The Weight of Him(63)

Newspaper reports revealed Rory had written a note before putting the barrel of his father’s handgun into his mouth. Billy couldn’t decide if it would be any easier or harder if Michael had left a note. Nor could he think about the gun between Rory’s lips and his small finger on the trigger.

He e-mailed Adam Simon, his fingers never having typed so fast. Everything would work out, he told himself, the profile, the documentary, his entire campaign. It had to.

*

Three days later, Billy approached the Granary Restaurant, feeling pure class inside his new suit and purple tie. He couldn’t remember the last time he could close his shirt collar or cinch his tie. The fancy gray pin-striped suit fit like a dream. No one need ever know he’d bought it secondhand in the charity shop. He’d entered the musty, cluttered space in search of a plus-sized cardigan and couldn’t believe his luck when he’d not only found a suit that fit, but one he liked. His finding such a suit in his size and in excellent condition was as good as miraculous. It had to be a sign. This lunch was going to go great.

Yet, as he neared the restaurant’s entrance, fresh anxiety set in. This Michelin-starred restaurant was one of the best in the country and he might not survive it. He was going to want to eat everything in the place. The last time he was here, a couple of years back for his parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary, he’d enjoyed one of the best meals of his life—filet mignon with béarnaise sauce, buttered carrots, and potatoes au gratin. He’d fantasized about the meal for months afterward, and could almost taste it now.

Denis had worked hard earlier to convince Billy he wouldn’t buckle beneath the towering temptation. “You’ve got this.”

“What if I don’t?” Billy said. “What if I cave?”

“You won’t, trust me. Trust yourself,” Denis said.

Billy pulled open the restaurant door. It’s not food I need to fill me. He entered, greeted by the waft of fresh herbs, roasted meats, and butter-rich sauces. His stomach cried out, keening. The restaurant host, dressed in a black suit and a white shirt with gold cuff links, led Billy to his table.

Billy scanned the fixed-price menu, three courses for fifty-five euro. His stomach tightened. It was an obscene amount for lunch, but he had to win this Adam Simon over. He checked the time on his phone again. Two minutes after the hour. What if Adam didn’t show? If he’d changed his mind?

The waiter appeared, to take Billy’s drink order. The twenty-something looked dapper in a starched white shirt and black dress pants, his dark, gelled hair parted dead center. Billy, still keeping his hair shorn tight, experienced a moment’s regret for his former head of curls.

“Sir?” the waiter asked.

Billy ordered water with fresh lemon and refused, in a weak voice, the basket of French bread. His eyes returned to the entrance, and then to his phone, checking for a text or missed call.

Despite the recession, customers packed the restaurant—mostly tourists and businesspeople. Their animated chatter, and the glitter of crystal glasses and sparkling jewelry, all made for a lively ambience. The luxurious mood was further heightened by the flickering candle and single white rose on each table. Large oil paintings in yellow and orange hues covered the walls. Several crystal chandeliers dropped low from the high ceiling, lavish and glittering.

Billy read through the tormenting fare on offer, his stomach crying out, Feed me! He snapped the leather-bound menu closed and fixed his attention on the candle flame on his table, trying to distract himself from the dishes the waiters were carrying back and forth, their colorful look and mouthwatering smells enough to send his stomach out of his body to go foraging.

Billy raised his hand, about to wave down his waiter. He could no longer resist a basket of warm French bread with those rounds of butter rolled in sea salt. Right then, Adam Simon arrived, saving Billy from himself. Another good omen. Billy breathed a sigh of relief.

Simon’s face dripped apology. “Bad accident on the M50,” he said, his voice deep, gravelly. “So sorry.”

“No problem,” Billy said. “Glad you could make it.” They shook hands. Simon easily scooted into the red leather booth.

“Fatal, too, I bet,” he continued. “A truck smacked into the back of a mini. I don’t have to tell you who won.” His voice held an odd note of humor.

Billy waited for him to say something more, but the filmmaker merely scanned his menu.

The waiter returned. “Ready to order, sirs?”

They ordered. Filet mignon with gorgonzola sauce and all the trimmings for Adam, and for Billy the grilled salmon with green salad and light, very light, dressing.

“Just salad with the salmon, sir?” the waiter asked.

Billy nodded, his teeth on edge. Adam Simon asked for a bread basket. Billy wiped the sweat from his face with his napkin. He was a mess of tattered nerves, anxious he’d mess up his spiel, mess up his diet. How would he contain himself while watching the filmmaker put away steak, buttered carrots, and potatoes baked in garlic, cheese, and fresh cream? It would be hell. After a struggle to free himself from the booth, he hurried to the men’s room.

He entered the end stall and phoned Denis, his hunger practically a force outside of him, snapping at the air. Denis was just about able to talk him down. “I’m telling you, Billy, you need to go to OA. You need an OA sponsor.”

“I can’t do this now.” Billy ended the call, his thumb almost going through his phone. He remained inside the stall for as long as he dared, pushing back his temper, and his panic. He took long breaths in and out. It’s not food I need to fill me.