The Lion's Den(43)
“That’s a great idea,” Wendy agrees, and we all nod.
John orders the limoncello, then turns to Amythest. “Amythest, tell us about your mother.”
Amythest squirms a little in her chair. “My mom came over from the Philippines with me when I was six. She had a really hard time. I mean, she didn’t speak the language or know anybody or anything.”
“Tell about your foster moms, though,” Brittani interjects. “That’s some crazy shit. Amythest had some fucking crazy foster moms after her mom ditched her.”
Amythest stares at Brittani, at a loss for what to say, the look on her face a mixture of hurt and surprise. “I don’t…She didn’t…” Her voice trails off.
“She’s an addict. She OD’d and was put in a halfway house,” Brittani announces to the table, “and poor Amythest had to go live with just whoever they assigned. It was really fucking shitty. She even got molested. So awful.”
It’s as though the air has been sucked out of the scene. Everyone is still. Amythest blinks quickly, her face drained of color.
I push my chair back and stand, dropping my napkin on my plate, and glance around the table with an upbeat smile, my gaze landing on Amythest. “I’m going to run to the ladies’ room. Does anyone care to join?”
Amythest half nods and shakily stands to her feet while the rest of the table remains still as statues. I take her arm and steer her across the uneven stone toward the bathroom, never once dropping my smile.
Once the bathroom door is safely closed behind us, I glance under the two stalls, ensuring we’re the only ones inside. Amythest leans against the wall, staring out the small open window that looks over the sea, her fingers absently pulling at a piece of hair from the back of her head.
“She’s drunk,” I say.
She nods, tugging at her hair until strands come loose and flutter one at a time to the white marble floor, leaving a pattern of tangled black lines.
“Careful.” I gently pull her hand away from her hair.
She looks at her reflection in the mirror over the sink and spies the canister of cigarettes sitting next to the peppermints and perfume on the counter. She strikes a match from a box marked with the name of the restaurant and lights a cigarette, inhaling deeply.
“God, I’ve been wanting a cigarette for days.” She exhales.
I light one in solidarity and inhale, then cough. This happens every time I try to smoke cigarettes. It always seems like a good idea in the moment, and then I’m sorry.
We lean against the wall on either side of the window, blowing smoke out at the sea. She drums her bedazzled bloodred nails on the windowsill.
“How’d you get that?” I ask, pointing my chin at her nails. “We were on strict orders, red or pink, no decorations.”
She titters. “I bring my own bling. Just in case.”
She looks out at the view and sucks her cigarette deeply, then exhales smoke through her nose. “I’m pretty strong, but some things just…I never tell people about my shitty life. I trusted her.”
“You guys are pretty good friends, right?”
“I mean, yeah, we party together. We have fun.” She shrugs. “I just don’t understand why she’s being such a bitch.”
“Sometimes people behave differently in different situations. Especially around money.”
She nods. “But then, like, why the fuck did she invite me here?”
It strikes me that perhaps Brittani invited her here expressly for the purpose of fucking with Summer, her golden sister. But I’m not about to say that. “If it makes you feel any better,” I say with sympathy, “I’ve been wondering the same thing about Summer.”
“Well. If she wants to play games, I can play games.”
She grinds her stripper heel into her cigarette butt and marches out of the bathroom. I stub mine out as well and follow.
We emerge from the ladies’ room to find the rest of the girls posing in front of the view while one of the polo players snaps photos on a phone and the other directs them with cries of “Show us Charlie’s Angels! Now Blue Steel!” I catch myself before anyone sees me rolling my eyes for the umpteenth time.
John sits at the table with the rest of the men, clearly in the midst of a serious discussion.
I casually peruse the wall of framed photographs featuring famous people visiting the restaurant while covertly tuning in to John’s conversation. They’re speaking French now, and I was right—what they’re discussing hardly sounds legal.
The taller Chinese guy is speaking in tones low enough that I can only hear part of what he’s saying and some of the words I can’t understand, but I’m able to translate “…end of week the tariff on steel imports will…Good time to adjust your position before…”
“Helpful…connections,” John replies. “…last development…able to cut building costs…materials that wouldn’t have been approved for anyone else. But…no problem.”
I pretend to drop my gold ring in the shape of California on the ground beneath a neighboring table and inch closer to their table as I reach my arm out to retrieve it. The shorter Chinese guy clears his throat, and I worry for a moment he’s seen me. But they’re leaning in toward each other, oblivious. “We like to keep the cost low,” he says, “but not sacrifice safety.”