The Feature

XIII

You never liked when people said they had nothing to wear. It was stupid, you thought, how someone could stand in front of an overflowing wardrobe and yet somehow see nothing there. But as you stood in the middle of your bedroom, wearing nothing but your underwear, your floor and bed buried beneath heaps of discarded clothes, you finally understood.

You'd showered in your expensive body wash, shaved without cutting yourself or getting any rashes, your hair had cooperated perfectly, your makeup had gone just right, and the new lingerie you were wearing made your boobs look incredible. All that was left to do was get dressed, and you hated everything.

It didn't help that you had no idea where you were going. You'd spent the entire day waiting to hear from Ben, yet now at almost 7pm, he still hadn't called. You were starting to think he wasn't going to call at all; that your inability to choose an outfit was some kind of bad omen, that everything had gone so perfectly just to make it hurt more when he snubbed you.

You crouched down and grabbed a pair of well-worn jeans, pulling them on before fishing through the pile on your bed for an old t-shirt. If he was going to stand you up, you thought, then he could stand you up in your scruffiest, comfiest clothes. But just as you picked up your phone to leave the room, it buzzed in your hand. You looked down to see his name on the screen, a text with nothing but an address and time.

You rolled your eyes, unbuttoning your jeans and whipping the t-shirt over your head as you returned to wade through the sea of clothes.

~*~

You'd settled on a silk button-up shirt and a pair of matching trousers, the bottoms of them grazing the wet pavement, even in your heels, as you stood outside the restaurant. You glanced up at the sign above the door and back down to the text in your hand one more time. This was definitely the right place.

You were greeted with a rush of warm air as you pushed through the door, the delicious smell of food and the sound of glasses clinking, hums of conversation. The place was fancy; dimly lit, understated, classical music playing softly in the background as straight-backed waiters weaved effortless between tables. You wandered in slowly, silently congratulating yourself on your choice of outfit as you looked around at all the impeccably-dressed guests.

"May I help you, madam?"

You turned to see the maître d' standing in front of you, a polite smile on his face.

"Yes, I'm here to meet someone," you replied, unsure if he would even believe you when you said Ben's name. "Er, Benedict Cumberbatch? He's expecting me."

He took a moment to regard you, his eyes assessing you from head to toe, like he was deciding whether or not you seemed the type to meet celebrities for dinner. "Of course," he said. "If you could wait here one moment."

You watched as he wandered off, meandering between the tables with the same grace as his waiters. You bit your lip as you waited, occupying yourself by eyeing people's food and trying to guess how much it cost.

"This way, Madam," the maître d' said as he appeared in front of you again, gesturing for you to follow him.

He led you to a booth near the back, with tall leather seats that curved slightly around the table, like a wall separating it from the rest of the room. You approached tentatively, a strange, unwelcome nervousness in your stomach as you waited for him to walk away before daring to look inside.

"Quinn."

And there was that voice. Warm enough to make your cheeks flush.

"Hi," you replied.