Private Relations (18 page)

Chapter 31

What was it about Jewish girls and Chinese food?

No sooner did I arrive back in New York City did I get a phone call from Vanessa, imploring me to meet her uptown for dinner. I’d resisted, asked if we could schedule something later in the week -- but she was insistent. After a two-hour nap and a quick shower and shave, I got on the 4 train and made the pilgrimage to Shanghai Pavilion, one of the Upper East Side’s more reasonable Asian eateries on the corner of 78th and 3rd.

I stepped inside just as the bitter December wind began to howl outside. Diners sat on the plush leather chairs, awaiting the food that would arrive from the smartly-dressed waiters. White tablecloths and a seemingly endless array of wine at the bar promised a good evening, even if I would have to rehash the week’s events mere hours after getting back in the city.

Vanessa sat at a table near at the rear. She’s already ordered a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, knowing full and well I was likely to order a seafood dish and pair it with Wonton soup. She stood up, greeted me with a kiss on the cheek. I let myself, nuzzle my nose in her hair and take in the scent of her perfume.

“You know, we could have met in Chelsea,” I suggested. “Battery Park to the Upper East Side is quite the trek.”

“Yes, but that would have required me to get on a train downtown, which I wasn’t in the mood to do.” Her tone was playful, even if she was admitting to being lazy. “Besides, I knew you would like this place.”

I poured myself a glass of wine and took a quick sip. “It is beautiful, I’ll give you that.”

Our waiter arrived with an order of dumplings, then left us in peace. My stomach rumbled at the mere sight of them, and Vanessa added that she’d already ordered egg rolls and Wonton soup for us both. I wasn’t used to this much accommodation; usually I was the one who had to make all the decisions and maintain the run of show.

“All right, fess up,” I said. “Why am I really here?”

Vanessa rolled her eyes as she too poured herself a glass of wine. “Is it so hard to believe that I just wanted to see how you were doing?”

“Well, where do you want me to begin? The case is resolved, thank God. And of course you know that I can’t talk about it in detail. Confidentiality, and all that.”

“But you did see Bobby, right?”

I nodded. This is where things could get tricky. Vanessa knew the full extent of my relationship with Bobby back when I was a student, but not the latest developments of this past week. Mostly the fact that he and I slept together, and in a way had rekindled our relationship. At least now if we fucked, it was completely legal.

“How is he?” she asked.

“He’s had a rough for weeks, clearly.” I bit into a dumpling, washed it down with some wine. “But the past is behind us now. That’s what matters.”

“Did you sleep with him again?”

I dropped my fork and buried my face in my hands. “Jesus, Vanessa. Is that what this is about?”

“Don’t I have a right to know, after all this time? Considering that when you guys finally split before graduation you stayed in bed for three days straight?”

“That was a long time ago, Vanessa. Things are different now.
I’m
different now. We’re all adults here.”

“So, I’ll take that as a yes?”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “How did you know I was in bed for three days straight? You weren’t on-campus at this point.”

“Yes, but Logan was. And he let me know how much it fucked you up.”

The waiter returned just in time to remove the empty plate of dumplings and take our dinner orders. I ordered a cold beer and asked him to bring it as soon as possible. He smiled, ever so politely, then promptly left. Perhaps waiters knew when to make themselves scarce when diners were fighting over a meal?

“I really don’t understand your fascination with him,” I began. “Or should I say your deep-seated and irrational hatred?”

“I’m just trying to look out for you, Jesse. Unlike Autumn or Kurt or any of the new people in your life, I
know
what Bobby is capable of doing to you on an emotional level.”

“Trust me, I’m well-aware of what he’s capable of, too.”

“Then why put yourself in a position where he can hurt you again?”

“We shared one night together -- that’s it. Besides, there’s also the fact that ten years has passed since I graduated high school. I’m not some lovesick teenage boy anymore. If I want to see Bobby again, I can handle it.”

“I hope you’re right,” she said.

An awkward silence grew between us. Soon enough, our food arrived: shrimp and scallops in a spicy szechuan sauce for me, while Vanessa had gone with chicken lo mein. The Wonton soup arrived piping hot and equally delicious, with big noodles and hearty greens to boot. I dug into my food; I didn’t realize how hungry I was. Vanessa urged me to slow down, take it easy… then decided to toss in a highly juvenile joke.

“I hope Bobby didn’t get you pregnant.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. Softly at first, but before long it grew into a full-on, belly-aching howl. Our fellow dinner guests paused in mid-bite, eyes riddled with curiosity over what had me red-faced and on the verge of tears in the middle of the restaurant.

“Thanks, Vanessa. Now everyone here thinks I’m a lunatic.”

“You never cared about what people thought of you. No use being all conscientious now.”

We continued eating and drinking to our hearts’ content, whatever tension that’d flared between us now gone. Vanessa, as far as I could tell, was simply concerned about the possibility of me falling back under Bobby’s spell. That’d been the term she’d used when we were teenagers -- like Bobby was some sort of sorcerer with preternatural control over my emotions.

“Damn,” I said. “We definitely finished a bottle of wine by ourselves.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“So, now what? Do you want to head somewhere else? A movie, maybe? Or we could just head back to your place.”

Vanessa cocked an eyebrow. “My place..?”

“I didn’t mean that. Sorry.”

“Eric is there,” she added. “Given the incident you and him had in the shower back at the hotel, it’s probably not a good idea that I bring you home tonight.”

“I’m happy to give him a referral…”

“And, on that note, I think it’s time we asked for the check.”

I pulled out my VISA and offered to pick up the tab, but Vanessa insisted we split it right down the middle. I obliged, too tired from the week’s events to argue any further, then followed Vanessa outside onto Third Avenue. She leaned her head on my shoulder and let me wrap an arm around her waist. I caught myself right before I was about to kiss her forehead.

Careful, Jesse. She can put a spell on you much easier than Bobby can…

“So, where are we headed?” I asked.

“Let’s head over to Fifth Avenue,” she said, as we stopped at a red light. “I know a place…”

*
   
 
*
   
 
*

Bemelmans Bar was located inside the Carlyle Hotel, one of Manhattan’s most expensive hotels. While the overnight guests were usually old enough to claim Social Security, the bar featured live jazz and raucous crowds straight out of the 1920s.

Vanessa and I made our way to a small table facing the piano. The space was crowded and low-lit, the walls awash in hues of gold and red. The pianist at the center of the floor banged away at the keys, while the waitstaff brought beer, wine and champagne to the crowd.

How long had it been since Vanessa and I had been out for a night of live music? I completely forgot that she loved jazz -- Nat King Cole, Miles Davis and John Coltraine were among her favorites. For her, it was the improvisational nature of the genre that made it special.

“Have you come here before?” I asked.

“Eric likes jazz too, believe it or not. We’ve been here with some of his work colleagues now and then.”

“It’s a good spot.”

“What about you? Ever entertain one of
your
clients at this hotel?”

I nodded. “Put it this way: I know my way around the premises.”

I thought back to when I’d entertained a woman from London for the evening. She’d been staying at the hotel -- alone -- on business, and wanted nothing more than a handsome men to spend the evening with. And so we sat at the bar, not far from the spot that Vanessa and I had now, and listened to Eartha Kitt herself bang out the hits.

“Is Eric waiting up for you?” I asked.

“He knows I’m here with you. No worries.”

The pianist finished his set and soaked up the applause from the crowd. To my surprise, two glasses of complimentary champagne arrived at our table. Vanessa smiled, accepted them, then blew a kiss to a man off by the bar.

“Ex-boyfriend?”

“No,” she said, smiling. “He’s the general manager. I know him. I texted him ahead of time to let him know we’d be coming.”

Though the low light limited my view, I could see that the manager was a good-looking man in his late thirties, early forties, dressed in a sleek suit with perfectly coiffed hair. He nodded at me, then disappeared into the crowd. I turned back to Vanessa, my bemused smile a dead giveaway as to what I was thinking.

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” she said. “He and I are only friends.”

“Does this ‘friend’ of yours have a name?”

“Gregory.”

“Gregory…
”

She smacked me on the arm. “Will you just shut up and drink your fucking champagne?”

Indeed, the champagne was delicious. Combined with the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc that we’d topped off back at dinner, Vanessa and I were sufficiently buzzed. After a brief break, the pianist returned to the keys, accompanied by a blonde vocalist who joined him for a duet of
My Cherie Amor
.

“I’ve always loved this song,” Vanessa said. “Reminds me of Paris.”

“Oh, Paris. Some of us have never been, you know.”

“That’s a crime, Jesse. You need to go -- soon.”

Truthfully, a vacation wasn’t a bad idea. I’d earned plenty of overtime working this case, and assuming I booked a few overnighters or long weekends, I could gather enough cash to keep me afloat for the next few months
and
book myself a week in France. Paris was cold and grey in the winter, but nothing compared to New York. And didn’t I promise myself I’d see Europe before turning thirty?

“You’re thinking about something,” Vanessa said. “I can tell because your eyebrow is furrowed.”

“Just trying to plot my next move, that’s all.”

As
My Cherie Amor
concluded, I noticed that for the first time in a long time, I didn’t much care what the future held. These past few weeks, I’d done all that was asked of me. I had sex for money. I got Simone out of Drake’s life and salvaged the Academy’s reputation to the best of my ability. I’d made peace with Bobby and even accepted Vanessa back into my life.

“So, what is your next move?” Vanessa said.

“I’m not sure. And frankly, I don’t think I care.”

*
    
*
    
*

“Shh,” Vanessa said. “Don’t make a lot of noise!”

We’d left Bemelmans Bar and returned to Vanessa and Eric’s apartment on the corner of 89th Street & Park Avenue, not far from the orgy we’d attended on Museum Mile. As expected, the space was stunning -- three bedroom, three bathrooms, with views onto an interior courtyard and a wood burning fireplace as well.

“I feel like I’m sneaking you back into the boys’ dormitory all over again,” I teased. “You sure Eric is asleep?”

Vanessa had me sit down on the sofa in the living room while she checked in on Eric. According to her, he would be in their bedroom, passed out asleep in front of the television. He rarely made it through an episode of
Charlie Rose
or
Sherlock
without her. I kicked off my shoes, stretched out onto the sofa.

I’d been inside more than a few multimillion-dollar apartments on the Upper East Side, and Vanessa’s home easily ranked in the top five. I couldn’t help but wonder how much it cost -- three million? Four million? Perhaps even more?

I didn’t know what the hell I expected to happen next, but for some reason, I didn’t decline Vanessa’s invitation to return home with her. Perhaps I just didn’t want to be alone?

“He’s asleep,” Vanessa said, now back in the living room. “Come on, there’s something I’ve been meaning to show you.”

I followed her through the apartment, past the kitchen into a long, narrow hallway lined with doors on each side. She opened one and walked inside, and when she turned on the light I realized that we were now in a study. Judging from the cream-colored walls and plush red sofa, I’d say it was her space, not Eric’s. After asking me to close the door behind us, she began to rummage through a stack of books on a tall wooden shelf.

“Still hiding your marijuana in old books?” I asked.

“I wish. No, there’s a book I’ve been meaning to show you for a while now.”

Immediately, I recognized the large leather tome. Vanessa leafed through the contents and turned to one page in particular: the two of us, age sixteen, in front of the Christmas Tree at Rockefeller Center. I took the back into my hands and leaned back against the wall, amazed that she’d held onto our scrapbook for so many years.