Original Work: You'll Always Find Your Way Back Home, Chapter 9, Part 2
Chapter 9, Part 2
Thankfully I didn’t have to wait outside for long because headlights quickly washed across the front of the house as the car eased up the driveway. It was weird to climb into the back seat of the car instead of the empty passenger seat but I figured that I wasn’t expected to ride shotgun when being driven around the city.
The driver smiled at me in the rearview mirror. “You look very lovely this evening.” He complimented and I blushed pleasantly at his words. He was the same driver we’d had early today so I knew that he knew that I wasn’t Emilia, which made it a little easier to relax. It was getting hard to keep straight everyone who knew that I was me and that I wasn’t her. Even thinking it was getting complicated.
“So have you ever heard of this place that we’re going to?” I questioned in an attempt to make some small talk. I’d always hated riding in the car when no one was talking because even if the silence was comfortable it always just screamed awkward to me because of the small confines. I thought the same about dinner conversation and hoped that I wasn’t just chatting nonsensically tonight with Joshua in order to eliminate the silence. Hopefully we’d really just hit it off and the conversation would take care of itself.
The driver hitched a shoulder in response. “I’ve heard that it’s very exclusive and fancy.” He glanced at me in the mirror again. “Obviously he’s trying to impress you.”
“Impress me?” I scoffed, completely taken aback by his words. Why would Joshua feel the need to impress me? It wasn’t exactly like we had an onslaught of super fancy and exclusive restaurants at Little Paris. Heck, most of the time, there wasn’t even a waiting list because it was doubtful that everyone would decide to go to the same restaurant all at the same time.
As though he was reading my thoughts, the driver reminded, “He thinks you’re Emilia, remember? She’s notoriously hard to impress.”
Oh right. Joshua had planned our evening based on Emilia’s spoiled and picky nature. I was never going to be able to pull off being my sister because, while Emilia was used to these things and expected them, I was probably going to give myself away by staring at the chandeliers. Assuming there were chandeliers there to stare at, of course.
“Right.” I mumbled, leaning back against the seat. I looked at the man behind the wheel. “Do you think that this is all just a publicity move?”
The man shook his head. “I don’t think many young men need to be talked into taking a beautiful young lady out to dinner.”
Again, I flushed, though I appreciated his compliment, mostly because of the sincerity I could detect in his tone. “I hope you’re right.” I muttered, because one thing that would surely lead to an awkward dinner was if I was practically bursting with excitement (though I thought I was doing a pretty good job of keeping myself reined in) and Joshua was just waiting for the night to be over.
But there wasn’t time to back out or change my mind or chicken out because before I knew it, the car was pulling up the curb of what seemed, from the outside, to be a very busy and popular restaurant. The driver turned around to face me. “Linda gave you my number, didn’t she?” I nodded. “Would you like me to wait here or be on call?”
I hated the idea of the man just sitting in a car for however long the dinner happened to last, twiddling his thumbs as he waited for us finish up. “I’ll call you, I really appreciate it.” I smiled.
The door closest to the curb opened and I slid across the seat toward the waiting valet. “Thanks.” I managed to say to the driver before the valet helped me out of the car and onto the sidewalk and I repeated the word to him as well.
Just like I had been at the press conference, I suddenly found myself blinded by the flashes of what felt like hundreds of cameras as my sister’s name was shouted at me from all directions. I wasn’t entirely sure where to look first, trying to figure out what was going on. Several other nicely dressed men stood on either side of the entrance to the restaurant, making sure that the red velvet ropes that stretched from the door to the curb kept out the pushing paparazzi and eager fans that seemed to have congregated at the restaurant for the purpose of getting a photo or autograph.
I blinked at the flashes and tried to focus on what was going on around me. I was getting questions and requests coming from all directions and I didn’t really know where to look or turn first. “Emilia! Is it true that the government is giving you experimental mind control drugs?” Asked one reporter, holding his camera above the heads of those around him in an attempt to get a picture.
“Who are you here with?”
“Is it true that you and Brad Pitt-”
“What about you and Kevin Spacey?”
“Who are you wearing?”
“Is it true you’re no longer allowed in Tokyo?”
“Do you have amnesia?”
“Can I have your autograph?”
“I heard you were in rehab? Did you escape?”
“Will you marry me?”
I wasn’t sure who has asked that last question, whether it was a fan or a reporter, but regardless, I decided it was a good idea not to answer any of the questions being fired at me. The valet rested a hand on my elbow and gently steered me toward the door. “It’s generally suggested that you wait for your table in the lobby.” He suggested in my ear.
You didn’t have to tell me twice. The doorman had pulled open the polished, gold-rimmed door before I was even five feet from the entrance and smiled at me as I stepped inside. Inside the restaurant, it was far more quiet and peaceful and when the door shut again the sounds of the clamoring fans and photographers died away, though I did hear them begin heralding the arrival of another celebrity.
I wasn’t entirely sure why this place was called Antonio’s, because there was nothing remotely cave-like about it. Everything and everyone seemed to be expertly dressed, polished and well-manicured. The hostess behind a cherry wood podium was exuding boredom, as though seating celebrities was old news to her, which I guess, by now, it was. The hostess stand was set off from the rest of the restaurant, so it was hard to see the other tables and booths, though from the low din of chatter, I had to assume most of them were full. Behind the hostess there was a fully stocked bar that looked like it hadn’t changed much since the 1940’s and I noticed it also seemed to double as a smokers’ lounge, because it was surrounded by frosty glass windows that contained the clouds of smoke.
I had to admit, I was a little intrigued to see who else would be dining at Antonio’s tonight, though I tried to keep my attention focused straight ahead and tried to copy the bored expression I saw on the hostess’ face. I was Emilia, I wasn’t supposed to care who I was dining with, they were supposed to care that they were dining with me. It was a little harder to pull this off than I suspected, because all I wanted to do was peak down one of the two hallways that curved off in opposite directions from the hostess’ stand, trying to see if I could notice any famous faces.
The hostess gave me the once over and smiled, seeming to approve of my outfit. Though in all the polish and subtle glamour, I was starting to feel under dressed. “Good evening, Miss Thompson.” No need for introductions, of course. “The other member of your party should be arriving shortly. Might I suggest that you take a seat and make yourself comfortable while you wait?” She gestured toward a small group of small round tables with one or two chairs slid underneath them positioned a little in front of the bar and away from the door. “I can have the bartender fix you up a drink.” Obviously there was no such thing as a drinking age.
I gave her a smile. “Thanks, I should be all right.” I did, however, head over to one of the tables, pulling out the chair and taking a seat. The tables seemed to be set in their own little area as well, secluded from the rest of the restaurant, so it wasn’t any easier to people watch here than it had been standing by the door. Obviously Linda hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d mentioned that Antonio’s was known for its privacy.
As I waited for the hostess to tell me that Joshua had shown up, I drummed my fingers on the surface of the table and slowly started a decent into nervousness. I was glad that there wasn’t a napkin around, because I probably would have resorted to tearing it into tiny pieces, which was something that I highly doubted that Emilia Thompson would be prone to. I hoped that anyone who happened to be looking on would take the finger drumming as a sign of impatience and not growing anxiety that I was about to be stood up. What if Joshua decided not to come? What if he’d tried to get into touch to reschedule and I’d just missed the call and now I was going to be sitting here all night, looking like a completely pathetic loser? Or what if he’d just decided that spending the evening with me (Emilia, whatever) just wasn’t a good idea after all and whatever benefits the band might reap from our evening out just weren’t worth it? The anxiety kept growing as these thoughts kept popping up, completely unbidden, into my head. What if Joshua just didn’t show up? What would I do then? When were we even supposed to meet? Should I all ready be getting the message?
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