“What is it, then?”
“It’s a culinary experience and includes enough people coming and going to take the onus off you.”
I press my head to his chest. This man. Sometimes I can’t believe I ever said a bad word about him ...
It turns out, Oliver is a genius.
We’re greeted in a private dining room I didn’t know the hotel had. There’s a plate glass window—with a view of the hotel’s industrial kitchen—that’s thick enough to drown out most of the explosions of swear words.Must be a chef-y trait.The sommelier arrives almost immediately to serve us champagne, the head chef appearing next to introduce himself. We’re offered canapés from a selection including wild-mushroom tarte tatin with tarragon and rillett of duck with plum pickle.I’m not even sure what a rillett is, except delicious.
From there, we’re served a meal fit for a queen and taken through all four courses with explanation in the finest detail. The food is classically simple, but the flavors delicious.
“They just melt and meld!” Muffy is in raptures, though that could be the result of the numerous wine pairings and also the heat of the kitchen when we’re given pristine white aprons and invited to join the crew as they prepare our mains.
The experience is something else. I’ve never seen Todd so relaxed or my mother so flushed. When it comes time for petits fours and coffee, a sixty-year-old brandy arrives as an accompaniment.
“Well, Oliver, it’s quite a place you’ve got here,” Todd says, awarding the evening his seal of approval in the understatement of the year.
I loved seeing this side of Oliver. He riffed with his staff, fitting in like he’s always popping into their fiery domain.
“Thank you, Todd, you’re very kind.”
Todd is certainly something. I’d thought, when Muffy first introduced us, that he’d be different. A self-made man who’d worked hard for what he had, but he was just as arrogant as the rest. Maybe even worse, because he seems to be under the impression that he’s better than everyone else—smarter because he got where he was by himself.
I despise the level of arrogance the rich have. I hate how power and wealth seem to make for a distinct lack of empathy. I see it at the clinic almost every day, and I’ve learned that it has nothing to do with where the money comes from. Inherited or earned, the more money you have, the bigger a dick you seem to become.
I know I’m guilty of a prejudice, and I’m conscious that not all wealthy people are terrible humans. There are good rich people out there, and maybe, underneath that starched, bossy surface, Oliver might just be one of them. It seems almost weird how I’d pigeonholed him when we first met, putting Oliver in the same category as the people I knew growing up. People who wanted for nothing, who grew up rich and spoiled, rarely hearing the wordnoin relation to their desires. Those who assumed they could do what they want, get what they want, because family (and money) would always bail them out.
“I’m so pleased you’ve looked after Evelyn,” Muffy says, nursing her brandy, “given her recent problems.”
“What problems are those? Almost marrying the wrong kind of man or almost marrying a man who was cheating on me?” Oops. The wine seems to have loosened my tongue.
“They’re the same, aren’t they?” Todd retorts.
“Sure.” And not at all. It wasn’t a sense of prescience that kept them in Connecticut.
“Some people are very good at hiding who they are,” Oliver begins. “Eve was unlucky, that’s all. But I think you’ll find she does a wonderful job of looking after herself.”
My mother titters, and Todd huffs a laugh.
“What’s funny?” I demand, with a tilt of my glass. “Guys, share with the class.”
“Eve.” My name is a caution as Oliver settles his warm hand over mine.
“No, I want to know what’s so amusing about my life.”
“You’re almost thirty years old,” Todd says. “You don’t own a house or a car. You bounce around from place to place. And have no responsibilities.”
“Not to make it a competition,” I say, “but don’t you pay the rent on Chelsea’s loft? And her Uber account.”
“Chelsea is twenty-five,” he says gruffly.
“A whole four years younger than me. Meanwhile, I’ve worked in Sri Lanka, Indonesia, Spain, and the UK. I support myself, and I do just fine.”
“Volunteering isn’t working,” Todd scoffs. “You spent all those years studying, and for what? So you can flit around the world with nothing but a backpack, volunteering and living in hovels, only to eventually settle for a job that pays less than fifty thousand a year.”
“Pounds, not dollars,” I snipe, hating that I’m justifying myself.
“That’s not a living, Evelyn.”
