by Jenny Nelson
“I couldn’t find one, Georgia. I looked, but I couldn’t find one. I have never had a problem on the subway. I allowed myself two hours to get to the Oven. It normally takes twenty-five minutes to get to midtown. The train broke down. People were fainting, screaming about terrorists, it was mass hysteria.”
“Mmhmm.” Georgia bit into one of three dark chocolate truffles lolling on the plate in front of her. After the meeting, she’d fled the restaurant without so much as grabbing her coat. She’d needed air. Air and chocolate, and in that order. An arctic blast smacked her face as soon as she hit the sidewalk, and with the air part covered, she headed straight to Saks, the closest she could get to killer chocolate and cappuccino in four-inch heels and a flimsy shirt.
The province of social shoppers the city over, the eighth-floor chocolate bar was the kind of place where she could easily run into people she’d rather avoid, like her creepy freshman-year roommate, or Lo’s snooty younger sister, or, worst of all, Glenn’s mother. Fortunately, none of the above were in attendance, and Georgia had gratefully sunk into the first seat she saw.
“I know you’re furious, but please just tell me where you are. I need to hear what happened,” Bernard said.
“Saks, eighth floor. And you’re lucky I’m even speaking to you.”
“Was it that bad?”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out if you play your cards right.”
The waiter stopped at Georgia’s table just as she polished off the last truffle, a strange curry flavor she didn’t care for. She ordered four more truffles and a double macchiato. All things considered, she’d done well. More than well. She barely referenced her cheat sheet and answered every trick question Luca posed. If she were the Bari godfather, she’d invest.
Two truffles later, a beleaguered Bernard walked into the café. His face was ashen, his red tie askew, his eyes puffy.
“Have you been crying, Bernard?” Even if the answer was yes, Georgia’s sympathy for her no-show, cheapskate partner would still stagnate in the low-to-nonexistent range.
“No, Georgia, I have not been crying. I have spent the past four hours in a toilet paper roll with one hundred of my now closest friends, many of whom don’t bother to bathe or brush their teeth. Ever. Do you expect me to walk in looking fresh from a shave and a haircut at Paul Mole?”
“Have a chocolate.”
“Only if it’s laced.” He fell into the chair across from her, prompting the ladies to cluck. “With strychnine.”
“He’s cute,” one of them whispered from behind peach fingernails.
Georgia smiled.
“What was that?” Bernard asked, raking his fingers through his pouffy hair. It had probably looked good when he’d left the house five hours earlier.
“Nothing,” she said. “So.”
“Tell me. Please.”
And she did, beginning with the double drama of his not showing up and the meeting starting early, then Luca mistakenly thinking Bernard had been held up by a gunman and actually seeming excited about it.
“Great,” Bernard said. “He’d rather I get shot than pitch him?”
“Possibly.” Georgia sipped her espresso. “Actually, yes, I think he would have been happy if you’d been shot.”
She told him what she’d said about the food, the menu, the specials, the wine, the look and feel, the vibe. And how she’d handled the finances, juggling numbers and spewing them out like a regular Wharton-degreed, Wall Street whiz. As she spoke, her eyebrows danced, her hands whirred, her fingers stabbed the air. By the time her story reached its climax she had to grab the chair’s armrests just to keep from jumping out of it.
“Sounds terrific, Georgia.”
“Well, yeah, it was, until the end.” She sighed, her ebullience evaporating.
“What happened then?”
“He said it was too bad he hadn’t met my partner. He said he didn’t know how he could invest without meeting the entire management team.”
“So I’ll fly to Bari or something,” Bernard said, flipping his fork into the air and watching it crash onto Georgia’s truffle-filled plate.
“That’s what I told him.”
“You did? And what’d he say?”
“He didn’t. The meeting was over.” She felt flat, like a half-drunk bottle of champagne forgotten in the fridge, a celebration that never quite got off the ground. She’d had Luca, she knew she had. The meeting started on a prickly note, but as soon as she mentioned her orata, his taste buds kicked in. By the time she’d moved on to finances, he was there, envisioning himself at the restaurant’s primo table, swirling a glass of Vietti Barolo, surrounded by the usual bevy of blondes, only these girls were younger, prettier, blonder than the current crew. When she told him how much they anticipated the restaurant would gross, Luca’s eyes boinged out of their sockets, hanging there for a second before ka-chinging back into place. If his assistant had suddenly shuffled over with an attaché case stuffed with unmarked Benjamins, Georgia would barely have batted an eye. Alas, no briefcase materialized, no deal was struck. Instead, the meeting ended with a whimper, the recollection that half the management team was missing and the dreaded promise to be in touch.
The only thing to do, she told Bernard, was to hope he’d call, and if he didn’t, to wait enough time before calling him. And to start looking for alternative investors.
“What time is he leaving?” Bernard asked.
“Four.” She looked at her watch. “Fifteen minutes.”
He grabbed Georgia’s macchiato, draining it in one gulp, jumped up from his chair, and sprinted out of the café, knocking into a display of holiday chocolates. “Keep your cell phone on!” he shouted right before pitching onto the escalator.
“Where are you going?” she yelled. But he was already gone, the top of his head disappearing into the sea of shoppers.
The ladies looked at her, their mouths agape. This was more excitement than they’d seen in months.
“Men,” Georgia said to them, shrugging her shoulders. She flagged down the waiter and ordered a replacement macchiato.
“Can’t live with ’em,” one of the ladies said.
“Can’t live without their credit cards,” the other finished. They erupted into throaty laughter.
“Georgia Gray?” Carrying multiple shopping bags in one hand and a crimson Birkin in the other was none other than Huggy Henderson. A cashmere cape, decorated with a jewel-encrusted brooch, was draped over her shoulders.
Smiling, Georgia stood to greet her. “Huggy. It’s good to see you.”
“You too, dear. The last time I saw you, you were cooking at that Marco restaurant downtown. After that review, I think it’s safe to assume you’ve moved on?” Huggy rested her bags on the ground. “Mind if I take a seat? My feet are killing me.”
“Please do.” Georgia sat down, her eyes resting on Huggy’s croc pumps, which would set her back at least a month’s rent. “I left Marco a long time ago.”
“Left?”
“Was fired.”
“There’s nothing shameful in being fired, Georgia. Don’t you let anyone tell you there is.” Huggy removed her cape. “And what are you doing here? I don’t see any shopping bags.”
“No, no shopping for me. I just finished a meeting and was craving chocolate.” She looked at Huggy fiddling with the Chanel scarf at her neck, her nails the perfect shade of shell pink. For the first time in her life, Georgia understood what it meant to have a lightbulb go off in her brain. “Actually, this might interest you. I’m opening a restaurant. I was meeting with an investor.”
“How brilliant! Please let me know when you open. Do you have my card?” She unlatched her bag and pulled out a leather card case. “I’ll send all my friends.”
“Thanks, Huggy. Actually, we’re still raising money. I have a great partner, and we have a great business plan, if you—”
“Waiter!” Huggy called suddenly. “Truffles. Six of them. All dark. And a black coffee. L
arge.” She turned to Georgia. “Did you know that dark chocolate helps you lose weight? Not milk, not white, just dark. Especially around the tummy. It’s absolutely true.”
“No, I didn’t hear that,” Georgia said. “So, we’re looking for investors now. The idea is to open an eighty-seat, market-driven restaurant on the Upper East Side—”
Huggy turned to her. “Are you telling me this because you think I might be interested or because you think I might be an investor?”
Georgia sipped her espresso. “Hopefully both?”
“Sadly, I’m in no position to invest in anything, dear. Larry and I, well, let’s just say that sociopath made off with most of our money, just as he did with everyone else’s. That greedy…” Huggy bit her lip.
Georgia glanced at Huggy’s plump shopping bags. “Oh.”
“This is the first time I’ve been shopping all season. Everything else I’m wearing is at least a year old, the bag is almost five.” She cupped her hand over her mouth. “But it’s true what they say about Hermès. Worth every penny.”
Georgia tried to smile.
“Don’t look so crestfallen, Georgia. All is not lost, it never is. You do remember my son, Andrew?”
Of course she remembered Andrew: the golden voice, the soulful eyes… the stunning girlfriend.
“Andrew’s a venture capitalist. He invests in small businesses, usually tech companies, but he’s dabbled in the odd off-Broadway show or nightclub. I happen to have his card.” Huggy pulled out a different leather card case and handed over Andrew Henderson’s card. “I’ll tell him to expect your call.”
“Thanks, Huggy. I appreciate your help.”
“Of course. Now I’m afraid I must go. I’m late for my training session at Brownings.”
“What about your truffles?”
“Take them home with you.” Huggy stood up and swung her cape over her shoulders. “Because the truth is, dear, the best thing for the tummy is really no food at all.”
Hot water spilled from the spout, bubbling when it hit the eucalyptus bath salts sprinkled in the tub. The tiny bathroom quickly grew steamy and saunalike, and the scent of the lime, basil, and mandarin candle Georgia had bought at Saks filled the air. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a messy bun and a sticky clay mask covered her face. A month-old US magazine, a glass of ice water, and the phone rested on the floor between the tub and Sally, who had stretched out on the bath mat and was intensely gnawing her paw. Georgia couldn’t risk missing a call from Bernard.
She settled into the bath and gingerly leaned back onto the cool porcelain, relieved she’d arranged for the sous-chef to cover her shift at the Oven. She’d correctly predicted that after sweating rivers in front of Luca at the pitch meeting, the last place she’d want to be was sweating rivers in his kitchen during dinner rush. When she’d gone back to the Oven after Saks to retrieve her coat, Pablo met her at the door, coat in hand. Though he was too discreet to ask any questions about the meeting, he did mention something about Bernard sprinting down the street in what looked like a high-speed chase. Of what, he didn’t know, nor could he say for sure whether Bernard was the chaser or the chased. Whichever it was, it didn’t sound good.
The bathwater started to cool, and she pushed down on the drain release with her big toe and leaned forward to blast the hot. A good, long soak was just what she needed. When the phone rang, she pounced on it and it slid from her soapy hands, bouncing off the tile floor.
“Georgia.” It was her mother.
The door on her relationship with Dorothy had creaked open in San Casciano, and Georgia didn’t want to be the one to kick it shut. Still, she always had to be wary with Dorothy, and she braced herself for her mother’s usual line of questioning—dagger-sharp, double-edged, and designed to make her only daughter feel like dirt—to begin.
Strangely, it didn’t. Sure, she grilled Georgia about the meeting, but she actually seemed interested in her responses. So while Georgia spilled out her story in a rush of run-on sentences and mangled clauses, Dorothy did the unthinkable: she listened.
“Well, Georgia,” she said when her daughter had finished, “from where I sit, it sounds like you aced the pitch. Even if Luca doesn’t come through with the financing, you should be proud of yourself for a job well done.”
Georgia was shocked into silence. Aced? Proud? A job well done? Was this the same woman who’d accused her thirteen-year-old daughter of plagiarizing the Harriet Tubman report that won the eighth-grade essay contest?
“Thanks, Mom,” she said at last. “I guess I am sort of proud. But I need the money. I really want the restaurant.”
“If the restaurant is what you want, you’ll get the restaurant. Maybe not from this Luca guy, but you’ll get the money somehow.”
“I hope so.”
“Oh, and by the way, your father and I will be in New York in a few weeks, early January. We’re coming for the opera, Rigoletto, on Saturday night. Unfortunately, it’s sold out, otherwise I’d offer you a ticket.”
“That’s fine, Mom, I’ll probably have to work anyway.”
“But we’d love to see you for dinner that Friday.”
“Okay.”
“Your place?”
Georgia was silent for a second. “Sure, Mom, my place sounds great.”
They hung up the phone when Dorothy sparked up a cigarette. As Georgia now understood, she drove Dorothy to smoke just as Dorothy drove her to eat. Maybe they were more alike than she realized.
With her toes beginning to prune, she climbed out of the tub and slipped on her robe. The buzzer sounded. Unannounced visitors were as common as rent-controlled apartments and as welcome as bedbugs. She padded to the intercom, leaving liquid footprints in her wake.
“I been buzzing you for ten minutes. Your boyfriend’s on his way.” It was the unfriendly doorman, whose name she still didn’t know.
“My boyfriend?”
“Yeah. He’ll be there in a sec.”
Before she’d hung up, there was a knock at the door. Her stomach dropped. Please, she prayed to any God who would listen, not Glenn. Not now. Not ever again.
“Georgia! Open the door!”
Bernard. She’d called his cell a dozen times since leaving Saks and had heard nothing back. Despite her most Zen-like intentions, the incommunicado thing was infuriating her.
“Georgia, come on. I can hear you fuming.”
She opened the door and stared at him, her hands resolutely on her hips.
“Wow. Green’s your color, George.”
“What?”
“Brings out your eyes.”
“What are you talking about? And how about answering your phone for a change? I’ve left you a million messages.”
Bernard stifled a smile and pointed to her face. She drew a hand to her cheek, still tacky from the green clay mask.
“Oh, please,” she said. “As if you’ve never seen a girl in a mask.”
“Georgia, you could wear a hockey mask for all I’d care right now.”
“Why’s that?”
“Am I allowed in? Or do I have to report from your smoky hallway?” He waved a hand under his wrinkled nose.
She turned without saying anything and he followed her into the living room.
“This better be good,” Georgia said, tightening the belt on her robe and sitting on the chair, the very one on which she’d sat when Glenn dumped her. If Bernard’s story ended badly, it was going straight to Goodwill.
“Oh, it is,” Bernard said. “Just listen.”
He’d left Saks and hightailed it to the Oven, hoping to catch even two minutes with Luca. Had he not got stuck behind side-by-side double strollers for an entire block, he might have stood a chance. Instead, he arrived at the restaurant seconds after Luca’s car picked him up, according to his assistant, who was even more obnoxious when his boss wasn’t around. Bernard explained who he was and pressed him for the name of the car-service company, but the assistant feigned ignorance. Fortunately,
the coat-check girl knew the name of the car company and had seen a black Mercedes S500 with tinted windows cart away her boss just moments earlier.
Georgia’s eyes widened. This was good.
Bernard hit the street where, for the first time in his life, he hallelujahed the rush-hour traffic. Cars crept forward, horns blasted, the occasional one-finger salute was raised and returned. To get to Teterboro, Luca would have to take the Lincoln Tunnel, and Bernard plotted out the most sensible route: down Fifth to Forty-second. When he realized he was as likely to hail a cab as he was a helicopter, he started running. Fast. By the time he got to Forty-second Street, he could barely breathe. Which is when he spotted the tinted-windowed black Mercedes pulling a cool pick-and-roll onto Forty-second. A bicycle taxi rolled to a stop next to Bernard, and he knew what he had to do. He climbed in, pushing out the teenaged couple snuggling under the faux-fur throw, placating them with a pair of twenties. Ride like fucking Lance Armstrong, he told the driver. The little pedicab, powered by quads of steel, closed in on the hulking Mercedes. The car stopped at a yellow light, and the pedicab rode up alongside it, victorious. Bernard tossed the driver a bill he hoped was a twenty but later discovered was a hundred, and rapped on the Mercedes’s back window. Nothing. He rapped again, holding up the business plan he’d stuck halfway down his pants for safekeeping when he began his pursuit. The window inched down.
“Hello, Mr. Santini. I’m Bernard Lambert, Georgia Gray’s partner. If I can just have a few moments of your time—”
“Who?” a man’s voice growled.
“Bernard. Georgia’s partner.” He held up the business plan, smiling as charmingly as he could muster after hijacking a pedicab. Grand-mère would not have approved.
“Bernard Lambert? You’re French?”
“Yes!” The light was about to turn green, and Bernard was pretty sure he’d get mowed down by the pissed-off driver of the van behind him, who looked none too pleased at having been cut off by a bicycle taxi.
“Est-ce que tu parles français?” Luca asked.
“Oui!” Bernard shouted. The light turned. He was a dead man.