“I’m afraid I can’t sell alcohol to you, Miss Oliphant,” he said, looking not a little embarrassed. I smiled.
“Mr. Dewan, I’m both extremely flattered and somewhat concerned as to the state of your eyesight,” I said.
“I have, in fact, only just entered my thirty-first year.”
I felt a little bubble of pleasure shimmer inside me. Bobbi Brown had said that I had nice skin (the live sections, at any rate),
and now Mr. Dewan had mistaken me for a teenager!
“It’s ten past nine in the morning,” he said, quite curtly—a small queue had built up behind me.
“I’m well aware of the time,” I said.
Might I be so bold as to suggest that what your customers choose to have for breakfast is none of your concern?
He spoke so quietly that I had to lean in to hear him. “It’s illegal to sell alcohol before 10 a.m., Miss Oliphant.
I could lose my license.” “Really?” I said, fascinated. “I had absolutely no idea!
I’m afraid my knowledge of licensing law is patchy at best.” He stared at me.
“That’ll be 5.49 pounds,” he repeated, took my ten-pound note, and rendered my change, all the while keeping his eyes firmly on his shoes.
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