Page 40 of People Skills

‘Oh nothing exciting. English and a bit of Irish on Mum’s side.’

‘Right.’ He looks at me. ‘If I had my phone here, I would be making notes. I need to start carrying a notebook and pen.’

‘I’m not your research project. It’s not allowed.’

‘I’m sorry, but you are. You said I could pick anything, and I pick you.’

‘Are you just doing this to piss me off?’

‘Yes.’

I laugh. At least he’s honest.

‘Now,’ he says. ‘Do you want to start with your parents, or your career, or your love-life?’ He lays out a napkin like he’s about to start making notes. ‘Do you have a pen in your bag?’ he asks.

‘You know what?’ I say. ‘I’m ready for your piano performance.’

I stand up and walk to the back of the bar and sit down at the big table near the piano.

He follows me and slides into the seat across from me.

‘Not happening. Unless…’ His eyes alight on something on the nearby shelf. ‘Let’s play for it.’

‘Play what?’

‘Chess.’

I sigh theatrically.

‘Fine.’

‘If you win, I play the piano. If I win, you…’ He pauses. ‘You tell me what happened at Jones & Peterson.’

‘Okay,’ I say. My heart rate picks up a little, because I don’t want to share that story, and I have no idea how good Xavier might be at chess. But in my experience, people who are eager to play aren’t especially good.

We get the board down from the shelf.

My last in-person game was with Dad back when I was still living at home. We started playing again quite a bit, and we were at about the same level. Dad was the one who encouraged me to join the chess club at school, and it was his chess books I read when I was a teenager, trying to understand the game. Something about playing chess scratched an itch for me, in the same way editing and words scratched an itch, so even when I found it frustrating, I would return to it, wanting to get a bit better. Possibly it was also about my brothers. Chess was something Dad and I had just for the two of us, and when I did well, he praised me more than he did about anything else. Charlotte has a mind like a steel trap, he would say, and I liked that description a little too much. Then after a while, if you play enough of it, if you get good enough, if you start winning, then it’s hard to know if you truly like it or you’ve just developed those dopamine pathways in your brain.

‘Black or white?’ I ask.

‘Black,’ he says. Is he giving me the advantage to be polite or because he thinks I need it, I wonder. Dad taught me to assess my opponent from the minute we sit down to play. Does he (it is usually a he) seem comfortable handling the pieces, does he even know how to set up the board? A shocking number of people who think they’re good at chess can barely pass this simple test. And then, once you start, begin with a basic opening. Watch what they do. You’ll know in three moves if they’re any good.

I move my king’s pawn two spaces.

Xavier does the same. He’s drinking wine now, and he takes a sip.

I rest my chin in my hand, assessing him. If he was good at chess, really good, Hillary would have told me. Especially because she knows I play.

I decide I’m going to play the Vienna Gambit. Let’s push him, see if he knows what he’s doing. I move my queen’s knight into place.

‘Are you good at losing?’ he says, moving his king’s knight.

‘Are you?’ I say. I suspect he doesn’t have much experience losing at anything. Other than when The Deep didn’t do well, and that derailed his whole life.

‘I think you’re bad at winning,’ he says.

I smile at him and move a pawn. It’s bait. Taking the pawn will immediately put him in a losing position. I sip my wine and pretend to be uninterested in the game. He frowns at the board, and then he takes my pawn.