Chicago, November 2013

Cress

I step off the private elevator on the fortieth floor of One Financial Plaza in my new shoes. New shoes—ridiculous, bright-red, three-inch stilettos. What was I thinking? Oh yeah, Everest. Maybe the best restaurant in Chicago. One of the thirty or forty best in the U.S.

As I passed the store window, the shoes lured me in. My willpower collapsed like a condemned building. This is so not me. I’ve only had them a minute, and they’re cheese graters for feet.

A quick roll of my ankle on the slick granite floor reminds me why I don’t wear high heels. My arms splay and rotate like a windmill. The shopping bag that holds my serviceable flats and my small evening bag spins off my wrist. One shoe skids away. Crap, crap, crap.

The brown kraft-paper bag is a missile that hurtles toward a man on his way to the restaurant entrance. My mouth opens in soundless warning as it speeds toward an invisible bullseye.

Thunk. The bag bounces off his arm. 

My evening clutch pops out, wide open. Damn that broken clasp. Change rings against hard wood and granite, spraying in all directions. I drop to my knees and crawl after the quarters and pennies. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him spin. A frown twists lush lips.

“You all right?” A foot in a brogue polished within an inch of its life rests a millimeter from my fingers as I reach for more coins. A shoe, a red shoe, is in his hand. 

“Lost something?” He holds it out to me. His rich British accent sends a prickle down my spine. I tip my head up to give him a quick once-over.

A spark flashes through eyes that remind me of a walk on the beach in winter. A face bisected by a high-bridged aristocratic slash of a nose. My face tingles. The tips of my ears are warm. I grab the shoe, drop it on the floor, and hide my face in my hands. 

“Fine. Sorry. I lost my balance and the bag escaped.” My fingers muffle the sound.

He starts to bend down. His hand brushes my ear. 

Zap. I scoot backward.

He straightens up and shakes his hand. “Pins and needles.”

With effort, I wrench my focus back to the coins. My good luck charm, a Victorian black opal pendant I bought when my first book sold, slides back and forth against the sanded silk of my shabby chic little black dress. Streaks of fire reflect off the granite floor as it swings. I brush stray discs into the pile. 

“Just trying to help.”

“I can manage. Thanks, though.”

A loud male voice calls out, “Hey, Max. Get in here.”

“Half a mo’.”

I wave him off. “Your friends want you.”

“But…”

“I’ve got this.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah. Go on.” 

He straightens, turns, walks into the restaurant.

I stare at his back in the perfect gray suit. The color matches his eyes. 

The heap of change winks at me. I slip on my shoe and pick them up so no one else falls. Little traitors.

Purse and shoe box stuffed back into the shopping bag, I stagger through the wood-framed doorway.

The tables are all full. I have a word with the maître d' before he shows me to a center table where four people give me a standing ovation. Heat burns my cheeks. The other diners stare, some annoyed but more amused. In fact, complete strangers join in, clapping. 

A group of men in elegant suits, ensconced at a round table positioned to enjoy the spectacular view, whistle loudly. My nose wrinkles. Over-aged frat boys.

With my unruly curls and my almost too-thin frame, all these people may wonder if I’m some D-list celeb. I look like a starved model, but the genes tell the story. I have the appetite of a hockey player after a game.

My best friend, Micki, leads the cheers. She is a statuesque platinum blonde, all curves, killing it in a red-sequined dress. My shoes would be perfect. 

She glances toward my feet. “Nice shoes. New?”

“Yeah. Big mistake.”

“About time you started to wear grown-up shoes.”

We wear the same size. I’ll wrap them up for Christmas. One pair of fancy shoes, light wear. 

Her SO, Sam, is three inches shorter and resents it. My other best friend, Paul, is medium height with a monk’s tonsure and average features that are transformed when he smiles. His wife, Ellie, is twenty years younger than the rest of us and short. I’m a giant next to her. She has long purple and pink hair with nails to match and a sharp, foxlike face.

The staff stare, wide-eyed, jaws dropped. I mouth an apology.

“Sit down already,” Sam growls. He’s dressed in an untucked plaid shirt and dark jeans. His gut hangs over his belt. I wonder how he even got in. 

I slide into the chair pulled out by the table captain and check out the room. Enormous windows showcase the city. My best friend has done me proud.

I shoot a look at Sam.

“What? The only rule here is shirt and pants.” A grin splits his face, and he pulls out an oversized clip-on bow tie. “Miche worried they might not let me in without a tie, so I brought this just in case.” 

He waves the red clown tie festooned with yellow, blue, and green polka dots in my face, clips the monstrosity to his shirt pocket like an obscene boutonnière, then runs his fingers through his sparse, straw-like hair.

“How many times do I have to tell you that a miche is a large loaf of bread?” 

“You’re tellin’ me that’s not a compliment? Bread is the staff of life.” He smirks.

“Stop it.” Micki raps his knuckles with her talons.

“Just teasin’.” His fake drawl makes me cringe.

The rest of us sit down just as the sommelier comes over with a bottle of Veuve Cliquot, which she pours with a flourish. 

Micki lifts her glass. “To Cress. Congratulations on being nominated for the most prestigious award a historical novelist can win.”

“To Cress.” They all lift their glasses and drink.

The server comes over. She seems slightly taken aback when she looks over our table, head slightly lowered, a glance from the corner of her eye. Her hand sweeps the air over the unopened menus. “Ready to order?”

Paul takes over. “We’ll have the tasting menu with wine.”

“All of you?” She picks up the menus, almost as if she wants to hide behind them.

“Yes.” Paul gestures around the table. “All of us.” 

Sam’s face twists. “Why not a bourbon tasting?”

“Wine. What a great idea.” Micki squeezes Sam’s hand so hard he winces.

“Okay.” The woman scuttles away.

Ellie, Paul’s wife, tosses her hair back and sniffs. “What got up her butt?”

“She looks familiar somehow.” Micki stares after her. Paul nods.

Sam gives a dismissive wave. “Probably she’s worked somewhere else we’ve eaten.” 

Micki turns and cranes her neck for another glimpse. “I eat here pretty often with clients, and I’ve never seen her here.

My spine tingles. The way she seemed to hide was weird. 

“What is this award?” Ellie’s eyes are bright with curiosity. 

My apprehension drains away and excitement bubbles up. I reach for my water glass. My hand hits the stem, and it keels over. Water gushes over the table. Sam gets the brunt of the deluge. 

“Christ, Cress.”

“Sorry.” I put my hands over my mouth.

“You’re fire engine red.” Paul blots his shirt. 

People hover around, mop up the table, hand napkins to Sam, and pour me fresh water.

Once everything is back to a kind of normal and Ellie stops giggling, I go back to my explanation. My hand snakes out for my glass. Micki taps my wrist then moves the glass closer to my bread plate.

“About ten years ago, the Société des Romanciers Historique, an international organization located in Paris, decided to start an award for the best historical novel of the year. Not sure why their year is September to September, but anyway…” My voice trails off. I rub my nose.

Ellie goggles. “Do you have to be so pretentious, Cress?” 

I catch my tongue between my teeth before I can stick it out at her. 

“They named the award for two famous historical novelists of nineteenth-century France.”

Her eyes glaze over. Why did she bother to ask if she isn’t interested?

“Go on, Cress.” Paul rubs his hand over his bald spot.

“Anyway, it’s named for Victor Hugo, who wrote The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and Alexandre Dumas père, who wrote The Three Musketeers.” 

“Why is he called a pear?” Ellie’s face looks totally innocent.

Ellie’s gaze wanders around the room, but like a homing pigeon, her attention goes back to the group at the window table, lingers on the wolf-whistlers. I glance over. Four handsome men in their forties lounge in the black armchairs and sip cocktails. I peek at the man who faces our table—the guy I hit with my bag. Almost black hair, glasses, a blue Oxford cloth shirt with the top button undone and a tie, loosened. Check him out again. Squint. Can’t be sure, but it looks like Balliol. A striking oval face, high cheekbones, and a chiseled, squared-off chin. Movie star good looks.

Micki checks him out. “Hey, he looks like David Tennant with glasses and dark hair.”

“Who?” Ellie looks confused.

“Yeah, Dr. Who.” Micki throws her a wicked grin.

“Uh…” If anything, Ellie looks more confused.

“Just some British sci-fi. Let it go,” Paul advises her.

I pull my eyes away and clear my throat. “It’s a really prestigious award, and I’m one of the five finalists for this year.”

“But the pear.” 

“P-E-R-E. French for father. Now stop being silly.” Paul’s voice is impatient.

Ellie’s cheeks pink. Micki chortles. Sam is glazed over with indifference. 

“I’ll be on Morning at 7 Friday to talk about the book and the award.” The words come out in a whoosh. I slump and push back the damp curl that clings to my cheek.

Our server hovers at a nearby table. I finish my hurried explanation, and she moves off. When she realizes we’ve noticed her, a flush rises on the back of her neck. 

Sam raps lightly on the table to get our attention and starts an interminable story about an art exhibit where he will show his “found art” installations. I’m a little ticked but not really surprised that neither he nor Ellie wants to know about the book. Micki and Paul suffered through everything while I hid in my cave to pound out words, occasionally creeping out to whine.

On and off through course after course of delectable Alsatian specialties and far too much wine, the fishbowl sensation waxes and wanes. The middle-aged businessmen glance over on and off. Maybe they expect firecrackers next. I catch glimpses of our server, who hovers around the tables near us far more than she needs to. In the end, I shake off the discomfort and celebrate with my friends. 

By the time the mignardises and petit fours arrive with coffee, I can hardly move. Our server has disappeared from the room, most of the tables are empty. Paul signals to the maître d'.

“We’re ready for the check.” He flourishes his black AmEx card.

“Your meal has already been paid for.” He gestures toward me.

“What?” Paul frowns.

“My celebration, my treat.”

Paul and Ellie offer to drive me home to the far north side, way past their own house in Old Town. A bus home doesn’t seem like a great idea. Don’t want to cram into Sam’s truck either.

At home, I put the new shoes in the box. Remember, Cress, wrap them up for Micki. I pull the dress over my head and hang it in the closet. I don’t set an alarm.

* * *

Crack of dawn. My head throbs and my eyelashes glue my eyes closed. Dorothy and Thorfinn jump on my stomach. Double whammy.

“Fuck. Get off.” I push them to the floor. Four green eyes glare at me. Dorothy hisses. Bad cat mom. 

I stagger into the kitchen and pull a large glass out of the cabinet. A prairie oyster and a couple of ibuprofen are just the ticket with a big glass of ice water the chaser. Dig a bag of frozen peas out of the freezer then shuffle to the chair in the living room.

The pain recedes and my stomach settles. Micki shows up and suggests we go out for a hangover reviver before she drags my unwilling body downtown to pick out a suitable dress for my TV interview.

At Strings in Chinatown, I order spicy tonkatsu ramen to clear my still-fuzzy head. This is probably the third hangover I’ve ever had, and the worst. 

“I may never drink again.”

Micki rests her hand on my wrist. “You still have a pulse. This will pass, and you’ll forget all about it until the next time.”

“No next time.” I pull my hand out of her grasp and hold up it up to stop her. “This is the worst morning of my life.”

“Three hangovers in forty-five years is nothing. You’ll drink again.” 

I drop my head into my hands. “No way. Never.”

She giggles. “Your birthday is soon—we’ll get you drinking again by then.” 

I pick up the check. My best friend offered to take the day off from her busy law office just to help me, so it’s the least I can do.