, and I’ll tell him that I don’t feel comfortable around Mr. Dominic Eden. That is tomorrow. Tonight belongs to me and the man in the mask.
I take a sip of the delicious champagne cocktail and meet his gaze. ‘I notice you don’t have a Facebook page?’
FIVE
He stares at me. ‘Is that a crime?’
‘No,’ I concede. ‘But it is rather unusual.’
‘Why?’ he demands.
I shrug. ‘Everybody uses some form of social media. Twitter, FB, MySpace, Picasa, Tsu, Instagram, Plaxo, Xing, Ning … You can’t be found on any platform.’
He bares his teeth suddenly in a pirate grin. And ooh … devilishly attractive. My heart flutters a bit.
‘Can it be,’ he mocks softly, ‘that HMRC’s latest and most formidable weapon, the eighty million pound super-computer Connect, needs me to supply it with data so it can effectively spot signs of potential non-compliance from me?’
‘Hardly,’ I reply. ‘Connect holds over a billion pieces of data collected from hundreds of sources. As it happens, a lack of participation on social media is also “data”. It indicates a desire to conceal suspicious activity.’
He raises one straight, raven-black eyebrow. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really,’ I say with emphasis.
At that precise moment, the sommelier appears with a bottle and tries to display the label to Dom, but Dom doesn’t take his eyes off me. Not willing to be outdone, I stare back. When the bottle is uncorked, he makes a slight motion with his hand to indicate that he wants to dispense with the business of tasting the wine. The sommelier comes around to my side and fills my glass. When he goes around to Dom’s glass, Dom gives a slight shake of his head. Quietly, the man slips the bottle back into the ice bucket and disappears.
I take a sip of wine. It is so smooth and ripe with different and distinct flavors that it makes every type of wine I have ever consumed seem like bootlegged versions of squashed grapes and vinegar.
‘Just out of interest,’ Dom says, ‘what information does Connect hold about me?’
‘And there I was thinking I was here to learn more about your business and not the other way around.’
‘Touché.’ He chuckles good-naturedly.
I smile faintly.
‘So, what would you like to know about me?’ he offers with a reckless smile.
I slip a steamed mussel into my mouth. It is so tender it melts on my tongue. I let it slide down my throat and wipe my lips on the napkin before I answer. ‘I’d like to know why you aren’t on social media.’