‘I think the reservation is under Marcus,’ Skye told the statuesque, Nordic-looking blonde who grudgingly acknowledged her at the door of Le Bilboquet. Presumably, the hostess didn’t see a lot of people come in wearing maxi skirts and Birkenstocks at this A-list restaurant.
‘Mmm,’ the girl said, gazing at the screen in front of her, the kind that couldn’t be read unless someone was standing at exactly the right angle. ‘Is that so?’ Skye flushed. An hour earlier she’d been happily sharing coffee with her old teacher friends in Harlem, but here she was nothing but an aging hippie. ‘It would be under Peyton Marcus, from ANN?’ She hated the way she sounded as she said it.
The hostess’s head shot up. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, did you say Peyton Marcus?’
Skye forced a smile. ‘She’s my sister.’
‘Of course!’ The girl beamed. ‘We normally don’t seat anyone until the full party has arrived. And naturally, we don’t hold reservations for more than seven minutes, but please, follow me.’
She led Skye past a cluster of tightly packed tables to a two-top positioned perfectly between the dining room and the sidewalk. With unobstructed people-watching on Madison Avenue, it was the type of table Skye would never, ever have been shown to on her own.
The hostess placed two menus on the table. ‘How funny,’ she said, smiling at Skye. ‘There isn’t even a hint of a family resemblance.’
‘Yes, I hear that a lot,’ Skye replied.
‘I mean, Ms. Marcus is just so fair! Her hair, her skin, her eyes . . .’
‘Mmm, isn’t that true.’
‘Well, anyway! I’ll send her over as soon as she arrives,’ the young woman said before finally leaving…
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