that was
decorated in pewter and silver with crisp white linen on the tables and dozens
of candles glowing seductively, providing the majority of light. The atmosphere
was elegant and warm, yet still edgy enough to be trendy. In a far corner by
one of the bars, the hostess sat me at a large table elevated along the back
wall and accompanied by a curving, plush, charcoal-gray sofa that created a
semicircle big enough for six or seven people.
“Miss McKinley hasn’t arrived yet,” I was informed. The
hostess shifted her attention from me and called out to a waitress, “Maxine,
VIP! Miss Mansfield.” Then she turned sharply on her mile-high heels and
sauntered off.
Many pairs of eyes were on me and I felt like the meek lamb
who’d mistakenly wandered into the lion’s den.
I set aside my small clutch as Maxine swooped in. “Hi there.
What can I get for you, Miss Mansfield?”
I was tempted to say cosmo, but knew Mike was right. Too
cliché. So I jumped off the cliff with a very confident tone. “Gibson, please.
And Lacey is fine.” Formality was never the order of the day for me.
My drink request was met with a blank expression from the
server, who I pegged to be nineteen or twenty. “I’m sorry?”
With a sigh, I said, “It’s a gin and vermouth martini with a
pearl onion.”
“Hmm. I’ll see if we have that.” She smiled politely, then
made a beeline for the bartender.
Should have stuck with the cosmo…
While I waited for Biel to arrive and wondered what she
considered fashionably late, the bartender shook up my cocktail with a smile
and delivered it personally to me.
“No one orders a Gibson anymore,” he said in a friendly,
though somewhat delicate voice as he set the martini glass lavished with three
tiny, speared onions balancing across the rim in front of me. “But I keep
stocking pickled onions every week, regardless.”
“You’re a fan?”
He nodded emphatically. “My dad used to drink them and he
was terribly classy. You obviously have exceptional taste. Love the suit. Very
Ingrid Bergman. Or is it Lauren Bacall I’m thinking of?”
“Bacall. She had a great figure for suits. Always looked so
sharp.”
“You do too.” He flashed me an appreciative grin, though I
suspected he was gay. Even having been subjected to numerous Bacall movies,
Mike would never think to compare me to a Hollywood icon who wore suits. He’d
no doubt prefer it if he could relate me to lingerie model.
“Well, enjoy your drink,” the bartender said. “And let me
know when you need another one. I’m George.”
“Thanks, George.”
As he returned to his station behind the bar, I ventured a
sip of my Gibson. The martini was excellent and the onions lent a subtle, yet
somehow tantalizing taste to the cocktail when I dropped them into the glass. I
adventurously bit into one and found the slight tartness a nice contrast to the
alcohol and the onion flavor was mild and complementary to the drink.
Way to go, Mike.
Just thinking of him made me smile.
“Oh thank God you’re not grumpy because I’m late.” Biel’s
distinctive voice nabbed my attention. She slipped gracefully into the booth at
the end opposite me and let out a long breath. “So sorry. Piper and I had this
huge fight and I was, like, ‘Why are you doing this to me after such a horrific
evening at the Montlimiere?’ She was totally beside herself and said, ‘I saw
how you looked at Lacey at the launch, before I left for my other appointment.
And then you got off on her watching us in the studio. What the hell?’.”
Biel waved her hand in the air in what seemed to be a
typical fashion for her. Continuing on, she said, “So I’m not allowed to look
at other women? God forbid I find someone else attractive? I mean, it’s not
like I asked you to join us this afternoon!”
I nearly spewed Gibson. This drew Biel’s gaze to my drink.
“What is that?” she asked as she shifted on the seat and
scooted around the semicircle to sit
decorated in pewter and silver with crisp white linen on the tables and dozens
of candles glowing seductively, providing the majority of light. The atmosphere
was elegant and warm, yet still edgy enough to be trendy. In a far corner by
one of the bars, the hostess sat me at a large table elevated along the back
wall and accompanied by a curving, plush, charcoal-gray sofa that created a
semicircle big enough for six or seven people.
“Miss McKinley hasn’t arrived yet,” I was informed. The
hostess shifted her attention from me and called out to a waitress, “Maxine,
VIP! Miss Mansfield.” Then she turned sharply on her mile-high heels and
sauntered off.
Many pairs of eyes were on me and I felt like the meek lamb
who’d mistakenly wandered into the lion’s den.
I set aside my small clutch as Maxine swooped in. “Hi there.
What can I get for you, Miss Mansfield?”
I was tempted to say cosmo, but knew Mike was right. Too
cliché. So I jumped off the cliff with a very confident tone. “Gibson, please.
And Lacey is fine.” Formality was never the order of the day for me.
My drink request was met with a blank expression from the
server, who I pegged to be nineteen or twenty. “I’m sorry?”
With a sigh, I said, “It’s a gin and vermouth martini with a
pearl onion.”
“Hmm. I’ll see if we have that.” She smiled politely, then
made a beeline for the bartender.
Should have stuck with the cosmo…
While I waited for Biel to arrive and wondered what she
considered fashionably late, the bartender shook up my cocktail with a smile
and delivered it personally to me.
“No one orders a Gibson anymore,” he said in a friendly,
though somewhat delicate voice as he set the martini glass lavished with three
tiny, speared onions balancing across the rim in front of me. “But I keep
stocking pickled onions every week, regardless.”
“You’re a fan?”
He nodded emphatically. “My dad used to drink them and he
was terribly classy. You obviously have exceptional taste. Love the suit. Very
Ingrid Bergman. Or is it Lauren Bacall I’m thinking of?”
“Bacall. She had a great figure for suits. Always looked so
sharp.”
“You do too.” He flashed me an appreciative grin, though I
suspected he was gay. Even having been subjected to numerous Bacall movies,
Mike would never think to compare me to a Hollywood icon who wore suits. He’d
no doubt prefer it if he could relate me to lingerie model.
“Well, enjoy your drink,” the bartender said. “And let me
know when you need another one. I’m George.”
“Thanks, George.”
As he returned to his station behind the bar, I ventured a
sip of my Gibson. The martini was excellent and the onions lent a subtle, yet
somehow tantalizing taste to the cocktail when I dropped them into the glass. I
adventurously bit into one and found the slight tartness a nice contrast to the
alcohol and the onion flavor was mild and complementary to the drink.
Way to go, Mike.
Just thinking of him made me smile.
“Oh thank God you’re not grumpy because I’m late.” Biel’s
distinctive voice nabbed my attention. She slipped gracefully into the booth at
the end opposite me and let out a long breath. “So sorry. Piper and I had this
huge fight and I was, like, ‘Why are you doing this to me after such a horrific
evening at the Montlimiere?’ She was totally beside herself and said, ‘I saw
how you looked at Lacey at the launch, before I left for my other appointment.
And then you got off on her watching us in the studio. What the hell?’.”
Biel waved her hand in the air in what seemed to be a
typical fashion for her. Continuing on, she said, “So I’m not allowed to look
at other women? God forbid I find someone else attractive? I mean, it’s not
like I asked you to join us this afternoon!”
I nearly spewed Gibson. This drew Biel’s gaze to my drink.
“What is that?” she asked as she shifted on the seat and
scooted around the semicircle to sit
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