Chapter Twenty-Seven
The next day, I was scheduled to prep Eddie for a meeting with the New York Film Festival board members.
A few hours before, Patricia called to say Eddie wanted to see me in his office. I wondered if Leo had told him about the settlement.
I walked the internal staircase up to the fiftieth floor. Eddie motioned for me to sit down and close the door.
“The lawyer for the city just called. The permit applications we sent over for the film festival were dated incorrectly, and now we’re right up against the deadline.
We’re helping the festival negotiate with the city on a pro bono basis, but we need to be just as buttoned-up as we are for paying clients.
If the city uses this as an excuse not to permit the festival, we’re fucked. ”
I felt lightheaded as my mind was racing.
I looked at the stack of documents he had printed.
It was a blatant fuckup—the kind that made me physically nauseous. After all this, I couldn’t be the reason the New York Film Festival wasn’t happening.
“Please double-check your work. We could lose all credibility.”
I wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out.
“I’m so sorry. I’ll do everything I can to make it right.”
He nodded soberly. “I know that mistakes happen, especially when technology is involved. But for lawyers, mistakes have catastrophic consequences. Our profession can be very unforgiving. One mistake could tank your career, and you might not get a second chance.” He turned back to his laptop.
“I guess that’s the only takeaway I’ve got. ”
I walked like a zombie back to my office. Charlie was out all day for another deposition, which left me alone with the looping echo of Eddie’s words. How could I have made such a careless mistake?
By the time I got home, I was running on fumes. I dropped my keys to the floor, stripped off my clothes, and turned the shower knob all the way to the left, letting the small bathroom fill with steam. I stepped into the tub, standing still with my eyes squeezed tightly shut.
Eddie was right. This was a world where no mistake was inconsequential. I felt unprepared for such a weighty reality.
I toweled off and realized I hadn’t eaten anything all day. I found my phone and hit the reorder button on my Seamless app without looking at what I’d last ordered.
My eye landed on the open bottle of red across the room.
The first summer that I spent in New York away from Ben, I’d romanticized lonely Friday nights like these. Alone, no responsibility to anyone but myself. Whatever takeout I was in the mood for. All the rom-coms my heart desired. Wine on my couch.
I turned on the movie adaptation of Emily Giffin’s Something Borrowed to drown out the quiet. Twenty minutes later, the buzzer sounded, and I felt around for my slippers.
“Come on up,” I automated as I pressed the button and reached for a clean wine glass.
Minutes later, there was a light knock as the door handle jiggled.
“Just a sec . . .” I said as I peered through the peephole and saw Connor’s face.
I cracked the door so he wouldn’t get the full view of my depressing Friday night.
“Jesus. I thought you were the Seamless guy, but they usually don’t try to open the door themselves,” I said with a nervous chuckle.
“Since I’m not the Seamless guy, can I come in?”
I kicked my slippers off behind the door. “Sure.”
Connor took off his shoes outside and settled onto a kitchen stool. “Seamless and wine, is it? And you didn’t think to invite me? You know we’re only young once.”
I rolled my eyes. “What’s up? You don’t live close enough for a casual pop in.”
“No Friday night plans? In the greatest city in the world?”
“It was a long day.”
“They’re all long, Sam. They’ll be long for the rest of our lives. What won’t last forever are wild Friday nights.”
“Maybe we have different versions of wild.”
“Anyway, Gillian’s out of town, but ‘the French’ are in town, and I’m heading to meet them at Art Bar around the corner. And clearly saving you from a sad Friday night.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know ‘the French’ but I’m about to drink a glass of wine and go to bed.”
Connor sighed. “I’m not loving this for you, Sam. You need to meet people. Interesting people. Some sophisticated Frenchies. Just come out for one drink. If you’re not having a blast after an hour, you’re only five minutes from home. It’d be a mistake not to even try having fun.”
The Word of the Day hung in the air.
“Everyone makes mistakes,” I said dryly.
“C’mon. I need a wingwoman. My ex is going to be there.”
“Which one?”
“Get dressed, and I’ll give you the skinny on the way.”
“I’m not in a social mood. And I just ordered food.”
He looked unconvinced. “Is Caroline at home? She can bring it in for you. There’s food at Art Bar.”
“She’s in Iowa,” I said.
“Sam. I never ask you for anything. Please.”
I stared at the wine glass on the counter.
I didn’t know if drinking alone was going to make me feel better or worse.
He didn’t seem to be taking no for an answer.
If it involved a subway or cab ride, there was no way.
But he was basically asking me to cross the street.
I could bail as soon as I dropped him off with his friends.
“Okay, fine. But just one drink.”
He waited in the hall while I threw on black jeans and a burnt-orange sweater. I ran a brush through my hair, dabbed on concealer and light mascara, and grabbed a pair of ankle boots from the back of my closet.
“This is as good as it gets,” I said, locking the door behind me.
Connor smirked. “The Divorcée takes Manhattan.”
“Save that detail for yourself, please.” I dug around my bag for lip gloss. “Who are these friends again? Did I ever meet them at Georgetown?”
“I went to boarding school with Stefan, who was childhood friends with George, who I’m loosely calling an ex because we dated for a summer when I was in college. Whilst working on a vineyard in Bordeaux.”
“Romantic.”
“The French are romantic for a summer. Then the narcissism sets in.”
“So it’s Stefan and George?”
“And their friend Christophe, who just moved from Paris. He’s the one they’re visiting.”
“Would Gillian be jealous if she knew you were seeing George?”
“I wouldn’t know because I didn’t mention it. She’s at a yoga retreat.”
“Remind me not to take relationship advice from you.”
We walked into Art Bar as an intimidatingly well-dressed group of guys converged on Connor.
He wrapped his arm protectively around my shoulder. “Boys, this is Samantha. An old friend from law school.”
“What would you two like to drink?” one of them asked.
“Ketel and soda for me,” Connor said.
“Same for me, thanks,” I said.
I leaned over and whispered, “Which one is George?”
He shot me a look then whispered back, “On the right.”
George struck me as the male equivalent of Gillian, only much taller.
“You have a type,” I murmured as Stefan returned with our drinks.
Stefan raised a martini glass. “Aux vieux amis et nouveaux amis. To old and new friends.” He squeezed Connor’s shoulder. “Very old friends, in some cases. You look tired, man. What’s this city doing to you?”
Connor pretended to be wounded. “I’ll always be younger than you, lad.”
Stefan chuckled. “You’re working too hard.”
“Not as hard as this one,” Connor said, with an affectionate light pinch of my cheek.
I thanked him for the drink. “Working hard is old news in New York.”
Christophe gave a small wave. “I’m the New York virgin. I just arrived last week from Paris. But I can keep the Parisian lifestyle, non?”
“As in, never working,” George quipped.
“Something like that.” He winked in my direction, and I noticed a small gap in his front teeth.
“What do you do?” I asked.
Christophe laughed. “That’s such an American question. What do you do?”
I blushed. “I’m a lawyer.”
“Entertainment lawyer,” Connor jumped in.
Cristophe looked amused. “But what about when you’re not at your job?”
It was an embarrassingly tough question. “Mental note, get a hobby,” I joked.
“It’s just that my experience of Americans is they are very one-dimensional,” he said, his French accent making it sound even more condescending.
Connor feigned offense on my behalf. “And in my experience, that’s a very French point of view.”
I tried to come up with an answer that wasn’t lame. “I work out, I watch movies . . . pretty standard fare,” I said, feeling even more boring than when I couldn’t think of anything to say.
“You go to a bar with your friends,” he added. I had a feeling Christophe was having more fun than any of us.
“I was dragged to a bar,” I corrected him.
“What would you be doing otherwise?” he probed. His eyes were intense in a way that felt like he could see underneath my clothes.
Connor jumped in. “Okay, lad, call off the interrogation.”
I stood there silently as the group caught up. I eventually noticed everyone’s drink was mostly empty, including mine. “I’ll get the next round,” I offered, looking for a chance to break away.
Christophe jumped up. “I’ll help you.”
Connor tapped his shoulder. “No funny business.”
Christophe was a head taller than me, which proved helpful in getting the bartender’s attention. He pulled out a barstool for me while we waited.
“I wasn’t trying to be an asshole back there. I just feel like Americans love to hide behind their work.”
“I’m not hiding behind anything. I’ve got my dream job,” I responded defensively.
I noticed Connor across the room, waiting for me to return a thumbs-up.
“But there’s more to life than work.” He smiled, and I realized he had a dimple on one side. “After this drink, come to a reading with me.”
I handed my card to the bartender. “Come again?”
“A poetry reading. A friend from Paris is hosting it in her apartment in the East Village.”
I laughed at how European it sounded.
“Are you trying to curate a hobby for me? The one-dimensional American?”
“I just think we can spice up this night a little bit. What do you say? Have you ever heard Sappho read out loud? In French?”
I hadn’t read Sappho in English. “That’s the reading?”
“They’re reading Anne Le Fèvre Dacier’s translation. It’s more beautiful in French.”
I rolled my eyes. “What isn’t.”
“Exactly.”
I glanced in Connor’s direction. “This isn’t really my scene. But it would be disingenuous to say a French poetry reading in the East Village is me either.” I handed him two of the drinks as I juggled the others.
“But you wouldn’t know, because you’ve never done it.”
He set down the drinks and checked his watch. “I’ll have you home by midnight.” He extended his hand. “The French keep their word.”