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“I do appreciate your inviting me, though,” I say so they don’t think I’m an ingrate. “Which way is the ladies’ room, please?”
As polite as ever, Weston steers me in the direction, and I stroll through the crowd, stomach in and chest out. As soon as I’m alone, I sit on the edge of the toilet seat and relax, my stomach pooching like a normal woman’s, and my dress falling open, because who’s going to see my boobs in here?
I look around at the wood-paneled stall and marvel over its real door, not one of those janky metal things with gaps so big you have no privacy, and I hear someone else enter the ladies’ room.
“Jesus, he can’t keep his eyes off her. I don’t want to make a scene, but I will if I have to.”
Oooh. Drama. I press my ear against the door. The voice is familiar.
“Honey, take my word, men are always looking. Don’t let it be personal. Just because your husband is staring at that woman from the pet store, it doesn’t mean a thing. And don’t worry, she’s nothing special.”
What?I’mthe woman from the pet store!
They’re talking aboutme.
Butwho’slooking at me? And who’s talking about me?
And I’mnothing special? What a bitch.
“I know she’s a beautiful young woman, and that Diane von Furstenberg dress fits like it was made for her but…”
They think my dress is aDiane von Furstenberg? I snort, and when the conversation halts, I quickly flush the toilet to cover my noise. Footsteps hustle for the ladies’ room door, which immediately opens and closes. I peek out and when I’m sure I’m alone, exit. I take a look at myself in the mirror, turn sideways, then do my best to get a view of my butt.
Huh. I mean, I guess I look nice. But in this party full of New York glamazons? No way. I adopt Arthur’s posture again, lift my chin just because, and return to the party.
I hear the voice again.
I inch toward it, pretending to be reaching for a glass of champagne, when a quick glance tells me it’s the city councilperson’s wife. Bartlett Murray’s wife is trash-talking me?
Bartlett Murray was staring atme?
These are some strange people.
Not yet defeated, I strut through the party as Arthur instructed me to, weaving among the dark suit jackets and glittery dresses worn by the sort of people who spend a hundred dollars on a scented candle for their guest bath room.
I find something that looks like a carrot stick, but because I am not positive it is, I don’t risk eating it.
I pull a fistful of mini-postcards out of my pocket, a combination calling card and buy-one-get-one coupon, and drop a few on the tray of a passing cocktail waitress. She smiles kindly and slips one into her pocket. I am encouraged. I cruise over to a table covered with tiny goodie bags—I guess party favors?—and place cards into several.
Who knew EastSide would turn out to be such a useful marketing platform?
I drop cards onto other tables where people are coming and going, and when I look up, I realize my efforts have been under the watchful eye of the trio of handsomeness.
So much for my covert ops. Or should I say, covertoops?
As they make their way toward me, it’s clear my business acumen isn’t earning me any brownie points. But I don’t care. My mother always says it’s the irritation that makes the pearl. If I can’t be an influencer, being irritating is the next best thing.
I look around, wondering if I could make a clean escape. I should thank the guys, but I’m not feeling even that gracious.
Let them be stars in their own Michelin-rated show. I am and always will be a taco truck girl.
As long as it’s vegetarian.
11
WESTON
Livvy leftthe party like her pants were on fire. We tried to say goodbye but she was too fast for us.
