there’s been a medial hailstorm, and I have to be careful.”
“Ah, right. Lifestyles of the young and famous. I understand though. Gee, maybe I should have asked for your autograph the other day.”
“It’s not a no, JJ. It’s a legitimate concern. And I want to do this more than anything. I’ll get back to you today for sure.”
“Okay, but even if you can’t play the groom part, I hope you’ll still drop in at the party and say hi to Daddy. I’m sure he’d like a chance to say goodbye,” I said hollowly.
“I’m sure I’ll be able to do more than that,” he said, not unkindly.
“Thanks,” I said, then quickly hung up.
After he hung up, I realized that he did, in fact, still have the same phone number from five years earlier. It was odd that a phone number made so much of a difference, but I thought for a minute that perhaps he hadn’t changed much after all. I wondered if the PR business was just an excuse, and I only hoped I hadn’t made things worse by asking him to pretend to be my man when he most certainly wasn’t that anymore.
* * *
Since Patty was so compelled to give me the pink slip, I had to do something for money, so I found a whole different kind of gig: working in the kitchen in a local restaurant. I hated working outside the photography industry, my one, true passion, but I had to find some way to pay the rent.
I shaved fresh parmesan onto the Caesar salads and counted out precisely seventeen olives for the focaccia dough; according to my boss, an odd number looked more “artisanal,” enough to look as if they were studded with rich, briny olive slices but not enough to overwhelm the palate or break the olive budget. I arranged them just so, distributing them evenly while letting them look scattered. I was quite impressed with my olive layout skills, even if no one else seemed to notice.
“Julia!” one of the waiters called out, making me lose count and forcing me to start over.
“Yes?” I said, looking up.
“There’s a guy here to see you. He looks rich and shiny,” Cal said with a roll of his eyes.
“You may go,” Santino, our head chef, inclined his head regally. “Fifteen minutes and no more.”
“Thank you,” I said, suppressing my own eye-roll. Santino was a brilliant chef, but he was also a tyrant and seemed to take some sick pleasure in letting me do only the most boring grunt work. I had to comply with him, though, because if I didn’t, I knew I’d find myself in a far less prestigious and lower-paying position, like refilling sauce bins at Top China Buffet.
I wiped my hands on my apron, took it off, and hung it on the closest hook. I peeled off my hairnet, stuffed it in my pocket, and followed Cal. Just as I suspected, there was Luke Ellison, at the hostess stand, in his bespoke suit and zillion-dollar Italian shoes. He looked exactly like the commanding, handsome pictures I’d seen in Time and Forbes , and he was oddly poreless; I had assumed that was all photoshopped, but he was clearly just that flawless. Rather than fumbling around with his phone or looking embarrassed and diffident, he was perfectly at his ease chatting with Rodrigo, the busboy.
“Luke,” I said, hoping my white uniform was not stained with anything. Santino insisted that we wear them, even though nothing on Earth ever prevented them from getting filthy in the kitchen. I was so embarrassed by my sweaty appearance and my footwear, clogs that I could hose off at the end of the night. It was hard not to resent Luke for looking so put together and terrific, just as he always did, even in the pouring rain.
“I need to talk to you. Have a seat,” he said, indicating the low leather bench in the entryway.
“Can we take a walk instead?” I asked. “I’ve got about fifteen minutes.”
He nodded, smiled at me, and held the door open for me, always the gentleman.
The night breeze was cool as it wafted across my face, and I closed my eyes for a second just to enjoy it. Then
“Ah, right. Lifestyles of the young and famous. I understand though. Gee, maybe I should have asked for your autograph the other day.”
“It’s not a no, JJ. It’s a legitimate concern. And I want to do this more than anything. I’ll get back to you today for sure.”
“Okay, but even if you can’t play the groom part, I hope you’ll still drop in at the party and say hi to Daddy. I’m sure he’d like a chance to say goodbye,” I said hollowly.
“I’m sure I’ll be able to do more than that,” he said, not unkindly.
“Thanks,” I said, then quickly hung up.
After he hung up, I realized that he did, in fact, still have the same phone number from five years earlier. It was odd that a phone number made so much of a difference, but I thought for a minute that perhaps he hadn’t changed much after all. I wondered if the PR business was just an excuse, and I only hoped I hadn’t made things worse by asking him to pretend to be my man when he most certainly wasn’t that anymore.
* * *
Since Patty was so compelled to give me the pink slip, I had to do something for money, so I found a whole different kind of gig: working in the kitchen in a local restaurant. I hated working outside the photography industry, my one, true passion, but I had to find some way to pay the rent.
I shaved fresh parmesan onto the Caesar salads and counted out precisely seventeen olives for the focaccia dough; according to my boss, an odd number looked more “artisanal,” enough to look as if they were studded with rich, briny olive slices but not enough to overwhelm the palate or break the olive budget. I arranged them just so, distributing them evenly while letting them look scattered. I was quite impressed with my olive layout skills, even if no one else seemed to notice.
“Julia!” one of the waiters called out, making me lose count and forcing me to start over.
“Yes?” I said, looking up.
“There’s a guy here to see you. He looks rich and shiny,” Cal said with a roll of his eyes.
“You may go,” Santino, our head chef, inclined his head regally. “Fifteen minutes and no more.”
“Thank you,” I said, suppressing my own eye-roll. Santino was a brilliant chef, but he was also a tyrant and seemed to take some sick pleasure in letting me do only the most boring grunt work. I had to comply with him, though, because if I didn’t, I knew I’d find myself in a far less prestigious and lower-paying position, like refilling sauce bins at Top China Buffet.
I wiped my hands on my apron, took it off, and hung it on the closest hook. I peeled off my hairnet, stuffed it in my pocket, and followed Cal. Just as I suspected, there was Luke Ellison, at the hostess stand, in his bespoke suit and zillion-dollar Italian shoes. He looked exactly like the commanding, handsome pictures I’d seen in Time and Forbes , and he was oddly poreless; I had assumed that was all photoshopped, but he was clearly just that flawless. Rather than fumbling around with his phone or looking embarrassed and diffident, he was perfectly at his ease chatting with Rodrigo, the busboy.
“Luke,” I said, hoping my white uniform was not stained with anything. Santino insisted that we wear them, even though nothing on Earth ever prevented them from getting filthy in the kitchen. I was so embarrassed by my sweaty appearance and my footwear, clogs that I could hose off at the end of the night. It was hard not to resent Luke for looking so put together and terrific, just as he always did, even in the pouring rain.
“I need to talk to you. Have a seat,” he said, indicating the low leather bench in the entryway.
“Can we take a walk instead?” I asked. “I’ve got about fifteen minutes.”
He nodded, smiled at me, and held the door open for me, always the gentleman.
The night breeze was cool as it wafted across my face, and I closed my eyes for a second just to enjoy it. Then
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