Page 5 of The Stranger
Has she had work done? More than likely. It’s not like she can’t afford it. She not only has a chauffeur who drives her around, but she also brunches at Michelin-star restaurants. And from the little I know about Spencer, he’s a gazillionaire.
I had to borrow a hundred dollars from my father before Jamison arrived … I can only hope it’s enough to cover my portion of the bill.
The moment our eyes meet, Eloise Prescott stands. “Delilah, sweetheart, I’m so pleased you could make it.”
Taking a step forward, she grasps my shoulders and leans in for an air kiss on each cheek. “It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs Prescott,” I say.
When she draws back, she tenderly runs her hand over the length of my blonde hair. “You’re even prettier in real life. My son has good taste, and you two are going to give me the most gorgeous grandbabies.”
Grandbabies!
This is way worse than I thought, and those words have me swaying on my feet.The sparkle in her eyes and the genuine smile curving her lips only seem to validate her words … words which are now sitting at the base of my stomach like a heavy block of lead. I hate that I’m going to disappoint her when I reveal the truth.
“I’ve been pestering him to settle down for years, so to say I’m thrilled about this union would be an understatement. He works far too hard, don’t you agree?”
I wince instead of replying because I have no cluewhat her son does and doesn’t do. When Abagail used to go on and on about Spencer Prescott at the dinner table, I’d tune her out.
I’m about to devastate this poor woman and I feel awful about it because she seems so lovely. This stupid hole I’ve dug myself into is getting deeper by the second.
Mrs Prescott retreats a step and gestures to the seat opposite hers. “Sit, dear.”
I do as she asks, but I don’t intend to drag this out any longer than necessary. She thinks she’s dining with her son’s future baby momma and now I want to hurl.
“What would you like to drink?” she asks, signalling for the server.
Is it too early to order some hard liquor?
“Maybe you should hear me out before we order. You might not be so willing to share a meal with me once I tell you what’s actually going on here.”
“Nonsense,” she says with a flick of her wrist, and the gigantic diamond adorning her finger sparkles just like her hair does. “I hate eating alone, so I’m grateful for the company.”
“None of this is what you think, Mrs Prescott.”
“Call me Eloise, please … Mrs Prescott sounds so formal, and we’re practically family now,” she declares, reaching across the table to place her perfectly manicured hand on top of mine. “Let’s order you a drink and then we can talk.”
When the server approached our table to take my drink order, I’d asked for a simple glass of water … I even specified from the tap. I wanted nothing fancy, like sparkling, filtered, or purified water that someone had hand-collected from a natural spring high in the Himalayan Mountains. I only had a hundred dollars, and I wasn’t about to waste it all on my drink.
Of course, Eloise had interjected with another wave of her hand, and a curt,“Nonsense, bring her a glass of what I’m having.”Which turned out to be a Champagne Mimosa and just what my measly budget couldn’t afford.
It was at that moment that I resigned to the fact I’d be staying behind after this very humiliating and awkward encounter to wash dishes to pay for my portion of brunch.
That sentiment was only amplified when I was informed that Eloise had ordered the food ahead before my arrival. And since she was unaware of my likes and dislikes, she’d ordered several dishes.
Each dish was explained in exquisite detail as it was placed down in the centre of the table.
Yarra Valley rainbow trout caviar served on toasted nori with avocado, kosho puree, and sour cream.
Hiramasa kingfish with warrigal green curry, hung yoghurt, lemon myrtle oil, and fried curry leaf.
Pumpkin and miso cream, pickled muntries, and soy-roasted pepitas served in a chickpea tart.
Fried duck nduja, sweet corn custard, tarragon mayonnaise, and sunrose.
Brioche-style sourdough made on flour from Simon Doolin North Star, fermented for 48hours, served with butter cultured from sour yoghurt and topped with native pepper berries from Tasmania and Olsen’s sea salt.
I eyed each one with scepticism and internally noted that I’d possibly be spending the rest of the year repaying my lunch debt.
It was all plated up beautifully and looked way too pretty to eat, but if I’m being honest, none of it sounded appealing to me. I didn’t even know what half of those ingredients were. I’d grown up in a blue-collar family that usually dined on simpler meals, like Spaghetti Bolognese, chicken or steak dishes accompanied by mashed potatoes and veg, and the occasional bowl of soup.
