I'm Glad About You(52)

“You said they serve the most beautiful food in New York.”

“Beautiful food is for you to look at, and other people to eat,” he warned her.

“Can I at least get a doggy bag?”

“No, you cannot, and don’t say the words ‘doggy bag’ within three blocks of me ever again.”

“I miss food.” She was actually eating the olives from her martini with a little too much gusto, she realized; a tiny pile of pits had piled up on the bartop in front of her. Ryan eyeballed them, and her, a dangerous warning in the tilt of his head.

“Trust me, the food you will be served tomorrow night will be exquisite.”

“But I’m still only allowed to look at it.”

“You’re allowed to taste it; I never said you couldn’t taste it. But there are ten courses! Some of them very rich. The coddled egg is legendary.”

The coddled egg was legendary for good reason. Course number two, it was so delicious and she was so hungry, she absolutely gobbled it down, breaking every promise she had made to Ryan. Every other dish—oysters, goat cheese and frog legs, diver scallops drizzled with a basil reduction, lamb medallions, lobster tail, even the foie gras, which came nestled in a bed of fresh creamed corn—she took one bite and then set her fork woefully to one side, while she wallowed in the explosion of flavors for as long as she could make that one bite last. But the dress presumably was worth it. A rich green satin, skintight, narrow skirt, boldly strapless, it was so cinched at the waist that her figure looked like Ava Gardner’s in The Barefoot Contessa. The thing was so tight it even made her boobs look big, the way they used to, when there was more of them.

But there was a problem with the plan: course number three, the wildly delectable foie gras. When Alison took her one bite and dutifully set her fork aside, the gorgeous chicklet sitting on her left took note. “That’s all you’re going to eat?” she asked.

“I’m just not very hungry,” Alison lied.

“You came to Per Se for a ten-course meal and you’re not hungry?” the girl asked, loud enough for the whole table to hear, and gleefully hostile enough to make Alison blush. Immediately, of course, the entire table was watching her turn beet red. Her accuser saw her moment and held on to it. “How much does a dinner like this cost? Don’t tell me. If you have to ask, I know. But that’s got to be fifty bucks’ worth of foie gras!” This hideous slut’s name was Suzy something; she had been in a studio feature last year, eight lines, she was brash and nasty, apparently that was her whole skill set. She made a little stabbing gesture, like she was going to nab the food off Alison’s plate. No one laughed, which made her even more aggressive. “And what about the poor goose who was force-fed for our delight?” Fearing that Suzy might actually start acting this process out, Alison took charge.

“This dress is not going to be very forgiving,” she said, feigning a graceful humility. “If I eat too much I’m going to pop out of it.”

“Keep feeding her,” advised some guy in a suit two people to her right. The casual leer made the men chuckle and the women smile politely.

“It is a beautiful dress, and she is beautiful in it,” Lars informed the room. He actually raised his glass to her. “I would hate to see it come to harm.”

This brought another polite chuckle and a couple of “here heres” from the men. Lars turned to the gentleman to his left, to make some private observation about something, signaling that the possibility of a ritual hazing had been put to rest. Instinctively Alison remained ramrod straight, until Lars glanced back and caught her eye. He gave her a slight smile. She offered him a breath of a smile in return.

Lars Guttfriend. Lanky blond hair, and a preternatural tan which seemed to be somehow genetic. You’d think he was an Icelandic prince, but in fact, he was from Philadelphia. He claimed to be the son of wealthy socialites, and that “Lars” was a family name, but there was something a little too Gatsby-esque about all that; Alison didn’t buy it. With or without a tan, all these East Coasters started to look and sound the same to her after a while—the edge too consistently inauthentic, the social manners too practiced. Everybody had so many agendas running you couldn’t make heads or tails out of what was going on in anybody’s brain unless you put it all down to just constant power plays, which she found too wearying to even contemplate. In any event, Lars kept looking at her like she was some sort of strange yet wonderful art object. It seemed a little practiced, like the sort of thing a movie director was supposed to be doing, constantly eyeballing pretty actresses and wondering what their best angle was.

But he could stare all he wanted. Alison’s attention turned to the next temptation, course number seven, halibut in sea butter foam. She decided that since it was fish she was going to just go ahead and eat the whole thing and then shamelessly lick the plate. She knew that Ryan didn’t actually give a shit if she put on a few pounds. The not-eating rule had more to do with some total fantasy he was having that Lars would invite her back to his fabulous penthouse suite at the Soho Grand and ravage her, which would not be quite as sexy on a full stomach. Ryan’s cooing obsession with Lars was a little extreme frankly; he seemed to have some sort of major crush on the guy. He’d probably have a better shot than I do, her brain observed idly, and as soon as the thought skittered through her she stopped to look at it. Three weeks ago, she was dreading the possibility that she might have to sleep with this movie director just because. Because that’s what starlets do. So this idea was maybe good; maybe Lars was gay, and she was going to be his beard for a little while, and maybe she’d get a few auditions out of it, and she’d meet some important people, and that would be that. The question of whoring herself out could be put on a shelf for another couple of months.