Page 70 of David's Chase

“Let’s go. We’ll be late,” he says, checking his watch. “The helicopter is ready.”

LIZ

The first act was good,although frankly, I can’t recollect much of it.

I was right.

The moment we walked in and claimed our seats, all eyes were on me. I don’t know what kind of secret relationship this is if we are going out of our way to invite the paparazzi to our door.

I’m not saying I’m some socialite or something. Or that he is some sort of celebrity, but we surely look that way.

It took me some time to get used to being as watched as the people on the stage.

Luckily we sit in the balcony section and have some privacy, although not enough.

Honestly, this is not my scene.

It’s not that I don’t like opera or find it entertaining.

It’s just that my stress has increased tenfold since we arrived despite having him hold my hand most of the time.

The intermission is my chance to stretch my legs, leave my seat, take a stroll to the restroom, and maybe have a drink.

A drink would be great.

We rise from our seats like everyone else and head to the foyer.

The clamor echoing in the space makes for a nice change.

“What would you like to drink?” he asks while I get ready to go to the restroom.

“Champagne for me,” I say with grace as if I’ve done this my entire life. “I need to use the bathroom first.”

“Sure. I’ll be over there.”

He points to one of the corners.

Smiling, I suck in a short breath, nod in acknowledgment, and make a beeline for the restroom.

It’s a whole process to use the toilet without ruining my dress.

I manage to leave the stall with my beautiful dress still in perfect condition before I wash my hands, check my reflection in the mirror––everything looks good––and pivot to the door.

I open it abruptly and run into a woman who has her eyes pinned on a woman in the hallway.

Startled, I jerk back while she offers me an apology and ends her conversation with the other woman.

I’m baffled that she looks familiar, although I’ve only briefly seen her face.

Why would she look familiar?

I don’t know anyone in New York.

She turns around, her hand still on the door handle, and my eyes widen in surprise.

“Sorry for this,” she says, moving her eyes over me.

My dress quickly grabs her attention.

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