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Cameron
* * *
Being the cream of the crop of Prescott society means I often do things I don’t want to do, including going on a date with an insufferable woman.
“So, that’s when I knew, you know? It just wasn’t meant to be,” Joely simpers while tapping her long red nails together.
I nod, but I don’t actually know what Joely is talking about. Is she referring to her divorce? To a failed business venture? But I nod like I know. “Yeah, I get it.”
She smiles brightly.
“But it’s good because that’s how I ended up on this date with you!” she beams. Her skin pulls tight over her cheeks, likely made ultra-thin by various medical procedures, and I try not to recoil because I understand that “a little work” is de rigeur these days. Nicole Kidman hasn’t moved her face in decades, but she’s somehow still an A-list actress. How is that possible? Especially for someone who acts for a living? But I don’t know how these things work and just smile.
“Lucky me.”
Joely leans forward, and I must admit the woman is attractive if you’re into skinny, blond girls who talk only of themselves. Her décolletage, while small, has that totally unblemished look which is undoubtedly also the work of a skilled plastic surgeon.
“So yeah, it’s crazy right? But I love Prescott all the same,” she sighs dramatically. “The people here are sooo nice.”
But then Joely’s smile disappears and she sits up straight suddenly.
“I’ll be right back. The ladies’ room calls. Ta-ta!”
I sigh as she trots away across the restaurant. Honestly, my date’s not my type at all because I prefer my women curvaceous and natural. The Botox look isn’t me, but as I mentioned, people expect a rich man to be with someone like Joely. Multiple businessmen at this fine establishment have been casting envious looks my way, first staring at Joely’s body before shooting daggers at me. Perhaps I should pawn her off on one of them. It would probably work well for everyone involved.
But where is my date? This is the fourth time she’s disappeared in less than thirty minutes, and I can’t imagine what’s going on. Does she have an overactive bladder? Ulcerative colitis? We’ve only had our salads so far, and at the rate this is going, it’s going to be a long night.
After fifteen minutes, our waiter swans by.
“Sir, has the lady gone home?” he inquires politely.
“No, she’s just in the bathroom.”
He hesitates, his hands fluttering in the air.
“Should I bring the entrees out? Or keep them warm? Or …?”
I sigh and look towards the restrooms. But at that moment, Joely emerges and the waiter brightens.
“Perfect, I’ll bring your mains over!” he trills. “Your food will be right out!”
Then, my date takes a seat as our entrees are set on the table. I ordered a big, juicy steak, mashed potatoes, mixed vegetables, and a side of shrimp. Meanwhile, Joely requested a plate of plain pasta with just a touch of butter. It looks unappetizing, and even worse, she pushes the pasta around the plate without eating it, looking mildly uncomfortable.
What is it with women and food? I’ll never understand why they choose not to eat because food is one of my favorite things in the world. That’s second to sex, of course, which is something I apparently won’t be getting tonight because I just can’t when it comes to my date. She’s bizarre and obviously has a secret up her sleeve, and I don’t want to find out what it is. But I try to be polite.
“Is everything okay with the pasta?”
She looks up, pretending surprise.
“Oh yes, it’s delicious! Thank you for asking, Cameron. Oh, and I’ll be right back. I need to go powder my nose.”
She trots into the bathroom again and I dig into my steak, savoring the rare meat. Why should I be miserable just because this date sucks? But what did she mean by “powdering her nose”? Is that code for cocaine? After all, I think in that movie Pulp Fiction, that’s what it meant.
“So, I think we need to talk,” I say when Joely finally returns. She sucks up a noodle from her pasta plate, and then looks up inquiringly.
“About what?”
“About why you keep running off to the bathroom.” I glance at her arms, but there are no track marks. I squint at her. “Are you doing drugs in there? Just so you know, if you have a drug habit, I’m not interested.”
She rolls her eyes and huffs.
“Fine, yes, you’ve caught me. I’ve been snorting coke in the bathroom. It’s not that weird, you know. I mean, everyone does it. Do you want some?” she brightens. “I can get you the good stuff, Cameron,” she coos. “You know the stuff fit for a billionaire.”
My eyes shoot to hers, disgust apparent on my face. “What makes you think I would want to partake in that?”
