Page 7 of Loaded

“That’s like three questions,” my braintrust date says with a frown that somehow inexplicably creates no wrinkles in either her forehead or the place between hereyebrows. . .probably thanks to an extra helping of Botox.

“I’ll start with this one.” Maybe I can redeem myself. “When I was twelve, my parents took us to London, and I had fish and chips from a food cart, and we ate it while sitting on a bench on the Thames.”

“London sounds posh,” Bea says, “but eating fish and chips on a bench? That doesn’t fit the image of one of the youngest multi-millionaires in New York City.”

“Who knows?” I ask. “I might surprise you.”

Chaliesah’s frown turns into a scowl, which is only apparent by the pursing of her lips and the daggers she’s staring at Bea. “Why would you surprise her? She’s thewaitress.”

“You’re right,” Bea says. “It’s my jobto surprise both of you. So tell me, what was your best meal?”

“Last week.” Chaliesah straightens, glancing down at her immaculate manicure. “AtPer Sein the City, I had the most epic chocolate mousse cake I’ve ever had.” She shrugs.

“That’s not a meal, though.” Bea bites her lip. “Did you love the entree you had there?”

“Of course I did,” Chaliesah says. “The lobster was amazing.”

Bea’s sigh is so slight I wouldn’t have caught it if I wasn’t watching her so closely. Her smile falters for the briefest of moments, like a computer screen that glitches.

It makes me laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Chaliesah snaps, but then, as if she has remembered something, she laughs. It may be the most forced laugh I’ve ever heard. “Just kidding. That was funny.”

Bea’s expression, like she’s seen someone urinating inpublic and desperately wants to back away slowly, is even funnier than the glitching smile. “My last question is what was yourworstmeal, and why?”

“Mine was every single time my mom tried to cook,” I joke. “Luckily it almost never happened.”

Bea’s laugh isn’t forced. It’s quick, sharp, and high. She tamps it down quickly, though, and that bums me out. “If you could be a little more specific?—”

“He answered,” Chaliesah says. “And mine was peanut butter sandwiches at a friend’s house.”

“You don’t like peanut butter and jelly?” Bea’s lips pucker. “A good PB&J is one of life’s true indulgences, I think.”

“No one asked what you think, though. Right?” Chaliesah turns toward me and widens her eyes like I should be horrified that our waitress has more than two brain cells, and they aren’t fighting.

“Actually, I’m delighted to hear what she thinks, and like her, I love peanut butter and jelly, especially if the bread is soft and the jelly’s grape.”

“Grape?” Bea scrunches her nose. “Yeesh.”

“Too boring?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Not nearly as fun as, say, orange marmalade.”

Chaliesah tosses her napkin on the table and stands. “Why are we talking about peanut butter sandwiches?” She shakes her head. “We should go to a new place.”

“I like this one,” I say. “And I think that if you’re set up with someone by a high-end matchmaker, even if you don’t like them, you should grit your teeth and endure the meal, wherever you go, instead of making a scene.” I lift my chin and look right at her. “At least, that’s what I’ve been doing.”

Her jaw drops, her bright red lips parted alarminglywide. “You’ve been. . .” Her mouth snaps closed and she frowns. “Wait, are you saying?—”

“Get it faster,” Bea mutters so softly that I almost miss it.

She shouldn’t have to deal with this just because I am. “Bea, why don’t you take your best stab at what you think we’ll like,” I say. “And then we’ll let you know whether you were right.”

Bea inclines her head, spins around, and darts off.

Chaliesah huffs. Twice. I think she’s trying to decide whether she can bring herself to sit back down. The problem with her is that she’s used to being adored, and people who are always catered to—all their whims and fits indulged—become incapable of polite interactions. I could tell that was her problem within two minutes of meeting her. It was a common affliction when I was growing up, surrounded as I was by spoiled rich kids.

Of course, the slit running from her ankle to her hip bone was another red flag that this woman was probably not the kind of girl I was hoping to meet. I could have done without seeing her electric blue thong peeking out at me with every step, but I’m ignoring the things about her that bother me. She could at least have the decency to do the same.

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