Bernard for hundreds of thousands of dollars.”
He’s right. I know he is. I didn’t come all this way to flinch at the last moment. The cost is steep, but it’s an investment in my future. If I don’t believe in myself, who will?
As soon as our table is cleared of soggy crab cakes and dry beef, Gerald hands us dessert menus. I’ve barely opened mine before the hostess comes over and takes it away. She actually grabs it from my fingers. I stare amazed as she does the same to Harry. “The next reservation has arrived,” she announces in a stage whisper. “I told you we’d need the table back.”
She said no such thing, but Harry is too delighted to argue. “This is better than I ever imagined. Usually they let you finish dessert before the next reservation arrives.”
Gerald places the check in the middle of the table, smiles amicably and assures us there’s no rush. Now that his tip is in sight, he’s pulling out all the polite-waiter stops.
Harry smirks and reaches for his wallet. “I’m surprised he bothered. He knows he’ll get a straight twen—” He breaks off and pats his pockets. Then he stands up and pats them again. “I don’t have my wallet.”
My heart flutters. “Think. When did you last have it? In the car? At home? Did you tip the valet? Could it have been stolen?”
He sits down, rests his elbows on the table and closes his eyes. “I had it at the newspaper stand. I bought the Times. Then I went home to shower.” He straightens up and looks at me. “It must be sitting on my dresser. I can see it there, right next to my watch, which I also forgot. Damn it.”
He looks so distressed, I reach across the table and take his hand. “The important thing is it’s not stolen or lost.” “Yeah, but I asked you out to dinner and now you have to pay.”
“You can get it next time. We’ll go to Spago and get abused there.”
His bottom lips protrudes, like a sulky little boy’s. “They treat you decent at Spago. It’s not the same.” I laugh, and suddenly Harry sees the humor of the situation. “All right. But we’re going to as soon as I can get a reservation.”
“Deal.”
The tab is in the low three hundreds, thanks to the pricey bottle of wine Harry ordered. Although I genuinely don’t mind paying it, part of me—a very small part of me—begrudges the expense. For that amount, we could have had the tasting menu at BondSt in Nolita, where the food would have been spectacular. And we certainly wouldn’t have paid a hundred bucks for a pedestrian bottle of Pinot.
Pushing these thoughts aside, I sign the credit card slip and fold the receipt into my wallet. Harry wraps his arm around my shoulder as we walk to the parking lot. A few minutes later, the valet hands him his keys and waits awkwardly for something—a tip, I realize. I look at Harry and then remember. I slip the man two dollars, unsure if the denomination is appropriate.
At my apartment building, Harry walks me to the lobby and says good night. I thank him for dinner.
“You’re welcome,” he says, “but I should be thanking you.”
I shrug, wondering what I’m supposed to do next. Even though I paid, this is his date. If it is a date. Maybe it’s a business meeting. We did talk about his friend John. Or maybe he’s just welcoming me to the neighborhood, like Simon. Our drinks at the Growlery were definitely not a date.
My doubts are laid to rest when he leans down and kisses me. His lips are hot and urgent, and my heart leaps in response. It’s been too long since I’ve felt this way.
He pulls back, lays his forehead against mine for a brief moment and steps away. “I’ll call you,” he says, pressing the call button for the elevator. It arrives immediately and I get inside, holding the doors open as he leaves the building, walks down the path and climbs into his car. When he drives away, I let them close and float up to my apartment.
I love L.A.
Day 895
Moxie rams her silver Porsche 911
He’s right. I know he is. I didn’t come all this way to flinch at the last moment. The cost is steep, but it’s an investment in my future. If I don’t believe in myself, who will?
As soon as our table is cleared of soggy crab cakes and dry beef, Gerald hands us dessert menus. I’ve barely opened mine before the hostess comes over and takes it away. She actually grabs it from my fingers. I stare amazed as she does the same to Harry. “The next reservation has arrived,” she announces in a stage whisper. “I told you we’d need the table back.”
She said no such thing, but Harry is too delighted to argue. “This is better than I ever imagined. Usually they let you finish dessert before the next reservation arrives.”
Gerald places the check in the middle of the table, smiles amicably and assures us there’s no rush. Now that his tip is in sight, he’s pulling out all the polite-waiter stops.
Harry smirks and reaches for his wallet. “I’m surprised he bothered. He knows he’ll get a straight twen—” He breaks off and pats his pockets. Then he stands up and pats them again. “I don’t have my wallet.”
My heart flutters. “Think. When did you last have it? In the car? At home? Did you tip the valet? Could it have been stolen?”
He sits down, rests his elbows on the table and closes his eyes. “I had it at the newspaper stand. I bought the Times. Then I went home to shower.” He straightens up and looks at me. “It must be sitting on my dresser. I can see it there, right next to my watch, which I also forgot. Damn it.”
He looks so distressed, I reach across the table and take his hand. “The important thing is it’s not stolen or lost.” “Yeah, but I asked you out to dinner and now you have to pay.”
“You can get it next time. We’ll go to Spago and get abused there.”
His bottom lips protrudes, like a sulky little boy’s. “They treat you decent at Spago. It’s not the same.” I laugh, and suddenly Harry sees the humor of the situation. “All right. But we’re going to as soon as I can get a reservation.”
“Deal.”
The tab is in the low three hundreds, thanks to the pricey bottle of wine Harry ordered. Although I genuinely don’t mind paying it, part of me—a very small part of me—begrudges the expense. For that amount, we could have had the tasting menu at BondSt in Nolita, where the food would have been spectacular. And we certainly wouldn’t have paid a hundred bucks for a pedestrian bottle of Pinot.
Pushing these thoughts aside, I sign the credit card slip and fold the receipt into my wallet. Harry wraps his arm around my shoulder as we walk to the parking lot. A few minutes later, the valet hands him his keys and waits awkwardly for something—a tip, I realize. I look at Harry and then remember. I slip the man two dollars, unsure if the denomination is appropriate.
At my apartment building, Harry walks me to the lobby and says good night. I thank him for dinner.
“You’re welcome,” he says, “but I should be thanking you.”
I shrug, wondering what I’m supposed to do next. Even though I paid, this is his date. If it is a date. Maybe it’s a business meeting. We did talk about his friend John. Or maybe he’s just welcoming me to the neighborhood, like Simon. Our drinks at the Growlery were definitely not a date.
My doubts are laid to rest when he leans down and kisses me. His lips are hot and urgent, and my heart leaps in response. It’s been too long since I’ve felt this way.
He pulls back, lays his forehead against mine for a brief moment and steps away. “I’ll call you,” he says, pressing the call button for the elevator. It arrives immediately and I get inside, holding the doors open as he leaves the building, walks down the path and climbs into his car. When he drives away, I let them close and float up to my apartment.
I love L.A.
Day 895
Moxie rams her silver Porsche 911
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