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I get up, and just for one second try to imagine what Paula is suggesting. Me. And Clarissa. In some kind of... public... thing to stabilize my reputation? Fuck. No. "I'm serious. You don't know what you're suggesting. It's not going to be my manwhoring that's going to screw the IPO up, it's going to be the explosion that takes out half of Manhattan if we sit in the same room for more than ten minutes."
My PR rep stands up, looking a lot happier than when she came in here. "Well, whatever it is you do, just make sure that the press is there to see you two doing it together."
I'd rather suck my balls off with a Dyson, deep-fry them in human lard and have Hannah shoot them into my mouth with a T-shirt canon before I voluntarily spend time with Clarissa. And I have zero doubt that the feeling is mutual; the run-in at Leanne's place more than proved that.
After Paula leaves, I do a Google search to see what everyone really is saying about me, as well as to read the latest reports of the predictions for Kids & Care going public. And none of it looks good. In fact, it looks progressively worse the longer that I look.
Shit.
Is there really no other way?
I pour a drink, sit and contemplate my life for a few minutes, then I sigh, grabbing my phone and dialing Leanne's number.
"Hey, it's your lucky day. What are you doing tonight?"
Chapter 7
Clarissa
Iwenttomyfirst blues and whiskey club when I was six years old. My father used to have a standing appointment at the local club a few blocks away from his office. One day, I was shipped off to spend the day with him at the office while my mother spent hers at the spa. After work, my father packed up his things, took my hand in his and said,"Let's go to my favorite place in the city."
The cigar smoke choked me the second I walked through the door, but everything else mesmerized me.
My father sat me in the corner with a soda and a coloring book while he made his way around the room, shaking hands with almost everyone. He looked like a different person there... comfortable? At home? More at home than he'd ever looked at our actual home, anyway.
After an hour or so, he came back, a humidor in his hands, and handed me one cigar after the other, teaching me how to distinguish them. That afternoon, we emerged from the club
out into the darkening day, with a cigar tucked into my pocket. Sometimes, when I wanted to remember that day, I'd take it out and run it along my top lip. It smells of nostalgia now. I don't like smoking them, I just like everything about the process of making them and enjoying them. A lost art. A dying pleasure. And whether I want to admit it or not, it's why I knew, if I had to start a business this whiskey and cigar bar would be what I would choose. Something about it is second nature to me, something that bleeds in my veins. I can't help wondering if my father would be proud of this place or if he just wouldn't care.
I guess I'll never know.
The club is already almost full when I replace my hostess, Penny, at the front of house so she can take a bathroom break. A quick glance into the clubroom had shown that only one or two of the twenty tables still empty. Leanne's suggestions for the changes are almost completely implemented, and the room looks infinitely more cozy, but still lush with the beautiful décor. When I look out into the main room of the club I know I'm proud of myself, even if my father isn't.
Luscious turquoise velvet curtains drape in dramatic flourishes from the ceiling, revealing oak wooded slats adorning the walls. In the beginning, I considered a theme of mismatched reclaimed antique chairs to save on cost, but Leanne was able to negotiate a deal with one of her furniture stores for a custom bulk order of distressed leather wingback chairs that completely transformed the whole space. Everything was of the highest quality, and it felt that way.
James, my bartender, gives me a wink as I walk past just as he's reaching for a bottle off the top shelf. The bar we had installed is a thing of beauty. From the moment I saw this empty space, I'd envisioned a mahogany bar that stretched the length of the room with inbuilt soft light panels along the front. A bar that could accommodate almost twenty bar stools. It's a stunning statement piece against the backdrop of the stage and classic furniture.
The cigar girls, charming and knowledgeable, weave in and out between the tables and guests. I'd put them through rigorous training and tested them relentlessly before we opened. Everything I knew, they now know. As a result, in the two weeks since we've been open, we've sold almost double the number of cigars I had conservatively projected.
And what a two weeks it has been.
I can't remember the last time I was this tired. Or had such a sense of achievement.
The write up of Malt on the EatDrinkNYC app was basically a rave. And with other positive reviews trickling in, our tables have been all taken every night. I can only hope the momentum continues, because I think I could be happy doing this for a long time.
The door opens and a couple steps into the club. I look up to greet them, a scowl quickly settling on my face when I see who they are.
It's Leanne andhim. Matthias Baxter. And every thought of happiness flees from my mind.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" I say, only realizing at the last minute that I'd said it out loud.
Matthias grins, brushing his unnecessarily blond hair out of his face. "Is that how you greet all your guests?"
Leanne throws her head back and laughs, laying her slender, perfectly manicured hand on Matthias's arm. "You two are hilarious. I could watch you argue all day."
"Us? Argue? No, I told you, we're old friends, aren't we, Rissie?" He winks at me, and if I weren't standing at the hostesses stand at my own club, I might have reached out and poked him in the eye. Both eyes.
"Friends, foes, same difference." I swallow down the annoyance of seeing him here in my space. "What can I do for you, Leanne? Did you come to see how the changes are looking?"
