Sure enough, Katya’s calling about Ben. “Sebastian,” she says when I pick up, “Ben hasn’t shown up for prep.”
“What the absolute fuck?” I swear into the phone, glancing at my watch again to confirm the time. Yes, it’s still nine-thirty. If Ben doesn’t show up soon, we won’t have enough time to set up for the dinner crowd. “You’ve tried calling him?”
“Of course,” she replies, sounding offended. “I do know how to do my job.”
Damn it. Ben’s either passed out from drinking or nursing a killer hangover, and I don’t care which one. He’s the sous-chef at a restaurant that has two Michelin stars, and he’s not at work. Daniel’s advice to fire him sounds increasingly attractive. “Okay, Katya. I’ll be back to the restaurant as soon as I can, but in the meanwhile, can you call Helen? She’ll figure out what to do.”
Mentally, I resolve to give Helen a raise. Every restauranteur in the world is sniffing around my staff, and Helen can work anywhere she wants. The fact that she’s still with me speaks testaments to her loyalty and friendship. I might have had shitty parents, but I’ve been more than fortunate in my friends.
An hour later, I’m still trying to reach Ben as I wait with Juliette in a beige conference room in some nondescript office building in Greenwich Village. I’ve had to scramble to get here on time from Daniel’s Upper East Side townhouse. As a result I’m wearing the same black t-shirt and jeans that I wore last night, and I’m not happy about it. Damn Juliette. It wouldn’t have killed her to give me more notice. “I’m not too casually dressed, am I?” I ask, my phone pressed against my ear.
She shrugs. “It isn’t your suit they are interested in.”
Maybe. What Juliette interprets as a trivial question about dress code is actually a deeper question about fitting in. Daniel would have understood that, I realize.
I thought getting the first Michelin star would banish my feeling of inadequacy, but maybe the damage is too deep. For the first sixteen years of my life, everyone told me I was stupid and that I’d amount to nothing. My parents. My teachers. The career counselors. Nobody in my sleepy Mississippi town thought I’d do anything with my life.
The scars still haven’t totally healed, not even after the second Michelin star. Maybe they never will.
Juliette lifts her head up. “Get off the phone,” she hisses. “The investors are here.”
There are four of them, all looking like they are cut from the same rich-guy mold. Custom-tailored suits, handmade shoes. Expensive watches on their wrists. One of them, an older man who looks about fifty, eyes the tattoos that peek out from under my sleeves with a look of combined revulsion and fascination. I’m definitely from the wrong side of the tracks.
Once introductions have been performed, Juliette’s crisp voice slices through the small talk. “Gentlemen,” she says. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
The youngest guy gets up. “Chef Ardalan,” he starts, leaning forward and looking intently into my eyes. He’s trying to look sincere, but it just comes across as contrived. “Imagine this.” He presses a button and the presentation starts on the screen in front of us. “A Sebastian Ardalan restaurant in every city in America.”
I listen to the guy talk, disquiet growing within me. He’s giving off a sleazy, timeshare salesman vibe, and while the presentation is flashy, it is devoid of substance and is a complete waste of my time. If I wanted to look at slick graphics and animations, I would have gone to see a big-budget Hollywood movie. What I want are detail and numbers, and there’s none here.
When they are finished, I lean forward, searching for the right words of diplomacy. It’s a lot easier in the kitchen. There, I say what I think, and the rules are much simpler. “Gentlemen,” I start. “I appreciate the time you’ve taken to meet with me. This was a great presentation but before we can move forward, I do need to dive deeper into the details. How many restaurants? How much control will I have over the menu? Where will we source ingredients? I’m sure you can appreciate that I’ve built my reputation on having the highest standards about food quality and service. I won’t risk sullying that.”
I’m not naive. I know that a restaurant chain will have different food standards than Seb New York. I also know that not all mid-market restaurants are created equal. In some of them, you can tell that the owners take pride in the food they serve. Others? Not so much.
“Of course, of course.” This is the guy who was horrified by the tattoos. “Why don’t we set up a meeting in a couple of weeks with all the particulars?” He gives Juliette a meaningful look, but she ignores it. He plows ahead anyway. “Now, as we’ve discussed with Juliette here, we’d like some guarantees before we do a lot of upfront work. If we could sign a letter of intent?”
Earlier this morning, Daniel had warned me about this. “Sign nothing until a lawyer reads it,” he’d cautioned me. Even though he thinks this deal is a terrible idea, he’s still there to help.
I shake my head. “I’m sorry,” I say, keeping a tight lid on my temper. “I cannot sign anything at this stage. If that’s unacceptable to you, then we can part ways now. No hard feelings.”
“No, no, of course not,” the man splutters. “It was just a formality, like I told Juliette. We won’t worry about it.”
Then why’d you ask? I think, but I know the answer. They think I’m stupid. Even now, even after all these years.
“That was a disaster,” I say flatly to Juliette when we are outside. “Ben’s not at work and Helen’s juggling two restaurants on her own. Juliette, I don’t have time for flashy presentations.” I exhale. “Let’s face it, they weren’t ready.”
“Be a little patient,” she snaps. “This is an incredible opportunity for you. These guys are chomping at the bit at a chance to partner with you.”
“They had no specifics. How many restaurants were they thinking of opening? I have no idea. Will they be pricing to compete with Ruth’s Chris or with The Cheesecake Factory? Guess what? I don’t know.”
“Stop it.” Juliette holds up an irritated hand. “This was an initial meeting. You heard them. They’ll get you specifics.”
“And signing the letter of intent? Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Yeah, that was out of line,” she admits. “I warned them that you wouldn’t sign anything. But about the rest of it, I think you are expecting too much too soon.”
“I disagree. Daniel always has details. These guys just weren’t prepared.”
“For fuck’s sake, not Daniel again.” Her voice is thick with exasperation. “Damn it, Sebastian. Have you ever wondered why Daniel doesn’t like this deal? Maybe he’s happy being the only billionaire in the room. You ever think of that?”
I can only shake my head in disbelief. “Not even for an instant. I’ve known Daniel all my adult life, Juliette. You could not be more wrong in your assessment.”
If she’s flustered, she doesn’t show it. “This is an amazing opportunity,” she says again. “It’s my job as your business adviser to bring in these deals.”
“Then do your job. Make sure they have facts and figures the next time we meet. Because Ben’s fucking imploding, and I don’t have time to deal with this bullshit. That’s what I hire you for.”
“You seem to have plenty of time for some things,” she mutters sullenly under her breath. I’d stop to ask her what the fuck she’s talking about, but my phone chimes. It’s finally Ben. I pick up the line, preparing to give him a piece of my mind.
She stalks away to her car, and I let her. I don’t have time to deal with Juliette right now. I’m too busy fighting other fires.
25
Daniel
Ponder and deliberate before you make a move.
Sun Tzu, The Art of War
“Mr. Hartman is in your office,” my assistant Sophie tells me as I walk into work Tuesday morning.
I frown. My calendar’s booked solid for the whole morning, which means that Cyrus high-handedly bumped someone. “Who got displaced?” I ask
Sophie as I hang up my coat on the hanger and pour myself a cup of coffee from the pot she keeps in the area outside my office.
“Marketing. I can reschedule them to this evening, if you’d like?”
What I’d like to do is see Bailey again this evening, but I nod instead at Sophie. “Sounds good,” I tell her. “And Sophie, don’t let Cyrus bump people again, okay? It’s rude and disrespectful.”
“Yes Sir,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not blaming you,” I tell her. “I know how Cyrus can be. Just don’t let it happen again.”
I’m more than a little irritated. Ryan Communications hasn’t yet accepted our offer, and they are trying to drag the deal out by nitpicking on a hundred little things. Cyrus spent all weekend in Kansas, playing golf and schmoozing the guys on their board. He better have results for me.
“I thought I told you not to ride roughshod on Sophie,” I bite out as I walk in.
He waves his hand. “Forget about your secretary,” he says. “I thought you’d want a status update from Kansas City.”
I settle down on my chair and lean back, glaring at him. This fucking deal. If I was managing it, I’d tell Ryan Communications to accept our bid or we walk. But for some reason, Cyrus isn’t willing to do that. “So give me one,” I tell him.
“I talked to Brant Hollister,” he starts. “You know him? He’s the chairman of their board.”
“Yes, I’m quite aware of who the crucial players are in this deal, Cyrus, thank you.” I don’t hold back the sarcasm. “What did Hollister have to say? When’s the deal coming up for a vote?”
“They want guarantees.”
“What kind?”
He avoids my gaze. “Since some of the payment is in Hartman stock, they want some guarantees on leadership. They don’t think you are taking being the CEO of Hartman seriously enough.”
I’ve heard variations of this line for months now. Cyrus has made no progress at all. “Cyrus,” I say, my voice dangerously flat, “this deal has dragged on for months. In the meanwhile, other, better opportunities have come and gone, and we’ve missed them because our focus has been on Ryan Communications. Here’s a guarantee for you. If Ryan does not sign in three weeks, we walk. Is that absolutely clear?”
“Don’t go ballistic at me,” he grouses. “I’m just the messenger.”
“No. You are not just the messenger. You are the Chief Operating Officer of Hartman, Cyrus, and you are not making any progress. I find myself questioning your judgment.”
He stops dead in his tracks. “I’m your uncle,” he says, his voice cold. “I taught you everything you know.”
“Aren’t you the one who always tells me to put the firm first?” I snap. “Well, I am. Get the fucking Ryan Communications deal done, Cyrus. Else, I assure you, there will be consequences.”
When Cyrus is gone, I lean back in my chair and look absently out of the window. Normally, the view of the city invigorates me, but today I just have a headache. Last night, I counseled Sebastian to fire his sous-chef Ben. Right now, I have a feeling that I’m going to need to take my own advice.
“Hey Sophie,” I press the button on the phone to talk to my assistant.
“Yes, Mr. Hartman?”
“Can you arrange a lunch meeting with my mother, please? As soon as she’s available.”
If it’s time to fire Cyrus, I need to enlist help. As ridiculous as it sounds, I need my mother. After all, she is the biggest shareholder in the company.
26
Bailey
I know not all that may be coming, but be it what it will, I'll go to it laughing.
Herman Melville, Moby-Dick
The next two days are a blur.
Work is busy, but because I spent most of the weekend in my office, I’m done with my end of a paper I’m co-writing with Dr. Pierre Landrieu. Our topic is the adaptability of gender roles in isolated communities. My section is predominantly about my experiences in the Taiga, and requires no new research, just a re-read of the diaries and the blog I kept during my time there. Dr. Landrieu’s section will include his experiences from his time in Patagonia. Pierre Landrieu is a star in my world - one of the pioneering voices in cultural anthropology, and I couldn’t be more thrilled to co-write a paper with him.
I get several teasing messages from my girls about missing Monday night drinking. Each one makes me blush. Gabby doesn’t text me - instead, she calls and demands that we have lunch. “I refuse to be kept in the dark, Bails,” she says.
We meet for lunch and I tell her everything, Daniel’s stupid comment Friday night, the gift of vodka, which I finally picked up from FedEx, the Hartman Foundation grant to NYU, and finally, the proceedings of Monday night.
“So,” I ask her when I’m done, “do you think I’m a fool?”
“Normally I’d give you grief for sleeping with Daniel after he acted like an asshole,” she says thoughtfully. “But you know what? I’m tempted to give him a one-time pass. For some reason, Daniel Hartman is always in the tabloids. He’s probably sick of it.”
My heart sinks a little. Daniel didn’t come across as a player, but I can’t really trust my judgment about men. After all, I spent eleven months with Trevor. My instincts are horrible. “Is he always in the tabloids? What about?”
“That’s the thing,” she replies, taking a bite out of her egg salad sandwich. “He’s never doing anything particularly newsworthy. He could be walking down the street, and he’d make the Post. He’s dated some Hollywood actresses casually, but nothing that warrants this kind of coverage.”
“Yikes. He’s dated actresses?” I wince. “He’s definitely slumming it then.”
“Will you stop?” she demands. “You are beautiful and smart and accomplished.”
“That’s what they keep saying,” I confess. “Sebastian and Daniel. They get very irritated with me when I’m insecure.”
“In that case,” Gabby announces, “I think I like them. It is immensely irritating when you put yourself down. So this wasn’t a one-time thing?”
“I don’t think so,” I reply, crossing my fingers under the table. “I mean, it definitely has an expiration date, how could it not? But hey, as long as they still want to do it, I’m game. They are so hot.”
“That’s awesome, Bails.” Gabby seems genuinely happy for me. I wonder if she realizes she’s not entirely over her own threesome. Even now, two months after the fact, there’s a certain wistfulness in her eyes when she talks about Carter and Dominic. She’s been hurt by men before, and she’s wary for a reason, but because I care about my friend’s happiness, I wish she’d try to find them. They were good to her, and she needs to date more men like that.
I’ve never been excited about going to play a game of pool, but I’m almost giddy with anticipation by the time Wednesday evening comes around. Per Daniel’s instructions, I get to the Maxwell Club early, which I can assure you almost never happens, but when I arrive, both men are already there waiting for me.
Thankfully, Juliette is nowhere to be seen. I haven’t told Sebastian about my encounter with her in the bathroom last week. I’m not really catty, and I’m convinced that complaining about her will only make me sound petty and childish.
The guys smirk when they see me. “You’re planning something,” I accuse them with a grin as I walk up. “I can tell.”
“Yup.” Sebastian grins widely. “Come with me,” he says, gesturing for me to follow him. “Daniel would like us to stay relatively inconspicuous,” he mocks. “So he’ll allow us a head start.”
Daniel makes a rude gesture at Sebastian, and I stifle a giggle. Sebastian is unfazed. “Coming, Bailey?” he asks me.
After Gabby’s revelation about Daniel attracting more than his share of tabloid attention, I’ve forgiven him for that stupid ‘keep this out of the press’ comment. However, teasing him is fair game. “Of course,” I tell Sebastian meekly. “You know me, I’m always obedient.”
Daniel snorts. “We’ll find out s
oon enough how obedient you are,” he promises, sending a shiver of heat through me. I’m dying of curiosity, but I’m not going to give in and ask them what they are going to do. Biting my tongue, I follow Sebastian.
“Fascinating place, the Maxwell Club,” he says conversationally, as we walk toward the restrooms. Are we going to do it there? I wonder. I’m not opposed to washroom sex on principle, though I’d prefer somewhere less germ-filled.
Before we get there, we stop in front of a door marked Staff. Sebastian waves a keycard at the lock, and the door opens. Another long corridor stretches in front of us. Sebastian seems to know where he’s going. He takes my hand in his, and leads me forward.
“How do you know where to go?”
He chuckles. “Daniel told me. He has a signature line, as I’m sure you’ll find out. It’s my business to know.”
“Is it his business to know?” I grin. “I can’t imagine how the back corridors of a private club in Manhattan concern Daniel.”
“That’s because you aren’t using enough imagination,” a smooth voice says from behind us. I jump and pivot around, but it’s just Daniel, his brown eyes gleaming as he struggles not to laugh at me.
“You scared me,” I accuse him. “Why do you know about the back rooms here?”
He links his arm in mine. “A few months ago, a reporter for the New York Times did a feature about this place on its hundredth anniversary. At that time, the club president offered a few of us tours of the back, including the closed off sections.”
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