Ignoring his appeal, Doreen quirks an eyebrow at me. “You know, I must admit I thoroughly enjoyed watching your Caroline relentlessly brownnose Mr. Darcy. And the way he put you down time after time was pure joy.”
A decade ago, I might have stalked out at this point. But I’m an adult now, and I’ll prove it by staying.
Doreen addresses Dad again, “She’s a natural at toadying, don’t you think? For a self-described feminist, she licked Darcy’s hunting boots like she was born to do it.”
“She was playing a part,” Dad says. “And doing a great job of it!”
Mom’s round face contorts with dismay. She often says that her life’s biggest regret is that her girls don’t get along.
Am I surprised at Doreen’s attack? No.
Regardless, it affects me. The pity in Mom’s eyes makes it even worse. I don’t want it. It would’ve been nice if she’d spoken up to put Doreen in her place. But she won’t. She’s too flustered for that. We’re alike that way, Mom and I. Taunts throw us off balance. I tend to find a retort minutes later when it’s too late. Mom never does.
There—it just came to me!What I should’ve said to Doreen is “It’s called ‘projection,’ little sis. Brownnosing men is your MO, not mine. That’s how you got where you are now and that’s how you got your promotions!”
That reply would’ve been just as unfair and mean as her unwarranted attack.
But it’s too late now. That train has left the station, and it isn’t coming back. Time doesn’t work that way. Which reminds me…
Pointing at my watch, I say to Mom and Dad, “Got to run! Thanks for coming and for the wraps.”
My parents hug me, Doreen and I exchange dry nods, and I race back into the mansion.
CHAPTER18
MARGOT
Our fifth day’s performance was so flawless that Sandra cancels the debrief and authorizes us to leave the mansion for a proper dinner outside. She herself is going home to spend the evening with her husband and kids. She must’ve been missing them badly. Or maybe she couldn’t stand the idea of another pizza dinner.
Whatever her reasons, our director’s decision causes everyone to start calling up the restaurants in Bloomsbury. Unfortunately, none can be reserved for the entire company at such a short notice. We break up into smaller groups, and expand the search to Camden. Peter manages to book a table for six in a seafood restaurant in Kentish Town. In addition to himself, Peter’s group includes Hyacinth, Phil, Anand, Jonas, and me.
I’m determined to use this occasion to send all the right signals to Peter. It doesn’t matter if Hyacinth and Jonas cozy up to each other or not. My intentions with regard to Peter are honorable. He may be a nudnik, but he’s a good man. And he deserves a chance.
We set out at a brisk pace. The restaurant is only a twenty-minute walk from Bloomsbury. We pass the University of London, cross Tavistock Square, and hotfoot it through Somers Town. This yet-to-be-gentrified neighborhood is composed of ugly public housing projects tucked into a triangle formed by three big stations—King’s Cross, St Pancras, and Euston. In the dark, Somers Town feels much dodgier than in daylight.
But then, what area bordered by railway tracks doesn’t?
Fortunately, the restaurant is on the “right” side of the tracks. And it isn’t dodgy at all. It’s pretty chic, actually.
When the six of us step in, the maître d’hôtel leads us to a table in the back. I look around as we make our way. Pastel-colored chairs and tables covered with crisp white tablecloths are arranged in intimate groupings. The ambiance is fresh, classy, and very continental. The uniformed waiters glide across the floor with purposeful elegance, as though they were performing a country dance revamped for Napoleon’s court.
We sit down and order a bottle of reasonably priced white wine that we’ll share.
Jonas squirms at our choice. “If I foot the bill tonight, can I pick the wine?”
“Absolutely!” Hyacinth beams.
“No way!” the rest of us say.
“The plan was to go Dutch,” I remind Jonas, “and we’re sticking to our plan. You’ll have to grin and bear the wine of our choosing.”
Phil shoots me a reproachful look before turning to Jonas. “Your continued generosity is greatly appreciated,” he says in a much kinder tone than mine. “But we have limits.”
Anand, the oldest and wisest among us, strokes his goatee. “How about a compromise? We split five ways. Jonas orders what he wants and pays separately.”
No one objects, so that’s what we do.
The commoners will have fried calamari rings followed by an affordable seafood platter to share and a side of potatoes. The toff picks the priciest options on the menu.
