Until I Saw Your Smile (8 page)

Early Friday morning, Matthew realized he had nothing to wear. He had given away all his Bottega Veneta and Canali suits after he left SYG, and all he had were several blazers at least one size too big. He found a decent off-the-rack navy blue pinstripe suit at Brooklyn Tailors on Grand Street, and with the shirt and tie, he parted with a thousand bucks.

Maybe this will end happily. And if it doesn't, I'll at least have a nice suit
not
to wear again.

On Friday night, Matthew pushed through the gold revolving door at Le Bernardin on West 51
^st
in Manhattan a little before six.

“Reservation for McConnell,” he said to the maître d'.

The maître d' looked on either side of him. “Your guests are not with you?”

“No. I'm early.”
Wait a minute.
“Did you say guests?”

“I have a reservation for three,” he said. “Is this correct?”

No.
“Sure.”
Who's the third wheel? Michael? I wouldn't put it past him.

Seated in a leather chair the color of butternut squash, a glaring lamp behind him, Matthew stared up at paintings of fishermen covering the wall to his left; the nearest fisherman spilled his catch from a wicker basket. Waiters in all-black button-ups, dusty bottles of wine and champagne cradled in their arms, moved under the brightly lit wooden ceiling stealthily pouring and serving a packed house.

After reading through the menu twice, Matthew thought about calling Michael.
But that's what he
wants
me to do. He
wants
me to worry, and I will not give him the satisfaction.

At six-fifteen, after assuring his waiter that his “party” was on the way, he called Victoria. When his call went straight to voice mail, he hung up.

He repeated these calls until six forty-five.

At 6:49
PM
, Victoria and
another
woman who could have been Victoria's shorter, thicker twin swept into the room wearing matching satin blue dresses and high heels, pearls and diamonds swinging wildly as they walked.

Matthew stood, his bladder nearly full from two glasses of ice water, and smiled. Victoria was, indeed, flawless in every way, not a hair out of place, with satiny black skin, legs for days, a full bottom lip, at least fifty teeth, and slender arms.

Matthew held Victoria's chair for her as she sat.

“Matthew, so nice to meet you,” Victoria said. “This is my oldest and dearest friend, Debbie Lewis-Johnson.”

Debbie stared at her chair.

Matthew held Debbie's chair, too.

He also swore he heard the hovering waiter snicker.

So Michael made reservations for three because he knew Victoria
never
travels without her best friend, Debbie. No wonder he's not springing for dinner. I'm paying for three!

“Hello, Victoria, Debbie,” Matthew said as he sat.

“Have you been waiting long?” Victoria asked.

Yes.
“No, not too long.”

“Isn't this place amazing, Debbie?” Victoria asked.

“Yes,” Debbie said in a husky voice. “It is
certainly
amazing.”

“So iconic,” Victoria said.

“Oh yes,” Debbie said. “This is the
most
iconic restaurant in New York. It's the Temple of Seafood. Chef Ripert is so
amazingly
iconic.”

Matthew learned three things from this brief exchange. One, he would get no explanations about anything from these two women, probably ever. Two, these women had the vocabulary of a four-year-old who discovers a new word and says it repeatedly to the detriment of all within hearing distance. And three, he was likely to spend over a thousand dollars on dinner.

“Have you already ordered for us, Matthew?” Victoria asked. “I hear the chef's tasting menu is amazing.”

There goes the grand.
“Then that is what we'll have.”

“Oh, and at least one order of caviar,” Debbie said.

Victoria smiled and touched his hand. “Could you make it two?”

“And two orders of caviar.”
There goes another three hundred. So
this
is how the Russians are paying for the Winter Olympics.

“That's so thoughtful of you, Matthew,” Victoria said. “Isn't that thoughtful of him, Debbie?”

“It is
truly
thoughtful of you, Matthew,” Debbie said. “Thank you for being so thoughtful.”

During dinner, Matthew blinked and squinted at his food because he wasn't quite sure what was on his plate.
I haven't eaten food displayed like modern art in a long time. Wagyu beef, Osetra caviar, and some kind of wine to wash it down. Not bad. Yellow fin tuna and spicy chutney with a glass of Chablis. Lobster tail in Earl Grey-citrus sauce with some more expensive alcohol. Codfish with another glass of something mind-numbingly strong and mind-altering.

Matthew was losing feeling in his hands as squash, bass, cucumbers, yogurt, peanuts, and more wine landed and disappeared from the table.

“You look
amazing,
Matthew,” Victoria said. “Do you work out?”

I walk the streets before sunrise mostly.
“I stay in shape.”

Victoria's phone buzzed. “
Hello,
Freddie. How
are
you? I'm at Le Bernardin, and it is
so
amazing . . .”

For the next half hour, Victoria and Debbie talked, texted, and surfed the Internet on their iPhones, pausing only to call the wine “amazing” or the yogurt “amazing” or the silverware “amazing” or the wait staff “amazing” or the weather “amazing” or the ice water “amazing” or the minimalist heels strangling Debbie's feet “amazing.”

Birth is amazing,
Matthew thought.
Heroism is amazing. A city reborn after 9/11 is amazing. The bill I'm about to get is going to be “amazing.” Water? Silverware? The weather? Your shoes? No way.

“This is such an iconic place, isn't it, Matthew?” Victoria asked once Freddie let her go the
second
time.

“Yes,” Matthew said. “Quite.”

“Oh, and so is your
ginormous
necklace, Victoria,” Debbie said.

“It's
so
iconic.”

Victoria pulled the necklace from between her ginormous breasts. “Yes, it is ginormously iconic. Isn't it, Matthew?”

“Matthew, isn't my necklace iconic?” Victoria asked again.

Matthew nodded.
Not really. Joe DiMaggio was iconic. Robert De Niro is iconic.
Saturday Night Live
is iconic. Your necklace is not iconic!

Debbie pouted. “I miss Boops.”

Victoria pouted. “I miss Boopsie.”

Victoria touched Matthew's hand for a split second before again gripping her wine glass. “We have matching miniature Pomeranians. Boops and Boopsie have been together since birth. I think they're twins.”

“They were in a litter of three, Victoria,” Debbie said. “They'd be triplets, wouldn't they, Matthew?”

“Yes. I think.”
Does this means these two women live together? They share dogs. They couldn't possibly share each other's clothing.

“We should have brought them along,” Debbie said.

“We could have put them in our B Bags,” Victoria said. “They would have fit.”

What are they talking about?
“Your . . . B Bags?”

Victoria held up a clutch purse. “Our Fendi B Bags. Don't you think Boops and Boopsie would look
amazing
in our B Bags?”

Matthew nodded.
I have died and gone to a part of hell Dante never envisioned, where ridiculously named dogs inhabit overpriced clutch purses.

“Debbie, did you hear about Millicent?” Victoria asked.

“No,” Debbie said. “What did Millicent do
now?
”

“She went to Bergdorf's the other day and bought a Chado Ralph Rucci.” Victoria's mouth dropped open. “At
Bergdorf's.
”

“She
didn't,
” Debbie said.

“She
did,
” Victoria said.

“Was it?” Debbie giggled. “No,
don't
say it.”

“It
was,
” Victoria said.

“She
didn't,
” Debbie said.

“She
did,
” Victoria said.

I am now in an existentialist, absurd play,
Matthew thought.
Where's the dumb waiter?

“She bought it,” Victoria said, nodding up and down like a horse neighing, “
off
. . .
the
. . .
rack!
”

You like my suit?
Matthew thought.
I bought it off . . . the . . . rack.

“No,” Debbie said. “She
didn't.
”

“She
did,
” Victoria said. “Can you
believe
it?”

Debbie fanned her face. “Amazing.”

I will probably regret wading into this absurdity.
“Forgive me, but I'm lost. What's a Chado Ralph Rucci?”

Victoria smiled at Debbie. “He doesn't know.”

“No, he
doesn't,
” Debbie said, smiling back.

“Matthew,” Victoria said, “a Chado Ralph Rucci is a dress.”

That's a long name for a dress.
“Is it expensive?”

“Is it expensive?” Victoria said. “Not really. Millicent said she paid six, but that sounds far too high for Bergdorf's.”

“Oh, I agree, Victoria,” Debbie said. “She probably paid less than four. Off the rack.” Debbie giggled.

Matthew blinked.
Millicent bought one dress for six thousand dollars, and these two think she's lying. Who lies about dropping six grand on a dress with a first, middle, and last name? For six grand, it had better have a social security number and give you a tax break for living in your closet.

The waiter materialized beside Matthew. “Would you like some dessert, perhaps?”

“May we, Matthew?” Victoria asked.

“Sure, why not,” Matthew said.

“We'll each have the
gianduja,
” Victoria said.

Matthew looked up at the waiter. “What's that?”
It sounds like a disease.

“Milk chocolate-hazelnut mousse with caramelized banana and burnt honey-pistachio ice cream,” the waiter said.

Whatever happened to a simple piece of apple pie with some ice cream on top?
Matthew thought.
Or a simple slice of chocolate cake?

“And you, sir?” the waiter asked.

“I'm fine.”

“Some cheese, perhaps?” the waiter asked.

“No, thank you.”
Cheese on top of all this? Is he kidding? I have to go out in public!

“Perhaps another glass of wine?” the waiter asked.

I'd blow a .15 on the breathalyzer right now, chief.
“No, thank you.”

“Some coffee, perhaps?” the waiter asked.

Perhaps you can leave me the hell alone!
“No, thank you.”

And naturally, the women pronounced the caramelized bananas “amazing” and the pistachio ice cream “iconic.”

At meal's end, Victoria and Debbie flirted with men around them, waving and naming names, while Matthew paid the bill.

It was only $1,600.

Plus tip.

Outside Le Bernardin on the most perfect sidewalk Matthew had ever seen, he decided they needed to walk to the theater. “The Sondheim Theatre isn't that far from here,” he said. “It's not too cold, is it?”

Victoria's jaw dropped between her ginormous breasts. “You aren't
actually
suggesting what I think you're
actually
suggesting, Matthew.”

Um, actually, yes.
“I was just going to say since we all ate so much, that we could walk,” Matthew said. “It's only a few . . .”

Victoria and Debbie gave Matthew the most evil looks he had ever seen, demons possessing only their eyebrows, noses, and lips. It was as if he had just deposited half a ton of steaming diarrhea right there on the perfect sidewalk and expected them to wade through it in their irrational, impractical heels.