Like a Love Story(39)
“Mrs. Hashemi,” I say, “I’m a little obsessed with your look.”
“Please, call us Mina and Abbas. We are not formal people.” They both smile. She’s wearing silk, and he’s wearing a suit that looks like it was custom-made in Rome, but they’re not formal people.
“Okay, Mina . . . that brooch is, like, so magnificent.”
“Oh,” she says. “I’m so glad you noticed. This is one of the few things I took with me from Tehran.”
“I can see why it was a top priority,” I say.
“Well, after my children,” she says. “They came first, and this brooch was a close second.”
I laugh a little too loud, grateful for her humor. Women this beautiful usually aren’t very funny. My theory is that they never develop a sense of humor because their beauty gets them through life too easily. I think the best-case scenario is to be born really ugly and remain ugly for most of your childhood, so that you’re forced to develop humor, intellect, and thick skin, and then blossom into a supermodel when you’re a grown-up. I wonder if handsome men have this issue too. Probably, but I haven’t given it as much thought. Anyway, I bet Reza’s mom didn’t look this good when she was my age. She seems too cool for that.
“So tell us, Judy, how did you become interested in fashion?” Mina asks. “And before you answer, can I say that I very much like what you’ve done with my son.” She places a hand on Reza’s cheek, and he blushes. “He looks like a new person, like a handsome man. My baby boy is gone.”
“Okay, Mommy,” Reza says, embarrassed. I love that he still calls her Mommy, pronounced in an accent that makes it sound more exotic than infantile.
“There is a lot of money in fashion these days,” Abbas says. “Do you know the current valuation of LVMH?”
“Um, I don’t,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“You can make billions these days. The important thing is building a strong brand name. Because then you are not just selling clothes. You are selling a lifestyle. And when you are selling a lifestyle, you can sell anything. Perfume. Linens. Candles.”
“Oh wow,” I say, laughing. “You think really big.”
“So do you,” Saadi says, with a smile. “Obviously.”
I flinch a little. Asshole. I know it’s a crack about my weight.
Don’t take the bait, Judy.
“I’m glad you noticed,” I say, shooting him daggers with my eyes.
“Calvin Klein is a perfect example,” Abbas says. “He makes most of his money from underwear and perfume now, and how much work does it take to design underwear?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve, um, never designed underwear.”
“Maybe you should,” Saadi says. “Reza could be your model.”
Reza blushes. This dinner is getting weird fast.
“Of course you should,” Abbas says. “If you want to be a billionaire.”
“My dad’s all about the money,” Saadi says. “If you can’t tell.”
“It is just exciting to see a young person who knows what she wants to do,” Abbas says, with a stern look toward his son that speaks volumes. “Perhaps it’s time you started thinking about what interests you professionally.”
“I have a little time,” Saadi replies, his mouth full.
“The operative word there is little,” Abbas says. “We all have a little time, and we should do our best with it.”
“I think the decor of this restaurant is so exciting,” Mina says, her attempt at changing the subject both obvious and awkward.
Mercifully, some food arrives, and it smells so delicious and fragrant. I watch as plates of noodles, dumplings, chicken skewers, and Chinese broccoli are placed in front of us. I think of all those times I’ve been out to restaurants with Art, and how annoying it is that he won’t eat meat or anything that touches it, and how, as always, I need to modulate what I want for him. Mina insists I serve myself first, and I do, filling my plate up with food. Soon, we’re all eating, and the conversation turns to a variety of subjects, from the Central Park Five to what my favorite classes at school are to how I feel about wearing a uniform when I’m so into fashion to Iranian politics. Reza barely speaks. I mean, he says a few words here and there. A yes or a no or a that’s delicious, but he doesn’t contribute many complete sentences. I wonder if he’s always this quiet around his family or if it’s just tonight.
In the middle of the meal, two men enter and sit at the table next to us. One of them is skin and bones. There’s a dark lesion on his upper neck. He nods toward our table as he sits, almost in apology, like he’s sorry for subjecting us to his illness in the middle of an otherwise pleasant dinner. Abbas and Mina smile politely, but in a glacial and forced way. Saadi almost sneers. Reza just looks scared. Which reminds me of how, in the two months since we started dating, he hasn’t come over to Uncle Stephen’s once. I’ve invited him to Sunday movie night multiple times, and each time he has some excuse about why he can’t come. He has some plan with his family, or he’s behind on homework, or he’s got a stomachache. I’m pretty sure the real reason is that he doesn’t want to hang out with someone who has AIDS, but I haven’t pressed him on that point yet. I guess I don’t want the answer. Because if he tells me that’s the reason, it might make me fall a little out of love with him.