21. Isabel
George patiently waited for half an hour before we finally stepped into the Navigator. Meg gave him a coquettish smile. “To town, George, and don’t spare the horses.”
“You’ll have to be more specific, Meg,” he said, laughing. “An address would be great.”
When we pulled up to the restaurant, I couldn’t help but be impressed. Meg wasn’t kidding about the place being swanky. Very let-your-multithousand-dollar-hair-extensions-loose kind of deal for the bluebloods. Aptly called Silver Spoon.
George had us wait in the Navigator until he opened the door for us. Meg ignored the line waiting to get inside and sauntered up to the hostess. “Hi there, Megan Belfiore plus one.”
The hostess took a second to inspect Meg who was wearing a bronze metallic top, ripped to shreds jeans and bronze stilettos. Her mane was all curls and attitude, and then there were her dangling earrings shimmering in the low light.
Meg’s makeup was definitely more club than fancy restaurant, but she owned it. No one else could pull off that look with such unwavering panache.
“I don’t see your name on the list,” the hostess said icily. And she was none too pleased that Meg was jumping the line and jamming up the works. And I can’t say I liked the snooty look she cast Meg’s way.
I was about to intervene and give the hostess a piece of my mind. But at that very moment, the classy couple from the chef’s table at Le Petite Chateau who’d speculated about my involvement with Roman, entered the potential skirmish.
The hostess’ face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Mr. and Mrs. Waverly. Welcome to Silver Spoon. Someone will take you to your table in just a second.”
Meg’s eyebrows shot to the roof and she whispered loudly to me. “Can you believe this elitist bullshit?
But Mrs. Waverly wasn’t listening to the hostess, she was laser-focused on me as she smiled. “Look Charles, it’s Roman Belmont’s girlfriend.”
So, they weren’t fooled by me downplaying the whole thing after all.
The hostess nearly choked at mention of the Belmont name. A little surge of power flowed through me. I wasn’t proud of this feeling but I did like that suddenly the stick up the hostess’ behind was summarily removed.
She stared at me. “You’re Roman Belmont’s girlfriend?”
Meg interfered. “Yes, yes, she totally is. Now imagine for a second when he comes around and it so happens that the love of his life was turned away from this smart establishment. I’d polish my resume with a whole can of Pledge if I were you.”
“I apologize… I had no way of knowing,” the hostess defended herself, eyes big and filled with panic. “Will Mr. Belmont be joining you?”
Meg shrugged nonchalantly. “Sure, when he finally drags his ass away from the office. You know how it goes with the billionaires. Always another billion to make, little people to squash.”
It took a tremendous lot of willpower for me not to crack up. But I remained respectfully stoic.
By now Mr. and Mrs. Waverly were flanking my side protectively. “Would you girls like to join us at our table until Roman arrives?” Mrs. Waverly offered, casting the hostess a catty look.
I shook my head vehemently. “No, it’s fine really. We were just going to have a drink at the bar. But thank you.”
The hostess was now a flustered mess and for some stupid reason I felt compelled to put her at ease. “Hey, if you can seat us at the bar for now, we’ll take it from there,” I told her.
Relief flooded her face. “I can do that. And whenever you want, we will have a table ready for you.”
While the hostess got her ducks in a row Mrs. Waverly turned her attention to Meg. “And which family do you belong to, dear?”
Meg rolled her eyes secretively. “Oh trust me, you don’t really wanna know. For one, just between me and you, we never had your typical hygienic-family-in-denial-business. Just a whole lot of smokin’ and drinkin’ and partyin’ right out in the open. My parents believed kids fuck up because they’re denied things. So, basically, I have no excuse. Tell you the truth, can’t say I regret a thing.”
It could have been my imagination but Mrs. Waverly winced before she bit a smile. Then the server arrived to take the couple to their table. We said our goodbyes, and by now the hostess was buzzing around Meg and me like we were prime celebrities.
My mind was blown. Just the mention of the Belmont name had people scrambling. I didn’t know whether to be terrified or impressed.
The hostess granted us the sunniest of smiles. “Please accept my apology again. Your drinks are on us. And if there is anything we can assist you with, just ask.”
The faint elbow jab from Meg into my side reflected her internal jubilation.
The server led us to the bar and called one of the bartenders over to tell him all our drinks were complimentary. Meg thanked her and as we settled into very comfortable bar seats, she swore hellfire on Beefcake for excluding her from the invitation list.
The interior of Silver Spoon was ongoing swank, and I didn’t want to imagine what a meal would cost. “We can’t drink on empty stomachs,” I whispered to Meg. “And the price of one meal here is probably our monthly budget. This spells disaster.”
“Maybe we can wrangle some breadsticks out of them,” Meg said. “Leave it to me. First let me find that lying asshole and hold his feet to the fire.”
“Please behave,” I pleaded. “The last thing I need is word to get back to Roman that we’re throwing his name around to get into an exclusive place and creating a scene.”
“Blame that posh couple. They were practically shouting from the rooftops that you were his girlfriend. Which you are. Besides, me and Beefcake keep punishment strictly to the confines of the bedroom walls, so no worries about me creating a scene. I’m gonna paddle his ass until those sexy cheeks are blood red.”
I laughed. “God, I love you.”
“Speak of the Devil and step on his goddamn tail,” Meg whispered angrily, eyes pumping bullets into Beefcake hauling ass across the room to greet her.
He kissed her passionately on the lips, and Meg allowed it for a few seconds before she shoved him away. “You son of a bitch. We almost didn’t get in. Almost.”
His confusion was palpable. “But you’re here, so you got in. Wow, you look hot.” Then he noticed me, looking me up and down, obviously unsure where he’d seen me before. “Hey sweetlips. How the hell are you?”
Since this was Meg’s sex interest du jour I didn’t balk at the “sweetlips” endearment. “I’m super, thank you. Almost didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.”
The joke went right over his head and he answered me with a goofy shrug. Meg turned his face to hers, maybe a little rougher than was necessary. “My name wasn’t on that invitation list, what’s your excuse? And you’d better not say you forgot…”
“It so was on that list,” he mumbled. “I wrote it in myself. Come here sexy, gimme a kiss.”
But Meg wasn’t buying what he was selling. “I’d rather kiss a pissed-off rattlesnake, thank you very much.”
“I’m sorry to interject here, but I have a question,” I said to him. They both looked at me expectantly. “What name did you put on that list, just curious.”
“Maria B.,” Beefcake said. “That last name of yours is a bitch to spell, Maria.”
Meg hissed. “My name isn’t Maria, dipshit. It’s Megan.”
He moved in behind the long, elegant bar counter, very repentant. “Ugh, I’m so bad, but I seriously thought your name was Maria. Your text name is M. Belfiore. But you’re here, sexy girl, and all your drinks are on the house, so gimme a smile?”
Meg smiled, clearly on the fast track to forgiveness. “Our drinks are already on the house, thanks to my plus one’s hot love affair. So, you’re going to have to do us one better. What’s the menu like?”
Meg’s negotiation skills were magnificent, and I was glad she was in my corner.
A scorching smile erupted on his lips. “You can order anything you want. I recommend the Wagyu Beef Tomahawk Steak.”
My mouth started to water. “You’re kidding me with this. Are we talking A5 grade here?
He nodded confidently. “Totally.”
Meg stuck two fingers in the air. “Obviously two of those. With extra fries. Skip the veggies. And give us a bottle of your finest wine. And for pre-dinner drinks, we’ll have two Moscow Mules and a shot of tequila each. For starters. Thank you, sexy boy.”
When Beefcake left Meg grinned from ear to ear. “See why you want me to be your lawyer for life?”
I had a question of my own. “How do two people manage to have an ongoing sex fest when neither one knows the other’s name, seriously?”
“It’s called not sweating the small stuff.”
“And what about Felix?”
“He wants a commitment. I can’t commit, you know the deal. That heart of his keeps breaking and I’m beginning to feel like a worm for being responsible. He needs to find himself a sweet, decent girl who bakes him chocolate chip cookies and who loves missionary position. Let’s face facts. It’s gonna take one hell of a man for me to commit. And I have yet to meet the stupid fool who meets all the criteria.”
“Then break it off completely with Felix, Meg. It’s probably not fair calling him ten o’clock at night when your match on Tinder doesn’t look like his picture or suddenly gives off a creepy vibe.”
Meg sighed. “Listen to you being so wise. Which brings me to your unfathomable reluctance to spend nights with your new beau in his castle-like mansion.”
“With the emphasis on new. We have all the time in the world, why rush it?”
“He seems very sure.”
“He has nothing to lose when it doesn’t work out.”
“What’s with the negativity, Isabel? The sex sounds like it’s off the frickin’ charts, and it seems like he adores you?
“Don’t forget there’s still this ‘complication’ thing hanging over us like the Sword of Damocles, which sounds like it could make for a very short trip to Heartbreak Hotel. And God only knows when he’ll feel comfortable sharing what exactly that is.”
“But you also mentioned he was working it out.”
I sighed. “My mom always said, when something feels like it’s too good to be true, it probably is.”
“That definitely doesn’t pertain to your current situation. What exactly are you so scared of?”
“I think I’m falling in love and Roman is too perfect and it’s all happening a little too fast.”
“See, nothing in what you just said raises any alarm bells for me. And you know how sensitive I am to red flags and alarm bells.”
“Meg, I love you. We’ve known each other since we could barely speak full sentences. But I’m afraid your sensitivity to alarm bells and red flags is absolutely nonexistent.”
“Fine, but I think you should embrace this mind-blowing journey-slash-destiny with a little more open-mindedness.”
“If I agree, can we stop discussing it?”
“Sure.”
“Thank you.”
“Just one more question.”
“Oh my God.”
“Just to get back to the sex for a minute. This perfection of a man…does that include a reasonable size you-know-what, or are we talking about a man trying to compensate by being the too-perfect gentleman?”
I pinched my nose, desperate for the booze to take the wheel. I had no choice but to just come out and say it. “Let me put it to you this way. The first time I saw him naked I thought there was no way I was going to be able to handle his size. But we made it work. Believe me if I tell you, he has nothing he needs to compensate for.”
Meg fanned herself and drained her Moscow Mule, signaling to Beefcake for another. She leaned in to me and gripped my arm. “Does this perfection have male siblings by any chance? You know like a spare-to-the-heir type thing?”
I snorted into my glass. “There’s been no mention of any siblings, and I’m sure there would have been by now. Seems like he’s the only child.”
By the time we finished dinner and swept through a few cocktails and a bottle of wine, Meg and I were both tipsy, Meg more so than me. The restaurant was bustling now and Beefcake had his hands full with mixing drinks for the it-crowd.
While Meg was flirting with another bartender, I suddenly heard a very familiar voice close by, clawing through my memory bank. I woozily glanced over the room behind me.
And sure enough, Celeste Van Buren was lounging at a table in a cluster with four other trophy wives, less than five yards from where I was sitting at the bar. Anxiety crept up on me like a thief in the night, and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why this woman had the power to make me feel so insecure.
“Isabel?” I heard Meg say. “You look like you just saw a ghost. What the fuck.”
“That’s her,” I said in a whisper. “The woman I told you about. Who treated me like I crawled out of a swamp that night at the Belmont Hotel, and who called me Orphan Annie.”
Meg followed my gaze. “Let me guess. It’s the platinum blonde with the resting-bitch face. This the one married to the centenarian?”
I turned my back on Celeste. The last thing I needed was for her to see me here. “Yes, the very same.”
“Guess the blow-up sex doll look is a thing. Is there anything on her that’s not fake? Those lips alone could qualify as dependents on her tax forms, and if I were Revlon I’d sue this bitch for defamation. And are we just going to ignore that the trophy babes all seem to go to the same plastic surgeon?”
Meg was loyal to a fault. And anyone treating me with disdain had my sympathy. The epitaph on Meg’s gravestone will one day read: “Fight me.”
“Can we go, please?” I begged. “I still have to bake the pastries…”
But Meg wasn’t done. “God, she looks insufferable.”
“She is insufferable. Let’s go, okay.”
Meg looked at me and slid off her chair. “We can go in a minute. What’s her name again?”
“Celeste… Meg wait, what are you doing?”
“Watch this space. I’ll meet you outside so she doesn’t make the connection.”
“Oh God, please don’t,” I pleaded in vain as Meg sauntered over to the trophy wives’ table and faced Celeste.
“Celeste!?” Meg said, just loud enough for the trophy wives to hear her and not cause a scene. The entire table snapped their heads up.
Meg put a hand on the back of one trophy wife’s chair and shook her head in disbelief. “Oh. My. Word! Celeste Sugarbaby Bush? Holy shit, girl! Look at you! That’s one hell of a nose job, not to mention those fabulous titties you sport now.”
Celeste hid her bewilderment under an icy exterior, outrage squirming across her features. “Excuse me? Who are you? Is this a joke?”
Meg took a minuscule step back, presenting herself like the long-lost friend. “It’s me, Starlight! Starlight from the Pussy Galore escort agency! Has it been five years already? Wow, you said you were gonna snatch yourself a rich old geezer with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel. It sure looks like you did. Good for you, girl!”
Celeste flushed beet-red under all that makeup, a very white, angry rim emanating around her plump red lips as she tried not to ugly-snap. “I don’t know who you are,” she hissed. “I’ve never seen you before in my life!”
“What do you mean?” Meg chirped. “It’s me, Starlight. The one who held your hand at the VD clinic when you needed penicillin to fix your…problem?”
The other trophy wives watched the exchange with rapt attention. There was the tiniest of pauses as Celeste desperately tried to collect herself, staring daggers at Meg. “Oh my God, this is outrageous,” she shrieked in a wobbly voice. “Can someone please call security?”
It had people close by paying more attention, which was the last thing Celeste wanted. She cringed, lowering her voice. “If you don’t leave now, I will have you removed.”
Butter wouldn’t melt in Meg’s mouth. She put her hands up in defense, seemingly heartbroken. “Wow, just wow. So much for sharing some of my johns and pinky swearing to be BFF’s. Never mind, sure I’ll leave. So I guess I won’t be getting back the fifty bucks you borrowed to buy that fourteen-inch dildo at the sex shop, right? Can’t say I’m surprised at this point. You ladies enjoy your chow. I recommend the Wagyu Beef Tomahawk Steak, it’s the fucking bomb.”
And with that, Meg strolled toward the exit and out the door. I texted her.
Me: You are crazy, you know that. And magnificent.I’m staying a couple of minutes to see what happens.
Meg: I want a play-by-play. I’ll get us an Uber.
It felt safe enough to take a peek behind me. Celeste was too preoccupied to pay heed to anyone else but the trophy clan at the table. Her only goal was to save face. She leaned in conspiratorially, desperate to declare the scenario an outrageous lie, the picture of barely controlled rage. “Can you believe that nonsense? What a complete idiot. How did she even get into this place?”
The trophy wives shifted uncomfortably in their seats. One dared to dip her toe into treacherous terrain. “She seems like she knows you pretty well, Celeste.”
“Yes, very well,” another piped up. “Too well. That was very unpleasant to watch.”
Celeste started to lose it, her entire act falling apart like a flimsy house of cards.
“Are you fucking kidding me with this bullshit? I don’t know the stupid bitch. I’ve never seen her in my life. I have a good mind to call the police.”
A third trophy wife tugged her LV bag off the floor “Celeste, this is not one of those things where you should call the police. It will just bring more attention to it. You don’t want that. It’s all just too tacky.” She hauled her phone out of the bag. “Oh my, will you look at the time, Gerald’s plane lands in four hours.
Celeste caved to the rage gushing inside of her. “Since when do you give a shit about Gerald coming home, Theresa?”
Theresa’s brows lifted ever-so-slightly. “I’m texting the driver. Anyone need a ride home?”
“We haven’t even had dinner yet!” Celeste countered. But by now three of the trophy wives were scrambling up as gracefully as possible to make their escape. The fourth one hovered for half a minute before she hastily called it quits too. The only conclusion I drew from this was that the trophy-wife world was a brutal and unforgiving place.
Celeste sat perfectly still, her demeanor the picture of melancholy. And I couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for her. A server came over with a tentative smile. “Mrs. Van Buren, is everything okay?”
An ugly look slashed across Celeste’s face. “Are you blind? Does everything look okay to you?” She abruptly stood up and stormed to the powder room, leaving the server to gape after her.
Needless to say, I didn’t feel sorry for Celeste anymore. And this was my opportunity to leave the restaurant without her seeing me. I had no doubt that she would unleash the fires of Hell if she found me lurking in the shadows, indulging in her public humiliation. Let alone “Starlight” being my best friend.
The trip home had the Uber driver checking the rearview mirror more than once as Meg and I reflected on the scenario with Celeste, tears rolling down our cheeks.
“Starlight?” I screamed, laughing. “Starlight!!??”
“Did you see her face?” Meg squealed. “Even the Botox couldn’t iron out that ugly look she gave me!”
“Where do you come up with this stuff, seriously. It was amazing.”
“All those catty reality shows you don’t want to watch with me? There. Never underestimate the power of the bitch in yourself.”
“Yet I’m the one who would have been burned at the stake?”
“Who said that to you?” Meg asked. “I want a name so I can punch their ugly face.”
“That would be you, Meg. You said a century ago I would have been burned at the stake for some of the things I said.”
Meg giggled. “I’ll punch myself when we get home, okay. Or if you want, you can punch me. If you can catch me.”
* * *
My planfor making chocolate eclairs had fallen apart. Never attempt a French pastry even slightly intoxicated.
As tired as I was, I still had to bake. The staff would have to settle for something a little less demanding. Madeleines were my go-to pastry when time and energy were in short supply.
I also baked Roman a small red velvet cake with bourbon and brown sugar, which I was going to decorate early in the morning with buttercream, when my hands were steady and my head was clear. Every birthday should have a cake.
After another cocktail, Meg drunkenly staggered to her bedroom, yelling how much she loved me. The last thing I heard was her plopping down on her bed. Leaving me alone with my thoughts.
I gathered every ingredient I needed for Roman’s birthday, including the cheeses for the pasta, which I’d put inside a small icepack in the morning. There was the herb garden in the main kitchen at Belmont Manor, and here was hoping they had something close to edible flowers to make my ravioli pretty.
I felt a mini adrenaline rush at the mere thought of our day tomorrow. Cooking for Roman was the ultimate fantasy. Feeding someone is plying them with love and care.
As desperate as I was to stay realistic and keep my head straight, I had to admit Roman’s undivided ardor wasn’t making that terribly easy. He made it impossible not to get wrapped up in this wonderful feeling of being adored and consumed body, heart and soul.
There was nothing about Roman that made me doubt his sincerity at this point, but I still took a deep breath to quiet that little nagging voice telling me it was all too perfect to be true.
After double-checking to see I had everything I needed for the lunch, I looked in on Meg. It seemed she’d barely made it onto the bed, one leg dangling off the side. I removed her shoes, pushed her leg onto the bed and covered her with a quilt.
It was eleven-thirty, and I decided to wait until midnight for Roman to call, though I could hardly keep my eyes open. I kept busy by brushing my teeth and washing my face before slipping into bed.
A minute later my phone dinged with a text.
Roman:Are you still awake, my sweet?
Me: Awake enough for a call.