1
Henri
What’s your job again?” Porter asks as he fidgets at the table next to me. His blue eyes jump from my face to the heavy oak doors of Bide, a quaint restaurant with warm lighting and dark wood accents thatSpitfire Magazinehas labeled asthe perfect place to make your midwestern parents feel at home in the heart of Manhattanon its iconic, yearly “Feast in The City” list.
My late-lunch date is handsome in the way he doesn’t know that he is, with freshly-cut honey-brown hair, a crooked nose that his glasses insist on sliding off of, and persistent stubble hugging his square jaw. Not handsome enough to typically excuse forgetting basic facts about me before meeting his parents for Thanksgiving, but this isn’t exactly a typical situation.
“I’m a freelance consultant,” I say, flashing my practiced reassuring smile.
He flushes, nodding and dislodging his glasses yet again. “Oh, yeah.”
“If they ask for more I’ll answer, but usually parents don’t. I’ve done this plenty, so if you feel like you’re stuck just tap my foot with yours under the table twice and I’ll take over.” I tap his foot with mine to demonstrate the motion.
My clients tend to be anxious, which is understandable. I would be anxious too if this wasn’t my hundredth time pretending to be in a committed relationship with someone I’ve come to know through a series of surveys and interviews.
The entry doors open, letting in a flurry of snow along with a brunette woman in a peacoat and a tall, blond man with fogged-up glasses that he pulls from his face.
Porter pushes back from the table abruptly, causing the pristine white plates to clatter against the glass table top. I rise with him to meet his parents as they’re led to us by the hostess.
“This place is just like Nanette’s, isn’t it Jacob?” Audre McCabe asks her husband, who has finally gotten his wire-framed glasses to clear.
Both are real estate agents in Ohio, members of their local bowling league, and advocates for their only child to move closer to home and out of the city. All of which are facts I have written down on a stack of notecards tucked into the side pocket of my monstrously large purse, so they don’t get lost in the extra changes of clothes I have stuffed inside.
My mission for the next hour? Not only help sidestep their pleas for him to return home, but also, with any luck, show them how much he belongs in Manhattan. If all goes well, the family will get through this late Thanksgiving lunch miraculously argument free.
“Yes, yes it does. The herbs,” Jacob agrees.
“Rosemary,” Audre asserts, then turns to her son with an expectant expression. “Porter, doesn’t this make you miss home? I bet it’s half the price and just as good, same as everything else.”
“Well, I would miss him if he left,” I say to disrupt the classic nostalgia angle she’s employing. I grab Porter’s sweaty hand and give it a quick squeeze. “I’m Juliet, his girlfriend.”
Not my real name, of course. It’s a fun part of the fantasy and I couldn’t help but indulge. Maybe it would be different if I was a Sara or an Emily, but there aren’t enough Henrietta’s running around for me to just be handing out my actual name to folks.
And there’s the added bonus that if you search Henrietta Elm you’ll find about a thousand articles where my name is referenced alongside one Jeremy Elm, embezzler extraordinaire. I’ve got to give credit where credit’s due, though, and the truth is, my dad knew how to steal money from his investors. He had a hundred million stowed away before the Feds started to sniff around. Call me crazy, but most people don’t want their sons dating the daughter of one of the most infamous white collar criminals of the last decade.
“Oh my gosh, she’s a stunner! You didn’t tell us that,” Audre gasps. I’m quickly learning she’s the type of person who can make even a breath end in an exclamation point.
“I promise, I tried to,” Porter says to me, a wince crinkling the corners of his eyes.
“They were just excited to see you! I mean, who wouldn’t be?” I say, then turn to Audre. “You have to tell me where you got the coat from.”
“Thrifted five years ago. They don’t make clothes like this anymore, and there’s no point buying something new every season if what you have already works,” she says.
“I couldn’t agree more; I’ve had this dress for years.” I gesture to the simple, red knit dress that hits just above my knees. Guiding conversations. Slipping to the right clothes. Picking the appropriate restaurant. All of it is an art—how to be the perfect date. If I were to have worn something flashier, or invited them to a small plates restaurant instead, I would have set Porter upfor failure. “That’s why I think you’ll love this place—classics, the way they should be. I’m so excited for you to try everything. Let’s sit down and eat.”
Porter wraps his arm around my waist as we wave to his parent’s cab. He’s relaxed considerably since the start of dinner, and a soft smile has found its way to his lips.
“Thanks for tonight,” he says, stepping away now that their cab is out of sight, lost in the relentless stream of Manhattan traffic. “Really, I just wanted to get them off my back for the holidays, but they actually seem excited about coming back to visit again.”
“Of course. You obviously love the city and they love you. I’m just helping bridge the gap,” I explain.
Usually, that’s how simple things are. Be the girlfriend, but more importantly, be the intermediary for people who care about each other, but need help communicating because they’re scared to voice how they really feel. I’m the person at the dinner table my clients know is on their side no matter what.
If I’m there, they’re not alone. Sometimes knowing you’re not alone is all you need.
“Can I tip you?” He starts to reach for his pocket, his coat flapping wide in a gust of brisk late fall air.
“Please don’t, you’ve already taken care of everything.” My services during the holidays don’t come cheap. “The rolls I snuck out in my bag are enough.”
