I could feel myself blushing as I let him take my hand and give it a warm, gentlemanly shake. It almost made me sad to be lying to the man about my relationship with Ford.
Then we took our seats and dinner began. As expected, even the first course of amuse-bouche was a feast for the eyes and the mouth, an artistic arrangement of endives with triple-cream Brie and rhubarb compote. Then came the soup, a featherlight cream of asparagus topped with shaved chives and crème fraîche. I was shocked at how much I didn’t hate it.
“Got yourself a new girl, eh?” the older man across from us asked.
He was talking to Ford, but his eyes were focused on my cleavage.
“Yes, this is my girlfriend, Mara,” Ford said, not seeming to notice that I was getting ogled. Still, I appreciated him using my full name with this stranger. It made me feel seen, the way that Ford intuitively understood that my nickname wasn’t fair game for just anyone to know and use. “We’ve known each other since our days at the Academy.”
“Ah,” the older man said. “Young love.”
“Mara, this is Nathan Watson, a very accomplished and well-regarded developer,” Ford went on by way of introduction. “We share a box with his family at the Chicago Symphony.”
I had a hard time imagining any of Ford’s family members attending the symphony for the music. They probably just went to be seen. I wondered if Mr. Watson did the same.
“Do you like the symphony, my dear?” he asked, his gaze still fixed on my chest.
I shifted in my seat, politely ignoring his staring while subtly adjusting the strap of my dress in order to better cover myself. The dress wasn’t even that low-cut, honestly, but with boobs like mine, there was always the danger of spillage. Moments like these, I dreamed of having an A cup, or even a small B. A girl could dream.
“I do,” I said. “The new season looks wonderful. I actually can’t wait for the Beethoven festival. It’s his two-hundred-fiftieth birthday this year, you know.”
Mr. Watson nodded. “Did you catch the Sibelius and Nielsen last year? It was divine.”
By the time the salad arrived, he had moved on from our conversation and refocused his attention on the gentleman seated to his right, who wanted to discuss stock portfolios.
The man on his left, however, looked down into his fennel salad and inexplicably turned to his dining companion, a woman in a sharp, bespoke suit—likely one of the MREH investors.
“Remind me to offload some cash before the end of the fiscal quarter,” he said to her. “Taxes are such a killjoy when you can’t stop making money.”
They both laughed.
I cleared my throat, gently. Respectfully. Readjusted my dress again.
“Excuse me for interrupting, but if you’re in the process of researching tax deductible options,” I said, keeping my voice sweet, “I actually chair a wonderful charity that can always benefit from the support of generous individuals. We’re also happy to include your contact information on our website, which can help drive additional business interests your way. Not that you need it, from the sound of things.”
“I’m intrigued,” the woman said immediately, leaning in. “Can you tell me more?”
Soon enough, I’d secured their commitment to sponsoring two year-long classes for my charity. At the very least, I could leave this dinner feeling like I’d accomplished something beyond helping Ford distract his mother from his dating life.
Ford’s Aunt Miri—an older woman who I had noticed was wearing a wristful of studded bracelets with an edge to them—turned to me during the fish course to comment on my purse.
“It’s so chic,” she said. “I just adore Prada.”
“It’s from the new collection.” I passed it over so she could examine it. “I’m not one to buy a new bag every season, but this one’s a classic. It’s Saffiano leather.”
“It is exquisite,” she said, stroking the handstitched leather before handing it back. “I love a piece that transcends time. You’ll have this forever, dear.”
“I think so, too. This style won’t be out for a few more weeks, but I have a hookup through work,” I said. “If you’re interested, I’d be happy to pull those strings again.”
She seemed delighted and I smiled. It was the first fun conversation I’d had all evening, and we chatted about the punk aesthetic of Alexander McQueen and Vivienne Westwood through the rest of the meal. So far, she was the nicest member of Ford’s family I’d met that evening. And I appreciated the fact that she wasn’t staring at me like I was toilet paper on the bottom of someone’s shoe, the way Ford’s mother was whenever I caught her looking my way.
I knew it was only a matter of time before she said something.
She waited until dessert was served.
It was a perfect, golden, featherlight lemon soufflé that had me practically moaning at the first bite. My pleasure must have been evident, because Ford’s dad commented from his seat at the end of the table that it looked like I was enjoying myself.
Blushing, I admitted that it was the best soufflé I’d ever had, which was saying something since I was a bit of a connoisseur. Before he could respond, Mrs. Malone chimed in with, “You know I must admit, Emzee, I was soverysurprised to see that you, of all people, had caught my son’s eye.”
