Free Dream a Little Dream by Sue Moorcroft Page B

automatic efficiency as they pored over their menus, never allowing more than an inch of frizzante in their glasses, so as to retain the chill. Rochelle was the first to announce her decision. ‘I’ll do tiramisu for my starter, something more substantial – yes, a crumble – for main course, and a nice chocolate mousse for dessert.’
    ‘I’ll start light, with champagne sorbet, then New Yorker cheesecake, finishing with …’ Angie’s eyes ran up and down the list, ‘… chocolate indulgence.’
    ‘Pig,’ said Rochelle, admiringly. ‘C’mon, Lize. I’m hungry; choose, so we can order.’
    ‘I’ll give the starter a miss—’ the others groaned at her lack of commitment
    – ‘and go straight for chocolate melt-in-the-middle pud with chocolate ice cream, then pot au chocolat.’
    ‘OK.’ Rochelle was grudging. ‘But we’ll have after-dinner mints between courses, as
amuse bouche
.’ She beckoned the barman with a slow smile. ‘We’re ready to go through.’
    ‘I’ll show you to your table.’ The barman looked relieved to be getting rid of them.
    The dining area was impressively done out. Polished black marble gleamed against ruby red carpet and snowy white tablecloths. Benefitting from enthusiastic promo in the local press aimed at those who loved to be first to try somewhere new, it was also impressively full. The barman passed them and the remains of their wine to a waiter, who, as Rochelle explained their liking for large pink pinot and Angie chimed in with the wine/dress co-ordination factor, seated them towards the back of the room, next to a long table of partying women under a golden foil banner saying
50 Today!
    Around them, heads turned as the waiter pulled out chairs and flourished napkins. ‘I’m Darren, and it must be my lucky night because I’ll be looking after you.’ His uniform included a long white apron secured by an incongruous tartan cummerbund to go with the tartan bow tie. His gaze snagged on Liza and he paused to let her register his appreciation. ‘Good evening.’ He had the golden skin and bottomless dark eyes of a Mediterranean ancestry.
    Liza felt the old Liza flicker inside her; pre-Adam Liza, hanging out with Rochelle and Angie and flirting with hot men. She smiled. ‘How good?’
    His voice dropped. ‘Getting better by the moment.’ Producing menus from the oversized front pocket of his apron, he began, ‘Here are your menus, ladies—’
    Angie beamed at him. ‘We’ve chosen. We’re doing desserts.’
    He paused.
    ‘Dessert for starter, dessert for main course and dessert for dessert,’ explained Rochelle, raising her voice over a burst of laughter from the fiftieth birthday party. ‘And we’re ready to order.’
    Darren produced a pad. ‘Fabulous idea! Can’t think why more people don’t do it.’ And, when Liza only ordered two desserts to the others’ three, ‘A lightweight! You really don’t need to watch your figure, you know.’
    Liza let her smile tell him that, actually, she did know. But she appreciated the validation. Yes … she was beginning to get in the swing of the evening.
    The first desserts arrived quickly and Liza picked and stole from the others to cries of, ‘Hey! Get your own!’, until her own ‘main’ dessert, chocolate melt in the middle, complete with chocolate sauce and chocolate ice cream, arrived on white porcelain in Darren’s lean brown hands. ‘
Mm
.’ She dug into moist sponge and set free a river of melted chocolate. ‘
Mm-mm
.’
    Darren paused in whisking past to dip his head close to Liza’s and, under cover of the noisy birthday bash, murmured, ‘Very
When Harry Met Sally
.’
    Liza laughed and watched him hurry away, letting herself notice the width of his shoulders and the neatness of his behind. An inch of pinot blush had somehow appeared in her glass in front of her. It was tempting. A couple of mouthfuls surely wouldn’t hurt—
    But as she picked up the glass, cool between her fingers, the