The Many Daughters of Afong Moy(54)
“Dinner?”
“You know, a bit more formal than supper, and taken late in the day. Louis the Fourteenth ate dinner at noon, but with my schedule I’m more of a late-night-dinner kind of guy.” Carter put his hand on her shoulder, then brushed off a bit of lint. “How do you feel about Dick’s?”
Greta froze.
“Dick’s Drive-In on Broadway.”
“Oh.” Greta felt herself blushing as she laughed nervously. “I’d say their burgers and fries are appetizing in direct proportion to how much you’ve been drinking.”
“I wholeheartedly agree. It’s basically American street food, and I’m a fan of that particular type of cuisine. Would you be up for pan-African street food?”
For a moment Greta worried that if she said yes, she might end up on a private plane bound for Mogadishu, Nairobi, Cape Town, or Addis Ababa.
“My chef is really into it these days. Grilled langoustine on a stick with pureed mint, all kinds of pickled vegetables, mogodu and ugali—which is more like African school food than street food—but he puts his own creative spin on things. With your interesting heritage, I’m sure you’re up for the challenge. After all, you’ve probably partaken of some gastronomically questionable dishes in your time.”
Growing up in a Chinese household, Greta’s culinary adventures had taken her to the land of chicken feet, jellyfish, sea cucumber, and thousand-year-old eggs. She was mildly insulted and mildly intrigued.
“Sounds… weirdly appetizing.”
Carter sighed with relief. “Okay. Great. Thank you. Why don’t I have my driver pick you up here at around eight thirty tomorrow night? I know around here that’s probably like sneaking out early, but I guarantee it’ll be worth your time.”
Before she could tell him that she hadn’t actually said yes, he was gone.
Her colleagues watched him leave, then turned to Greta.
She saw the strange combination of confusion, worry, and envy in their faces. Then they all returned to their work, their conversations, their tasks, as though a master switch had been thrown. Greta closed her door. She sat in her new office chair, leaning back, eyes closed, trying to catch her breath.
* * *
By noon, Greta had almost made it through her email, her voice mail, her regular mail, as well as the dozens of cards and notes that accompanied the bouquets of flowers, helium balloons, edible arrangements, arrangement of edibles, baskets of truffles, and bottles of champagne that had been sent by her peers and competitors alike.
As she collected her thoughts, she stared up at her task cloud, a disorderly collection of notes that she brought from her old office and that now covered an entire wall in her new space. In her cloud of notes there were already dozens of new reminders: Prioritize in-app features to monetize Syren. Find love matches that the PR department can use for testimonials. Find a firm to analyze all the new incoming data. Assemble teams to code the app in Japanese, French, German, Spanish, and Chinese. Have human resources figure out workspace for new hires, night shift workers. Call Mom and let her know how lunch went. Take a nap. Hire an assistant. Schedule a massage. Have a nervous breakdown. Find a way to get out of “dinner” with Carter Branson. She put the word dinner in quotes as a cautionary reminder.
Greta was intrigued by how nervous the mysterious boy billionaire had seemed, how approachable he was, a self-deprecating kind of confidence. She also knew that Carter’s reputation was speculation. That the excuse men in his position used—whether they were sports stars, film celebrities, or plain-old wealthy men in positions of power—was that they were targets for opportunistic women. Greta shook her head. To her knowledge there were no formal charges of assault leveled against him, no lawsuits, just rumored settlements for inappropriate behavior, a storm cloud of conjecture. Many young, attractive female employees had been invited to special events at his home, his office, on business trips. Though recently his name had been anonymously added to an online list titled “Executives Behaving Badly.” There were no other details.
As she weighed possible excuses to get out of, or at least postpone, dinner, her watch lit up with a message: Sam is here for you. He says he’s meeting you for lunch. Shall I send him back?
Greta rubbed her tired eyes.
I can’t believe this is my life.
Grudgingly she pressed yes.
Despite the terrible timing, a part of her had to admit there was something sweet and charming about a blind date, embracing the unknown, tempting fate, flipping a coin. Even though Syren had been her brainchild, if anyone were to ask how she felt about relationships, she’d say, “I’m polynomial in a nonpolynomial world. I’m still searching for the right algorithm to bridge the uncanny valley of my heart.”
When she opened her eyes, a man stood in her doorway in jeans and a jacket, open collar, no tie. He looked like his photo, though his hair was in a topknot, and he was taller than she imagined, and a bit less tan, thanks to Seattle’s ever-darkening skies.
“I’m Sam.” His introduction almost sounded like an apology. He looked in awe of the place, perhaps embarrassed. “Um, in case you’re wondering, no, I’ve… never done this before. I’m afraid my parents got a little carried away…”
“I’d say both of our parents are at fault,” Greta said as she stood and introduced herself, which felt strange considering he probably knew all her secrets, like how she’d been kicked out of prep school twice, how she didn’t like the ocean because she always got seasick, and how she never wore sandals because she thought her feet were gross.