Page 47 of The Unraveling

Well, for one thing, that isn’t what he was saying, he was saying something about me having Daddy issues.

Nevertheless, I feel my heart sink down to the salmon-colored floor. Mary Simon said they were the only donors in town that would be big enough to move me up quickly. My mind begins to immediately reel with the need for new plans. To try a new company, I would need to move somewhere else.

Is my position at my old ballet company still available?

That would mean truly letting go of Jordan. How could we ever bounce back if I move away again?

A moment later, Mauritia reappears with a bottle of white wine. She presents it to us.

“This is the nineteen ninety-six Vincent Dauvissat Chablis Grand Cru ‘Les Clos.’ ”

“Perfect.”

Nineteen ninety-six? This wine is older than I am.

The server opens the bottle and then pours a splash into his glass. He swirls the glass, then sniffs it, then tastes it. “That’s excellent, thank you.”

She pours our glasses, then places the bottle in a tableside chiller that appears to be temperature regulated.

“It’s all such a ridiculous thing, the wine. I know. It’s a pretention. But it’s also damn good wine.”

I nod and say, “Probably better than that shit we drank the other night.”

We both take a sip, our eyes catching over the rims of our glasses. I can see amusement in his.

My heart sinks as I realize what’s happening here. He’s really rejecting me. And he’s slept with me. The answer must really be no.

“You look deflated,” he says when he sets his glass down.

“To be honest, I am,” I say, and then much to my bewilderment and fury, tears start to well. I dab at my eyes with the napkin, which feels like a waste of such fine fabric, and then shake my head. “God, I’m so sorry, I never cry. I don’t know what’s going on.”

“You can still stay at this ballet company and wait for another donor to come around, no? Mary Simon gave you a glowing review. So it’s really only a matter of time, correct?”

I nod bravely and clear my throat.

I know I don’t have time. I have Mimi to think about.

“Of course. I’m sorry. It’s not your problem. I can go. This is all so weird.”

I almost want to. Part of me wants to flee, run into the street and burst into ugly tears and then drown my sorrows in a bowl of Guinness Dubliner soup. But another part of me wants to stay here. Convince this man, who is clearly very powerful, to second-guess his good business instinct and sponsor me anyway.

“No. Don’t go. I at least owe you dinner after all this.”

“You bought me dinner first, remember?”

Another flash of amusement, but then he looks serious again.

“Ma—I mean…Mr.Cavendish—” I start to say, adrenaline boosting my nerve.

I don’t get a chance to finish, as a food runner comes over with a silver tray of oysters on chipped ice.

“From the chef, Mr.Cavendish,” says the runner. “These are Gillardeau oysters from Île d’Oléron, sir.”

“Thank you, Eugene.

“These are very good,” Alistair tells me. “The Gillardeau oysters come with a laser etching on the shell to prevent counterfeiting.”

I hesitate. Should I just storm out? Or should I sink into this?

---