A Week in New York(12)
“What cycle of disappointment? I’ve never had a problem getting it up, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Her head snapped around and she looked at me and laughed—a genuine, full, unaffected laugh. “I believe that. Maybe you’re the fun I need,” she said almost to herself.
“Maybe I am.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll be better company when we get to the restaurant, I promise.”
“I don’t want you to be anything but yourself. You don’t have to put on any act with me.”
She stroked her thumb across my skin and I squeezed her hand.
We arrived at the restaurant sooner than I would have liked. I enjoyed having her next to me in the car with no one around us. I was close to suggesting we just go back to the hotel right now. But that would sound like I wanted to get into her underwear, which of course I did, but it wasn’t just that. I didn’t want to share her.
I knew instantly I’d chosen the wrong restaurant. We walked in and heads turned toward us, straining to see who had just arrived. It didn’t suit her. She wasn’t going to be impressed with seeing some powerful hedge fund guy or some Hollywood actor. I’d gotten this totally wrong. Fuck.
We were showed to our table toward the back of the restaurant. I was jumpy. I was very close to fucking this whole evening up.
“You ok?” she asked as we sat.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Sorry for going all Sylvia Plath in the car.”
I laughed. “You don’t have to apologize. I just want you to be yourself. I’m just a bit concerned this restaurant isn’t the right place for you.”
“Really?” she looked around. “It seems nice. You don’t like it?”
“It’s fine. I just don’t think it’s the type of place that I should have brought you. I should have picked a better restaurant.”
“It looks plenty fancy enough.”
“That’s the point. It’s too much I think. You suit something …”
“You don’t think I’m worth taking somewhere fancy?” She was smiling but it concealed an edge to her question.
“I think you’re worth taking to the fanciest place in New York City. But I’m not sure you’d like it as much as you’d like something a bit more relaxed. Less pretentious.”
She raised her eyebrows at me. “I can do fancy,” she said simply.
A very nervous waiter came over and went through the menu with us. I watched her as she smiled and nodded at him, trying to put him at ease. It was a kind thing to do, and when he left he looked like he was a little bit in love with her.
“What are you going to order?” I asked.
She was looking over my shoulder, not at the menu. She shrugged. “I’ll have whatever you have.”
“You will?”
She nodded. “I hate menus. I hate the deciding, so I prefer not to look.”
“So now I have to order something I think you’ll like. Like a test.”
“God no, that’s awful—what kind of women do you normally date? Just order what you want. It’ll be fine.”
“But if you don’t like it?”
“Then I won’t eat it, but I’m sure it’ll be fine. It’s not a test, honestly.”
I ordered. Sea bass. I wouldn’t normally order fish, but women liked fish, didn’t they?
“I don’t date,” I said when the smitten waiter had taken our order. Or my order for both of us.
“What?”
“You asked me a question about the kind of women I normally date.”
“Oh, yes. You don’t date?”
I shook my head.
“Oh, right. I can see there’s something of a monk about you.”
I laughed. “I didn’t say I was a monk. I said I didn’t date.”
“I’m not following you. You don’t like to call it dating?”
“Call what dating?”
“Dinner, drinks, back to your hotel. Do you live there?”
“No, I don’t live there. I just … book that suite sometimes.”
“Somewhere to stay with your non-dates?”
“I don’t stay there.” Why was I telling her this stuff?
“You’re talking in riddles.”
I took a deep breath. “I don’t do the dinner, drinks, dating thing usually … or ever. I book the suite, I fuck in the suite, but I don’t stay over.”
She looked at me but didn’t say anything.
I waited and she still didn’t say anything. Fucking hell. I knew I was going to fuck this up. This restaurant. Telling her about my relationships, or lack of them. What was I thinking? I should never have run into her at lunch. This was a disaster.