Page 29 of Kept 2
“I’m sorry,” I gulp and push the glass further away from me, “I have asthma, this wine must be reacting with me, perhaps I had better leave.”
“You don’t have asthma,” he says gently, reaching over to place one cool hand upon mine, “and I desire that you stay a little longer. After all, it will be our last meal…together,” he adds after a moment.
‘Oh fuck, he’s going to kill me, he’s going to kill me, he’s going to kill me. This is my last supper; he’s going to kill me.’
“Relax, Josephine, please,” he adds gently, “it is not my intent to scare you to death.”
‘No, you are going to torture me to death.’
I decide the only course of action is to act stupid and pretend I don’t know that I am sitting opposite Lord Nicholas Montague, vampire.
“I’m sorry,” I smile a tight, fake smile, “I don’t know what overcame me. I guess I’m nervous about sitting with a famous playwright in a restaurant I usually serve in.”
“Perhaps,” he drawls.
Our conversation is interrupted by the arrival of our meals, but the fear building up inside my chest is so great, I know I will have a hard time swallowing. I take a sip of the water in a tall, chilled glass near my right hand and ‘accidentally’ knock the liquid all over my meal, and my lap.
“Oh,” I gasp, looking up at him with what I hope is a suitably appalled expression.
He raises one eyebrow, the corner of his mouth tilting, just slightly.
“Dear me, I had better go to the ladies and clean up. I’m such a clutz. I’m so embarrassed.”
He says nothing, simply wipes his mouth with a napkin and stands politely as I rise and make my exit, concentrating on moving my feet slowly rather than hurdling over the tables and sprinting into the streets like an Olympian.
Walking through the staff room towards the staff toilets, I collect my bag and make my way to the cubicles. Standing on top of the toilet seat, I stretch up and push open a small window. Without pause, I throw my bag out first and then haul myself up and out. This was an escape route I had scoped on my very first night here when I was still freshly paranoid. And I thank God now, that I did.
Once in the back alley, I take a deep breath, catching it suddenly as I see a man standing nearby, a cigarette in his hand, laughing.
“Jesus, fuck, Pierre. You scared the shit out of me.”
“Why?” he continues laughing, “why did you just scramble out of a toilet window?”
“I’m on the run,” I smooth down my shirt and skirt, and head past him towards the beckoning street lights, “you didn’t see me,” I add over my shoulder.
“Sure,” he laughs all the harder, “I saw nothing, nothing at all, crazy American.”
Once on the street, I hail a taxi for my apartment. If he knows where I work, he sure as hell knows where I live – but I’m not leaving without my mother’s recipe books or my knives.
“Wait, please,” I tell the cab driver, as I jump out and run at top speed through the building’s quiet and cool foyer, into the lift, out of the lift, down the hallway, into the apartment. Scooping up everything I own at a hundred miles an hour, I thank God I had kept it all together in one room, before sprinting back, panting heavily, to the waiting taxi.
“Uh, can you head towards the airport please,” I puff, only half intent on the driver as I quickly dial Daniel’s number.
He answers after only three rings, but it feels like an eternity.
“Hello, beautiful partner in crime.”
“Hi, Daniel. Thank you so much for letting me stay in your apartment. I’m moving on now. I wonder if I can post you the keys?”
“Sure, no problem. Where is your next port of call?”
I decide on honesty, since at this point my brain is going into panic mode, and I have no imagination left to lie myself out of any situation.
“Well, I’m on the run, I need somewhere to hide, so I’m not sure.”
“Sounds positively exciting,” he chortles, “are you a spy? Wait, don’t tell me, it is more interesting this way. How about Italy?”
“Italy? Don’t tell me you have a fucking apartment there too?”
