I stared at him.
"The rolled what now?"
"The napkins," he repeated, like talking to a small child. "Gently rolled and tied, as the instruction book says."
I blinked. Once. Twice.
Instruction book.
He meant the 74-page, rule-filled, major-headache book.
"Oh," I said. "That."
"That," he repeated, clearly mad.
"Well, I thought they looked prettier this way."
A moment of silence.
Ms Cora, standing behind him, looked like she had stopped breathing.
Nicholas stared at me for a long second.
"You thought," he repeated slowly, "they looked prettier this way."
"Yes," I said confidently, because all I had left was my pride.
His jaw tightened a little more.
His fingers squeezed his glass.
His left eye twitched a tiny bit.
I think I just hurt Mr Perfect inside.
But in front of his guests, he couldn't yell, so he just said:
"Fine. Leave it."
Leave it?
LEAVE IT?!
Ms Cora's eyes widened so much I thought she'd faint again.
"Leave it?" she whispered quietly.
He ignored her.
