Yolk(85)

The cocktail burns a course down my throat and ends in a treacly cherry flavor. I nod appreciatively, licking my lips, turning my face away from him as I do.

“You know they invented the cosmo here?”

I take another sip. He tilts his chin up encouragingly while I drink, as if helping me along, and when I dab my mouth with a napkin, I’m rewarded with another curving of his lips. It’s the patronizing smile particular to super-celebrities doing Japanese instant-coffee commercials. The low-rent kind that come in cans.

I can’t help but stare at the hairs on his wrist, which curl over the metal strap of his huge, incredibly expensive timepiece.

“I don’t understand fashion, which I’m sure you can guess.” The actor’s eyes twinkle. It’s as if Jeremy isn’t at the table. “I’ve been wearing the same Brioni suits for the past thirty years. Maybe the occasional Loro Piana sweater. My daughter’s in school for the very same thing. She says I dress like a senator she’d never vote for.”

“At least it’s not Brooks Brothers.” I smile down at my hands.

“What’s your name?” he finally asks. I glance up. It’s as if there’s a floodlight pouring out of his eyes and into mine. I’m filled with warmth.

“Jayne.”

“With a y,” interjects Jeremy, and I hear the insult in it.

“Like Jayne Mansfield,” says the actor, ignoring him. “It’s a beautiful name.”

The actor gets me another drink, and I thank him, unaware that I’d finished the first. My gratitude knows no bounds. I can’t believe this important man, a man everyone in the restaurant leaves alone out of reverence, is paying such close attention to me. I’m jealous of his daughter.

“You seem like a resourceful young woman, Jayne,” he begins. “I have a question for you. My oldest, the one in design school, says unpaid internships are unethical. I can’t keep up with all of this”—he shakes his head—“PC business or this new sensitivity. I get it: Don’t take your Johnson out and start whacking off in front of the ladies—pardon the vulgarity—but why wouldn’t she take a position with a dear friend who can help her out? It’s who you know, not what you know, don’t you think?”

I’m grateful to be asked. “It’s about leveling the playing field,” I tell him carefully. “If the position is unpaid, it means that only people who can afford to work for free can qualify for it. It’s unethical because…”

I feel Jeremy tense beside me.

The actor wipes his mouth, sets the napkin on his plate. It seems to signal something, but I’m unsure of what.

“Believe me,” he says, smiling indulgently, crinkling his eyes, but not with any sense of levity. In fact, the sudden hardness in his look stops me short. “This isn’t an internship anyone else would qualify for,” he insists. “With or without money. If she can afford to work for free, why shouldn’t she? I can see it being unethical if she took a paying job from someone who really needs the ten bucks an hour or whatever it is.”

I empty a good half of my second drink.

“Oh, of course,” I reason. “That makes sense. I can see both sides, is what I’m saying. I think your daughter has honorable intentions, that testify to, um, how well she was brought up, which is amazing. But if we’re being realistic, I agree with you on a logical basis.”

I can’t tell if I’m hallucinating, but I feel as though his shoulders ease a little.

“Creative fields are different,” says Jeremy.

“Exactly,” says the actor. “Real business is indifferent to business hours. You don’t tell Lorne Michaels or Mick Jagger that you clocked out because it’s five.”

“Amen,” says Jeremy with his palms raised.

“I worry about how delicate everyone’s becoming. I’m all for women’s lib. Civil rights. All of it. But everyone’s being ridiculous. Triggered this, triggered that. Some of these men are monsters, don’t get me wrong. Especially the ones going after underage girls. That’s despicable. They should be locked up. But most of the conversation seems patronizing. As the father of daughters, I know that it’s women who are the real ballbusters.” He chuckles as if imagining his girls kicking some creep in the stones. “No man would have to be told no twice is what I’m saying.”

Suddenly he pushes his chair away from the table. I wonder if it’s something I said. I hope to God Jeremy takes care of the check.

“Restroom,” he announces.

When he’s gone, Jeremy forks up several fries and the rest of his steak and shoves it into his mouth, then takes a sip of his drink. “I knew you’d cave,” he says, body language easing. “Fucking drama queen.” He wipes his mouth. “Where’ve you been anyway?”

I’m barely listening as I watch the room hum with novel energy as the actor walks by. As soon as his back is turned, heads duck low, people excitedly mouthing his name to each other. It’s as if gold coins are trailing in his wake. I can imagine them telling the story of the sighting to their friends. I wonder if I’ll feature in it at all. Some Asian girl, they might say. Not his wife, they’ll say, cheapening me. Far in the corner, there’s a phone out, set low and at an angle. I know they’re taking a creep shot of him, and suddenly I feel protective.