The Unraveling

Chapter Fifteen

Max stands, buttoning his blazer.

He cuts an imposing figure, his features chiseled, his eyes piercing. I feel a shiver go down my spine as those eyes land on mine.

“Jocelyn,” says Alistair, in a deep, husky voice. “A pleasure to finally meet you. Alistair Cavendish.”

I’m so confused. This is Max. As in, Max, the one-night stand I was supposed to have and forget. I mean, the forgetting wasn’t going that well—I’ve thought about that night every hour since it happened—but I wasn’t supposed to see him again. And why is he saying he’s Alistair?

He holds out a hand and I take it, his strong grip making my own feel weak.

He gives me a glance that indicates that the hostess is still there and listening. I’m supposed to go along with this.

“Likewise, Mr.Cavendish,” I say, winging it. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

“Of course. I always like to meet the new young talent in town. Please, sit.”

I can hear that hint of something besides English in his accent, and I remember what Arabella told me about his past and how his family made its money.

I do as I’m told, and pretend to look at the menu, but really I’m looking at him through my lashes. I suddenly feel very bare. Completely exposed.

He is dressed in a suit so completely, startlingly well fitting that it must have been made from scratch just for him. His crisp white shirt is unbuttoned at the neck and I see a glimpse of his collarbone.

I stutter, “Is—is your wife joining us?”

“Yes. I apologize for her tardiness, she’s not usually late. I haven’t checked my phone, I can’t stand being so attached to it.” He pulls out his phone anyway, but is interrupted by a small squeak.

The hostess, who still hasn’t left.

Alistair and I both turn to her.

“I’m so sorry, Mr.Cavendish, I forgot to tell you that Mrs.Cavendish won’t be joining you this evening. I’m so sorry, sir.”

He holds her gaze with such intense impassivity that I feel a crushing secondhand embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry, Mr.Cavendish. She said you weren’t answering your phone, I—I simply forgot, sir.”

She then bows her head in apology.

He nods once slowly before saying, “That’ll be all, Francesca.”

She whispers another apology before heading off, and I feel so bad for her I almost want to go with her and tell her it’s all right.

My cheeks flush. I look down at the menu, feeling an awful, weird rush of embarrassment for my very existence. Even though I’m where I’m supposed to be, doing what I’m supposed to be doing.

Finally, we’re alone. I put down my menu and hiss, “What the fuck is going on?”

He shuts his eyes impatiently. “I lied about my name.”

“Well, duh.”

“I never use my real name when I meet strangers,” he says. “I’m not the only Alistair in the city, but I am the only one in the social pages. It’s just best to keep the attention off of me.”

“I see.”

“I’ve given my real name before and seen it in the headlines the next day alongside a slew of lies. It’s just easier.”

“Got it.”

“I’m sorry about all this,” he says, formally.

“It’s fine. We didn’t know.”

There’s a long silence as a woman comes over and asks, “Sparkling or still?”

We both say, “Still,” then avoid eye contact.

She leaves, comes back, fills our glasses, and then leaves again.

“I apologize,” he says. “This sponsorship was supposed to be more for Clementine, not me. I haven’t been that involved in the ballet lately.”

He looks at me, and for the first time I see something less than steely wash over his irises.

“I hope she’s all right,” I say.

“I’m sure she’s fine. Just a busy woman. Hard to pin down.”

Our eyes latch for an unexpected moment, and I laugh nervously and then can’t think of anything to say.

“To be completely honest with you, I’m not sure why we’re bringing on another dancer, Ms.Banks. Clementine hardly has time for a dinner, much less a sponsorship.”

This is so awkward. Talking business with a man who wasn’t supposed to exist after the other night.

“Back in New York I barely even saw my donor. Honestly, I’m no trouble. I’m very good and—” I laugh again. “Sorry, I sound like a puppy hoping to be adopted.”

“Dad not around much when you were growing up?”

I feel like I missed a step. “Sorry?”

A server approaches the table, hands behind her back.

“Good evening, and welcome. Have we had a chance to look over the wine list?”

“Do you have a preference?” he asks me.

“Oh—anything.”

This isn’t quite true, but I assume he’s not going to order a box of Franzia, so I’m sure it’s fine.

“We’ll take a bottle of that Chablis, thank you, Mauritia.”

“Thank you, Mr.Cavendish.” She smiles gently and then walks off.

“As I was saying,” he goes on. “I am happy to buy you dinner so that you don’t feel as though you wasted your time, but I have to be up-front and tell you that we’re simply not in a position to be taking on any more sponsorships. You seem like a nice girl. I don’t want to try to fool you. I wish Clementine hadn’t agreed to this dinner at all, especially since she couldn’t come. It’s exactly the problem—she doesn’t have time for this right now. I’m sorry.”

Well, for one thing, that isn’t what he was saying, he was saying something about me having Daddy issues.

Nevertheless, I feel my heart sink down to the salmon-colored floor. Mary Simon said they were the only donors in town that would be big enough to move me up quickly. My mind begins to immediately reel with the need for new plans. To try a new company, I would need to move somewhere else.

Is my position at my old ballet company still available?

That would mean truly letting go of Jordan. How could we ever bounce back if I move away again?

A moment later, Mauritia reappears with a bottle of white wine. She presents it to us.

“This is the nineteen ninety-six Vincent Dauvissat Chablis Grand Cru ‘Les Clos.’?”

“Perfect.”

Nineteen ninety- six ? This wine is older than I am.

The server opens the bottle and then pours a splash into his glass. He swirls the glass, then sniffs it, then tastes it. “That’s excellent, thank you.”

She pours our glasses, then places the bottle in a tableside chiller that appears to be temperature regulated.

“It’s all such a ridiculous thing, the wine. I know. It’s a pretention. But it’s also damn good wine.”

I nod and say, “Probably better than that shit we drank the other night.”

We both take a sip, our eyes catching over the rims of our glasses. I can see amusement in his.

My heart sinks as I realize what’s happening here. He’s really rejecting me. And he’s slept with me. The answer must really be no.

“You look deflated,” he says when he sets his glass down.

“To be honest, I am,” I say, and then much to my bewilderment and fury, tears start to well. I dab at my eyes with the napkin, which feels like a waste of such fine fabric, and then shake my head. “God, I’m so sorry, I never cry. I don’t know what’s going on.”

“You can still stay at this ballet company and wait for another donor to come around, no? Mary Simon gave you a glowing review. So it’s really only a matter of time, correct?”

I nod bravely and clear my throat.

I know I don’t have time. I have Mimi to think about.

“Of course. I’m sorry. It’s not your problem. I can go. This is all so weird.”

I almost want to. Part of me wants to flee, run into the street and burst into ugly tears and then drown my sorrows in a bowl of Guinness Dubliner soup. But another part of me wants to stay here. Convince this man, who is clearly very powerful, to second-guess his good business instinct and sponsor me anyway.

“No. Don’t go. I at least owe you dinner after all this.”

“You bought me dinner first, remember?”

Another flash of amusement, but then he looks serious again.

“Ma—I mean…Mr.Cavendish—” I start to say, adrenaline boosting my nerve.

I don’t get a chance to finish, as a food runner comes over with a silver tray of oysters on chipped ice.

“From the chef, Mr.Cavendish,” says the runner. “These are Gillardeau oysters from ?le d’Oléron, sir.”

“Thank you, Eugene.

“These are very good,” Alistair tells me. “The Gillardeau oysters come with a laser etching on the shell to prevent counterfeiting.”

I hesitate. Should I just storm out? Or should I sink into this?

My eyebrows raise as I take one off the ice. I start to put a splash of mignonette on, when his hand touches mine.

I almost gasp at the surprise of his touch and the warmth of it.

“Trust me, try it on its own first,” he says. “They’re exceptional.”

“Okay.” I smile and then do as he says.

For me, oysters are nothing but an expensive vehicle for the crisp, tart bite of mignonette or the sinus-searing electricity of fresh horseradish, but I do it anyway.

He does not seem to be the kind of man you want to say no to.

I tilt my head back and let the oyster fall into my mouth. My tongue lights up with the bright minerality and soft texture.

“That’s delicious,” I say, covering my mouth and pretending it was as delicious as he said it would be. Maybe I’m just unsophisticated, but I missed the shallots and vinegar.

He flips over his shell on the ice and I see the engraving he was talking about, then do the same with my empty shell.

“If this were the other night, it would be time to mention how oysters are an aphrodisiac.”

Oh my god , why did I say that? That’s the kind of thing you think , you don’t say . Holy shit, and how inappropriate!

I bite my bottom lip and look at him, ready to apologize, but he has a slight smile at the corner of his lips. Even if there is a slight expression of cringe in the set of his brow.

“You know, oysters used to grow in the Thames. They went extinct.” He gives a shake of his head. “Unimaginable now, though I hear they’re back.”

“That’s a much more interesting tidbit than mine,” I say.

“I liked yours, too,” he says.

It would sound almost flirtatious if his eyes hadn’t completely wandered away from our table and into the belly of the restaurant.

We cannot be attracted to each other. As good as the other night was. We just cannot. Not now. Not now that I know who he is.

God, this is such a fucking disaster. This is what I get for wishing out loud that life were like a movie.

“This menu is amazing. I don’t know where to begin.”

This is very, very true. Unlike my review of the naked oyster. Most of this menu is in other languages, seeming to be as much in French as it is in Hebrew as it is in an Asian language I’m too ignorant to identify.

“I’m happy to order for you. If you wish.”

“Sure,” I say, putting down the menu, relieved.

He doesn’t ask me what I like. Doesn’t ask if I have any dietary restrictions. It reminds me of when I met Jordan for the first time in Vienna and he helped me order off of a long, complicated menu. He had been thoughtful and gentle. Nothing like this man, who exudes power and couldn’t seem less interested in something as frivolous as personal taste or a gluten allergy.

Neither of which I seem to have at the moment.

I sniff a little, still affected by my momentary tears. My nerve has decreased, and I don’t have the zeal I had a few moments ago to aggressively tell him to sponsor me.

Instead, I reach for my wine, which I didn’t really notice or taste, since I was too busy sharing an unexpected glance with Alistair and trying not to weep openly at what is unquestionably a Michelin-starred restaurant.

It’s magnificent. So wildly good that I can’t believe I didn’t notice it at first.

It tastes like how I imagine butter, but also how I imagine the scent of fresh lemon. The weight of it feels like my tongue pressed against someone else’s—someone delicious and intoxicating.

“This wine is amazing,” I say.

“It’s my favorite.”

He orders for us, and I don’t even understand what he says, so I’m glad I didn’t try to wade through the muddy language waters myself.

It’s odd to me, letting a man order for me. It’s the kind of thing I never do. It brings to mind Kathy Bates’s line in Titanic when Cal orders for Rose. You gonna cut her meat for her, too, there, Cal?

It’s not me at all, but there’s something that’s sort of a relief about it. To take the reins of my life and hand them over to someone else, even just for a meal.

For the next two courses, I try to get up the guts to tell him to sponsor me and I keep getting distracted by his conversation, his mouth around his fork, his hands on his knife, the scent of his cologne wafting toward me.

We make small talk and pretend we haven’t tasted each other.

He tells me about the first time he had the wine and asks me about my own indulgences. I tell him I love champagne and that I can’t stop smoking, even though I want to.

He doesn’t ask me where or how I grew up. He doesn’t ask me about ballet. He doesn’t tell me about his wife.

And I don’t ask.

I try yet again, two glasses in, to tell him to sponsor me, but I’m thrown off when he asks me what brought me to London.

“I moved here with someone,” I say, aware of how thin it sounds. “An artist,” I add, to beef it up.

“Anyone I might have heard of?”

“Jordan Morales?”

“That’s the artist you mentioned?” He thinks, and then says, “Large abstracts?”

I feel a shudder run through me at the idea that he knows Jordan’s work. “Yes,” I say.

“I had no idea that was who had a show the other night. I would have loved to go. I was just reading that he is one of the best artists to invest in right now.”

I don’t mention that my friend Artie wrote that article.

“That’s what they say,” I agree.

“It’s possible I already own a piece. I’m not sure.”

“How is that possible?”

He looks puzzled for a second and then adds, “I’m not aware of all the stocks I own at this point either. It’s an investment. If I’m correct, and I do own one, then it’s likely in a free port wrapped in weather- and climate-resistant packaging in order to preserve it.”

“Oh,” I say. Then, “He’d hate that.”

He finishes the last bite of his food and says, “He won’t hate it when he’s a millionaire with his work being studied around the world because rich assholes like me made it worth more.”

I don’t know why it is, but I know this is my chance.

“People act like money can’t buy you happiness, but I disagree.”

“You say this from the perspective of having none, I presume?”

“Well. I did have some. For a while, when I danced in New York. But I grew up with nothing and my mom was miserable.”

“No father?”

My hackles rise a little. “Not that I ever met.”

He leans back. “So I was right.”

“So we’re not pretending you didn’t ask that earlier?”

This feisty response seems to intrigue him more. I feel my thighs grow unexpectedly warm.

“You think money would solve all your problems. I’ll tell you a little secret.” He leans in again. “You’re probably right.”

I scoff.

He lets me hold his gaze and I do so challengingly. “Sponsor me.”

It is my instinct to backtrack. To laugh. To say I’m kidding. To look away. But I do none of these things, letting our eyes stay locked.

“How will that benefit me?” he asks.

This is it.

“I’m fucking amazing. You can’t put something like me in a free port and wrap me in plastic. You only get chances like me in the moment. As you well know.”

Something changes in his eyes, something unknowable. His intrigue and amusement meet something else, a box somewhere inside him.

I need to shatter that box.

Our last course is placed in front of us.

I’ve been so enraptured in his gaze that I didn’t even notice the server remove our last plates.

“This is the uni with black garlic,” says Mauritia, before backing away professionally.

“So what do you say?” I ask.

He hesitates.

“How far are you willing to go for your career?” he asks.

“A question like that from a man like you—that’s when most smart women would get up and leave the table.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You seem smart.”

“I am.”

“Then what are you still doing here?”

My heart is huge in my throat. We’re closer than we were before, and even though it’s a respectful distance, I feel as though I can feel the heat coming from him.

“Sponsor me. Max.”