Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
Juliette wasn’t here yet; she was late. Since she was paying for lunch, I didn’t complain. And since it was Juliette, and I didn’t really want to spend more time with her than was absolutely necessary, again, I didn’t complain.
The restaurant was even more ridiculous inside.
The fog machine worked overtime, and thick white vapor blocked out the whole floor below the knees, giving the impression that we were dining on a cloud.
The internal walls and privacy partitions were white blown glass, lit from within to give a heavenly, otherworldly glow, and the external walls were floor-to-ceiling glass, giving a spectacular view of the entire skyline of San Francisco.
Not that you could really see it, since the vapor on the floor was so thick.
“May I get you a glass of wine to start with, madam?” The ma?tre d’ reached into the clouds and held out my chair. I was glad he had. I couldn't even see the table in the thick fog.
“Yes, please, I’d love a glass,” I said, settling into my chair.
I’d need something to make this lunch bearable.
A white-jacketed waiter drifted by like a ghost, placing a small plate of thick-cut sourdough bread with a side dish of creamy yellow butter in the middle of the table.
“White wine, and not too sweet, please.”
“We have a lovely bottle of twenty-seventeen Chateau Du Go?t D'essence.”
I hesitated. It was a five-hundred-dollar bottle of wine. I could only have one glass, since I was going back to work in forty-five minutes.
Then, I shrugged. Juliette was paying. I picked up a thick slice of sourdough and found my butter knife in the mist. “Sure. Why not?” Carefully, I slathered the bread with the butter, then took a bite.
Good God, it was heavenly. I had to stifle a moan.
The bread had a beautiful crust, not hard enough to cut your mouth to ribbons like most sourdough these days, but just crisp enough for that beautiful crunch.
The inside was chewy with a well-balanced flavor and a subtle, almost zingy sourdough tang.
I noticed the ma?tre d’ staring at me. I paused, mid-chew and glanced up at him. “Is that okay? Or is there another bottle you wanted to recommend?”
“Oh.” He visibly shook himself. “Of course, madam, I’ll get the bottle for you. I didn't mean to stare. I’ve just never seen anyone actually eat the bread before.”
I froze, a delicious hunk of sourdough still gluing my teeth together.
Tentatively, I chewed again. It certainly tasted like bread, but maybe my mind was playing tricks on me.
It had been over two years since I’d gone to a pretentious, overpriced restaurant like this—I’d forgotten all about the pageantry.
“Oh, God,” I mumbled. “Was that actually bread, Crispin? Did I just eat my table napkin, or something like that? Or was it, like, headphones? Was I supposed to put them on my head so I can experience the sound of seagulls in Norway while I eat the kj?ttboller with creamed cabbage?”
“No, madam. It was bread. Roquefort and almond sourdough from a local experimental artisan cooperative bakery, actually. Locally sourced ingredients, of course.”
“Of course,” I murmured. “What’s the problem, then?”
“Nobody eats the bread, madam.” He eyeballed me steadily. “Nobody ever eats the bread.”
I stifled my sigh. I forgot about that, too. Before my breakdown, I hadn’t eaten bread in years.
Nobody in my social circle ate carbs. None of the women did, anyway. “If nobody eats the bread, why do you make it so damn delicious, then, Crispin?”
“It is a matter of reputation, madam.”
“Of course.” I buttered another thick slice and sprinkled a little flaky sea salt on top and heard him moan.
When I got out of the psychiatric hospital, the only thing I could afford to eat was bread. It stopped being the enemy and became my best friend. I could have slapped Old Susan for depriving herself of the wonders of bread.
There was nothing like warm buttered toast. A croissant and an espresso first thing in the morning was my idea of heaven.
Crispin, the ma?tre d’, still hadn’t moved. I saluted him with my sourdough. “Did you want to stay here and watch me eat another slice?”
“Ooh.” He visibly quivered. “Yes, please, madam.”
“Okay.” I took a bite, and chewed, and glanced back up at him. “Actually, you know what, no. This is too weird.”
He bowed. “I’ll get you the wine, madam.” He drifted back into the white haze and disappeared.
He reappeared with my bottle of wine, and unfortunately, with Juliette in tow.
“Sorry I’m late, Sue, darling,” she cooed. “Atticus Leopold fell off a horse at the academy this morning.”
“Oh, no.” I waved my butter knife at her as she tried to air kiss me hello. Juliette had three kids, and all of them had the most unbearably pretentious names I’d ever heard in my life. “Is he okay?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Probably. That’s why I’m late, though; my maid had to pick him up and take him to the hospital.” Her big over-inflated lips drooped down into a frown. “I had to do my own hair and makeup.”
“Oh no!” I tried and failed to keep the sarcasm out of my tone. “Are you okay?”
“I will be, I suppose,” she sighed, tossing her ponytail back.
As usual, Juliette wore her hair scraped back into a high ponytail, pulling the skin of her face as tight as possible.
During the day, she favored any kind of outfit that reminded people she used to be a tennis pro, and today was no exception—she wore a white dress with a collar and a pleated skirt, with a soft white cashmere sweater tossed elegantly over her shoulders.
All she needed was a couple of racquets slung around her neck, and she’d be ready to play.
She settled herself into her chair, and for some reason, scooted it over so she was sitting next to me rather than across, then looked at me, her expression coy. “Thanks for agreeing to come to lunch today, Susan. I’m so glad we can take this opportunity to bury the hatchet.”
I smiled back. Yeah, bury the hatchet right in my back.
I wasn’t a fool. “No problem, Juliette. You know how much I hate unresolved conflict.” I waved the last piece of sourdough in the air, silently challenging her to take it off me.
Apart from glaring at it once, she ignored it, so I took a big bite and chewed happily.
“I know we’ve had our differences in the past, but we’re both mature women, there’s no reason for us to be fighting. ”
“You’re right.” Her smile grew strained, and she wiggled a little closer to me.
“And you can hardly blame me. You know how much I love a good story. It’s one of the reasons I married the owner of a news station; so I could always have my finger on the pulse.
” Her confident expression wobbled for a second.
“That’s why I married… Tony. Yes, that’s it. ”
I stifled my snigger. “Did you just forget your own husband’s name?”
She waved her hand, unrepentant. “I haven’t seen him in about six months. You can’t expect me to remember everything. Now, where was I?”
“You were apologizing for spreading ugly rumors about me.”
Her face hardened, then, with visible effort, she forced herself to smile again. “Oh, come on. I don’t think I went that far. I was just speculating, that’s all. You showed up for dinner with a mysterious European stranger. What were we supposed to do?”
I already knew I wasn’t here so she could apologize, but it was fun to poke her. “Juliette, you quite literally told your friend Jessica Morningside that I was grooming her daughter, and I’d had her sex-trafficked to the mafia.”
“Oh, I was just being dramatic.” She waved her hand again airily, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “I didn’t realize Jessica would take me seriously. She should know me better than that.”
Another white-jacketed ghost drifted through the mist and placed a plate in front of me, before whispering, “Smoked salmon and caviar on potato pancakes with dill creme fraiche.” He floated away, out of sight.
The whole dish was less than a mouthful. And it probably cost fifty dollars. There was no way of telling; Crispin hadn’t given us a menu.
I swallowed the whole thing in one gulp and turned back to Juliette. “Well, she did take you seriously. And she took her concerns to the police.”
“Well, they’ve obviously got too much time on their hands.” Juliette pushed her plate away without touching it and took a sip of her champagne.
“Her seventeen-year-old daughter was missing. The police came to my place with a warrant.” I met her gaze and held it. “Do you have any idea how traumatizing that was for me?”
Juliette stared back at me. “No.”
“You don’t think it would have upset me?”
“It wouldn't have upset me. I know you don’t get out much anymore, Sue, so I assumed it would have been exciting for you.”
This was going to be harder than I thought.
She didn’t get it. Juliette couldn’t comprehend being frightened of being arrested and thrown in jail.
Before it happened to me, it wasn’t something I was scared of either.
But even now, the memory haunted me—of having my hands wrenched behind my back, my cheek pressed into the ground, cold steel handcuffs snapped around my wrist.
I gave her a frank look. “Have you ever been arrested, Juliette?”
She laughed, tossing her head back haughtily. “Of course not. Why would anyone want to arrest me? I don’t do anything illegal. My accountant is a genius, and all my party drugs are on prescription.”
“You got caught shoplifting in Maximillian’s last year.”
Her laughter faded. “I spend a fortune in that boutique every year. It’s not really shoplifting. I have every right to take some things for free. And anyway, they wouldn’t dare arrest me.”
Even if they had, Juliette wouldn’t be scared. She’d be outraged that someone dared try to stop her. I could imagine her trying to punch her arresting officer. She would probably even get away with it.