Page 103 of Into the Dark
“Just the two of you?”
“Yes, just us.”
“For what time?” he asks.
“As soon as possible, please. We have a car coming for us now.”
“Yeah, cool, no problem. Give me five minutes—I’ll call you back,” he says brusquely before hanging up.
When I walk back to Jake his eyes are alight with curiosity. “Your brother a celebrity?” he asks.
“No. A gangster.” I smile.
Of course Nick isn’t a gangster. He works for an advertising firm—one of the largest advertising firms in the world. They look after record companies, film and TV production companies, hotel chains, and restaurant groups. It means the occasional freebie and string-pull isn’t too difficult for him. A phone call here or an email there and he can get concert tickets, hotel rooms, and dinner reservations easily.
In any case, there’s only one person I know who could even vaguely be described as a gangster. The term was used multiple times in the news story I read about Frederick Ward’s attempted murder. Without much effort, it could be used to describe Kevin and some of the other men around Jake too. Paul, the large, silent babysitter with the neck tattoo; the gray-haired, weather-beaten driver who dropped us off here; the doormen at the club; maybe even the attractive Russian I saw with Jake in his office a few nights ago. The article also used phrases such as “crime syndicate,” “London gang wars,” and “bloody vendetta” too. Phrases that don’t really mean much to me, and which seem unreal, but which paint a vivid picture all the same. Phrases that fit the dark parts of Jake’s life but are a thousand miles away from mine. It isn’t a world I necessarily understand, but I suppose it’s one I now need to traverse all the same. Because I’ve decided I can’t live without him. More than that, I won’t lose him to that world. I’ll anchor him firmly in mine so that when the time comes he won’t drown in it.
Jake stares back at me, looking devilishly handsome under the dim lights of the restaurant. A dark, sensual handsome that makes my breath come short and my tummy flip. To the casual observer I suppose he looks like every other good-looking guy with expensive taste out to impress a girl. But he is nothing like those men. He is far, far more.
The lights of Hakkasan are of a low amber hue thanks to contemporary Chinese lanterns hanging above each table and affixed at intervals around the walls. Intricately designed violet-and-silver silk wallpaper matches the contemporary placemats and napkin rings, dark wooden chopsticks propped up in little custom-made holders just to the right of the matching cutlery. If diners aren’t gifted enough to use the chopsticks, then the wooden knife and forks will make them look like they are. This place is designed to within an inch of its life.
“Nice place,” Jake remarks, reaching across to lift one of the complimentary spiced crackers posed like a mini sculpture in the burnished brass bowl between us.
“It is. Nick says it’s been Michelin starred since 2011.”
He nods, impressed. “Was kind of hoping he’d get us into the Dorchester, to be honest.” He scrunches his nose in faux disappointment.
“The food isn’t very good there—or so I’ve heard.” I smile, reaching across to take his hand.
“Well, I’ll take you one day, and we can find out for ourselves, yeah?”
“Expensive jewelry and a love letter too?” I grin playfully.
“Jewelry I can definitely do. Love letters, nah. Not really my thing.”
“Actions not words?”
“Exactly.”
I bask in the weight and heat of his eyes for a moment until I sense a presence to my right. The waiter has appeared seemingly out of nowhere, a silent but graceful presence from the dark.
“Ni hao,” he says, tipping his upper body down into a restrained bow. “Welcome. Can I get you some drinks?” He’s Asian and tall with slicked-back, striking silver hair. His cheekbones look like they could cut glass. He looks like a Vogue model.
“I’m going to have wine with my main,” I tell him with a polite smile. Of course I’m not, but I’ll deal with that later. “But if I could have some Oolong and some bottled still water for now, thank you.”
He bows his assent and turns to Jake.
“A bottle of the Pearlriver,” Jake says. “But if you have it on tap then I’ll take a pint.”
The model waiter confirms they do have the Pearlriver on tap before silently floating away from our table.
We peruse the menu in silence for a few minutes before he appears back with our drinks. Arranged neatly on a bamboo tray, Jake’s lager, my teapot and matching teacup, and a bottle of branded water are as immaculately designed as the rest of the place. Jake lifts an eyebrow as the waiter sets down my cup and teapot and begins to pour. When he’s finished he twists the handle so the teacup and pot are sitting precisely at two o’clock. Then he does another little bow and disappears once more.
“You’re having tea with your meal?” Jake looks baffled.
“Oolong is great with Chinese food. Plus, I like tea. You know that.”
Jake nods. “I do know that,” he says before taking several long gulps of his chilled lager.