“Not hungry?” Rae asked.
“Not really.”
Rae tried not to project what it meant, and she tried not to forecast into the future as they sat side by side but far apart, both staring at the abstract jigsaw print, jarringly out of place amid the beige.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
MIDTWENTIES BARGAINING POWER
“Your reservation is for two people,” the hostess at Carbone, one of Manhattan’s most sought-after restaurants, told Rae. “But there are … four … of you.” She eyed the Scramblettes coldly. They were all dressed in sequined flapper dresses and plastic headdresses, standing out just slightly amid the sophisticated cocktail attire of the other diners.
“A table for two will be just fine,” Ellen said. “We can squeeze. It’s really no inconvenience.”
“And double the sales for you,” Rae piped in.
“She’s turningtwenty-five,” Sarah told the hostess, nodding at Ellen, as if to clear up any doubt about the worthiness of the occasion.
“And we’ll post amazing reviews on social media,” Mina assured, snapping photos of the trendy interior as she spoke.
Having flashbacks to sitting on the penthouse floor for her own birthday, Rae had called weeks in advance to reserve this A-list Italian spot in Greenwich Village for Ellen’s celebration. They’d only had a table for two left, but Ellen had assured her it would all work out.
A middle-aged man walked over. “What’s going on over here?” he asked. The glamorous restaurant was very hushed, as if someone had put a candle snuffer over the whole place, so their conversation with the hostess had turned a few scowling heads.
“These girls don’t seem to be able to count,” the hostess said, but Ellen cut in, talking directly to the man.
“You’re not themanager?”
The man nodded. “That’s right.”
Ellen flashed her million-watt smile. “Can you believe it, girls?” she gushed to the Scramblettes, who cooed appropriately. “A culinary icon in our midst!”
The manager appeared delightfully flustered. “Well, I suppose wehavebecome something of a celebrity hangout,” he said. “What’re you ladies celebrating tonight?”
“It’s my birthday,” Ellen said. “We’re having a midtwenties flapper theme—you know, a play on the Roaring Twenties.” She chuckled charmingly. “My friend thought of it. She’s a poet.” She proudly patted Rae’s shoulder. “Anyway,” Ellen went on, “it just seems there’s been a glitch in the reservation system … your lovely hostess only has us down for a table of two …”
The manager scanned the jam-packed restaurant, apparently seeking a solution.
“The thing is, we’re absolutely fine with the small table,” Ellen said. “We like sitting on each other’s laps. It’s so intimate, isn’t it? Anyway, I know that’s a little unconventional in such anupscale establishmentas this one, but we promise to be on our absolutebestbehavior.” She beamed again.
The manager blinked, but only for a moment. He wasn’t the first to have become hopeless under Ellen’s persuasive powers. “Well, of course,” he said, as the hostess shot daggers their way. “Seems like a very reasonable request for such a special night. Follow me, right this way.”
He showed them to a table for two in the corner of a navy-walled room adorned with paintings of the statue of David that showcasedseveral different angles of his chiseled face. Old-world chandeliers dangled delicately from the glass ceiling, and the white tablecloth was set with two candles and a vase of fresh lavender sprigs.
The Scramblettes arranged themselves happily, Ellen on Rae’s lap and Mina and Sarah squeezing side by side on the same chair.
“And that,” Ellen said in a low voice, once the manager had walked away, “is how it’s done.”
“You were brilliant,” Sarah said.
“So poised,” Mina added.
“Midtwenties girls have lots of bargaining power,” Rae noted, hugging Ellen from behind.
Thoroughly amused with themselves, the Scramblettes worked to keep their laughs from entering snort territory as the other diners, all glamour and gaunt faces, shot disapproving looks while picking at thirty-six-dollar Caesar salads.
“Order whatever you want,” Sarah told Ellen.
“Our treat,” Mina agreed.
