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“What is?”
“Just speaking French like that, so fluent.”
“Oh.” I took a hasty sip of champagne to hide my sudden discomfort. The last thing I needed, when I was so desperately trying to be a gentleman, was for Esme to say stuff like that to me. With her ocean blue eyes wide and admiring. Fuck.
“I’ve made you uncomfortable.” She tilted her head to the side, surveying me.
“No, you haven’t.”
“Fascinating.”
“Fuck off.”
Her only reply was to chuckle and reach for her champagne, letting me off the hook.
Leaning back in her chair, one arm crossed over her waist, champagne in her other hand, held close to her face, she turned to gaze out over the city skyline. The sun had faded from the sky now, meaning the only lighting was the fairy lights above us, and the single candle in the middle of the table. Watching Esme, her gorgeous face half averted, bathed in the soft, golden light, I felt something stir inside me. A feeling welling up that felt almost too big to handle. It made me want to get up from the table and run. Run as fast and far as I possibly could.
She turned her gaze back to me. “You know something?”
“What’s that?”
“There’s so much quiet in being rich.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everyone around you is so quiet, like the slightest noise might hurt you. They walk softly, speak in hushed voices, even clap quietly.”
“Yeah? Can’t say I’ve ever noticed.”
“Have you always been rich? Like your parents and stuff?”
“We have, yeah. My great grandfather started in the quarry business, pretty much from nothing, from what I’ve heard. My grandfather expanded into property development, growing the money tree. They were comfortably well off, I guess you could say. But my dad took it to the next level.” I paused, gazing into the flickering candle flame, lost in my thoughts for a moment.
“How do you mean?” Esme asked softly, when I didn’t go on.
“Just, you know, levelled up. Until that money tree became a forest that covered everything. As far as the eye could see. And it’s still not big enough.”
“That sounds a bit shit, to be honest.”
A cynical smile curved my lips, and I shrugged in answer. “It is what it is, I guess.” I was about to ask her about her own parents when our first course arrived.
“This looks like a lot?”
“I thought you might like to try a bit of each.”
Eyeing the plates skeptically, Esme picked up her fork. “These…look like snails?”
“That’s because they are.”
“Get out! They really do eat snails?”
“They really do. And they’re delicious. Try one. If you’re game.”
“Oh, I’m game.”
So little Esme loved a challenge. Good to know. She speared a snail with her fork and after the briefest hesitation, put it in her mouth. The face she pulled had me biting back a grin. “Not good? If you turn your head to the side, you could probably spit it into the napkin, and no one would notice.”
Her throat moved convulsively as she forced herself to swallow, then reached for the water. “It’s not bad. I mean, it’s not goood. But not terrible. Just weird. And also, I know it’s snails I’m eating and that fucks with your head, you know?”