“She is converting it into a campaign.”
“That is exactly why I resist cooperation.”
Julien’s mouth twitches.
“She also sent the reservation overview.”
I hold out my hand.
He gives me the tablet.
The reservation system loads with the slight delay of technology deciding whether it wishes to serve or be thrown into the Seine. I tap the screen twice, and the first week appears.
Soft service holds. Investor dinner. Family-and-friends night, which will contain very few family members and even fewer friends, because personal categories become ridiculous once wine pairings are involved. First public service. Then the second. Then the third. Names fill the slots with the particular confidence of people who believe a reservation is an achievement. Some names are known. Some are useful. Some are merely rich, which is not the same thing and should not be mistaken for it.
Claire has flagged seven.
Of course she has.
Her notes appear in clean red text beside each entry.
Potential press. Confirmed industry. Possible guide. Known investor connection. High social reach. Likely critic.
I dislike the phrase high social reach so much I almost close the program.
Julien leans one hip against the prep table.
“Do not make that face.”
“This face is my natural response to civilization collapsing.”
“It is an Instagram account, Damien.”
“That is what I said.”
He takes the tray of portioned herbs from Inès and checks the labels.
“Claire wants you to review the flagged names before lunch.”
“Claire wants many things before lunch.”
“She usually gets them.”
“That is her tragedy.”
I scroll. The list moves beneath my thumb. Names. Dates. Times. Tables. Menu selections. Notes from the host stand. Allergies, dietary restrictions, requests, preferences, small declarations of importance disguised as service needs.
Window table if possible.
No dairy.
Birthday.
Anniversary.
No shellfish.
Discreet table.
