Page 49 of The Unraveling

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?”

---