Page 16 of Stay Awake
Lunch is a disaster. Marco’s investor, Dean Walker, is a cradle-snatching misogamist who makes it clear he expects me to use my contacts atCulturato get free publicity for his young wife’s fledgling design business.
It puts me in an awkward bind. Apparently, Marco’s other funding options have fallen through. Marco tried to sound blasé about the whole thing, but he obviously has a lot riding on this pending deal with Dean.
Emily’s in her midtwenties, a handful of years younger than me. She has coltish legs and long hair that’s more strawberry than blond. Her bust, if real, would be a wonder of the modern world.
Dean’s in his midsixties with dyed hair plugs and a face so Botoxed that he looks like a lecherous gargoyle. An ex-investment banker who runs a private equity fund, he met Emily at a green energy conference in Vegas. “The rest,” he says, waving his hand dramatically in the air, “is history.”
When we’ve settled at our window table, Dean and Marco jumpstraight into a discussion about their prospective business venture. I ask Emily about herself.
“I’m a dancer but my real love is fashion. I especially adore accessories,” Emily enthuses. “They can make or break an outfit. That’s why I designed my own handbag collection.”
She confesses that she has no design background and no experience in the fashion industry. “Dean says all I need is good publicity and my designs will be snapped up. Plus, I have my Instagram account.”
Her label is called Embr. “It’s the first two letters of my first and last name. The name was Dean’s idea.”
Emily takes out her phone and scrolls through to show me her handbags and accessories designs on her Instagram feed.
It’s obvious she’s here to pitch to me and I give the appropriate encouraging responses.
Emily asks me aboutCultura. “It must be amazing to work at such a prestigious magazine.”
“Oh, it is,” I respond. “I’m very lucky.”
I try to move the conversation in another direction. Every time I do, she brings the discussion back to the magazine. Eventually, she gets to the point.
“So how doesCulturachoose the fashion items it features in its hot new trends column,” she asks.
Getting a spot in theCulturadesign column is very sought-after since it is closely followed by fashion aficionados and department store buyers.
“To tell you the truth, I don’t deal with the style side of the magazine. I generally write features and do interviews.”
“Really? On what?”
Dean has apparently been listening to our conversation while talking to Marco and he intervenes to ask me bluntly whether I can arrange for Emily to be featured in the magazine.
“I was just telling Emily that it’s the style editor who decides. Ofcourse, I’m always happy to put in a good word for talented designers,” I say, as diplomatically as possible.
His eyes get narrow and mean. He’s about to say something when the waiter arrives with our meals artfully arranged on oversized white plates. The waiter moves around the table putting our orders in front of us, while telling us the names of the dishes and the key ingredients. When he reaches Emily, she asks whether the homemade aioli in her Caesar salad is vegan.
The waiter seems lost for words. Judging by the unease in his pale eyes, I can tell that he’s wondering whether he should point out that a Caesar salad is a decidedly non-vegan menu choice regardless of whether the aioli has eggs in it or not. Eventually, he says in a masterfully polite tone that he’ll check with the chef. He heads to the kitchen and returns a minute later.
“I’m afraid the aioli is not vegan. The chef tells me that since there are eggs, anchovies, and Parmesan cheese in the salad, he uses a traditional aioli. However, he can remake the salad for you with vegan mayonnaise if you prefer. Or if you prefer a vegan meal then you could choose one of the vegan items listed on the menu. They’re all marked ‘Vegan.’”
I admire the lack of irony in his voice.
“How long will it take to make her salad from scratch?” Dean snaps.
“About ten minutes,” the waiter says.
“So we’re all supposed to wait?” says Dean, staring him down.
The waiter holds his stare for a fraction of a second before his face goes blank and a servile expression magically appears. I sense it’s far from sincere. Who could blame him? Dean’s rudeness makes me blush.
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll keep the salad,” says Emily, staring at the ground as if she wished it would swallow her up.
“No, you won’t, honey,” Dean tells her. “Choose something else. The chef will expedite your order. Right?” he challenges the server.
“We’ll do our best.”
