19
We didn’t eat lunch that day.
Unless you count the potato chips and peanuts that came with our cocktails, which—on my personal survival scale—definitely qualified as “entrée and side dish.”
We nursed our first drink with monastic slowness.
The second we finished, a waiter—not the same one but another with the same chiseled jaw and bodyguard-in-a-tux energy—swooped in and cleared the glasses with ruthless efficiency.
“Anything else?” he asked in that polite tone that really meant order something or get out.
Tess flashed him a smile hot enough to melt the silverware. “Maybe later… darling.”
But by the time the lounge playlist looped for the fourth time, the staff’s glances had shifted from discreet to openly hostile.
Translation: Two cocktails in three hours does not buy you squatting rights at the most Instagrammable table in the bar.
So, with royal composure, Tess ordered a second round.
We drank that one even slower. Like, one sip per climate change.
The second basket of chips and peanuts, however, we inhaled with borderline offensive enthusiasm.
Every time the waiter walked by, I straightened up like I was a respectable guest and not a contestant on Survivor: Upper East Side.
Of Zane Ryder? No sign.
Zero elevators. Zero rockstar. Zero plot twists.
“This feels like a police stakeout,” Tess muttered, staring into space. “In the movies it looks so glamorous… in real life it’s boring as hell.”
Then she turned and nudged me with her knee. “But don’t lose hope, Bea. Our moment will come. And when it does, we have to be ready.”
The waiter shift change was as obvious as a lazy jump cut: new faces, new stares, new passive-aggressive reminders to keep ordering.
So… we ordered a third round.
By then I’d lost all sensation in my toes, but I could still count the minutes by how many ice cubes melted in my glass.
And guess what I had for dinner that night?
Exactly.
Chips. And peanuts .
With a lingering aftertaste of lost dignity.
At one point, a horrible thought sent a shiver down my spine: what if he was here? The bald bouncer from the concert—the one we’d fobbed off with my fake number. What if he spotted me? What if he came over with that Well, well, if it isn’t my little liar face?
Tess turned just enough to calm me, her voice full of worldly certainty. “Please, Bea. Ryder and his inner circle are here, sure. But the crew? Bodyguards, roadies, lighting guys? They’re in a cheaper hotel. Probably in another borough. Maybe even Jersey.”
Time dragged.
Dragged so slowly it stretched like stale chewing gum left in the sun.
Outside, the warm glow of the lobby had dimmed.
The bar lights, on the other hand, felt brighter by the minute—but it was just an illusion: we were simply the last ones left.
Even the bartender—who at first had whirled around the shakers and bottles like a Vegas magician—was now just polishing glasses, his eyes glazed with the longing of a man dreaming of his bed.
Tess sighed. A long, elegant surrender—because of course she even conceded defeat in style.
“Ryder’s probably still comatose from last night’s show,” she said. “Spent the whole day in bed, naked and sweaty, like a fallen god. We’ll have to come back tomorrow, Bea.”
She asked for the check.
The server—an elegant woman in a smoky gray suit, hair scraped into a bun that looked like it had never been undone in her life—brought the bill inside a soft leather folder stamped in gold with The Vellum’s logo.
Tess opened it with practiced nonchalance.
For a split second—one heartbeat—I saw her pupils blow wide. Just a flash. Then she recovered, cool as ever, flashing the half-smile of a woman who pays the bill with grace even while screaming internally in five languages.
She pulled out bills folded so many times they looked like they’d been stashed in a secret compartment of her bag—or in an old Agatha Christie novel.
Cash. No generous tip, but no dramatic escape through the kitchen either.
We left The Vellum in silence.
Defeated, yes.
But with grace.