Page 35 of Making It While Faking It
Maybe Simon Linney and Victoria Lord are onto something.
From the outside looking in, Achilles Lord and Treasure Grove’s relationship is definitely a fraud. What do you think? Comment below.
The Session
TREASURE GROVE
Achilles has texted me the time our session with the counselor begins but not the address. He said he’ll send a car to pick me up at five thirty and drive me to the location.
But I called him, and he answered on the first ring. “Just give me the address,” I said rather snappishly.
“No. It’s supposed to rain, and I’m going into a meeting. I’ll see you later,” he said and then ended our call.
I held my cell phone in front of my face and shouted, “Jerk!”
My door was open, so Lolly showed up in my doorway and asked with surprise and intrigue, “Who were you talking to?”
I waved away an answer and said, “Nobody.” I quickly stood. “We should get to our next meeting.”
But Lolly handed me a large orange envelope and said, “This arrived for you.”
What arrived was what I forgotten I had been waiting on—the script about how Achilles and I met. It was simple, and I wonder why I hadn’t thought of it in the first place. We flew privately to Majorca to meet up with Hercules and Paisley one weekend last month. And I actually remember that weekend. It was the one weekend I stayed inside to comb over all the invoices so that I could get a better grasp on how I’d been spending. It seems as if tracking spending is a nonstop effort I partake in ever since opening my restaurant. Other than a few phone calls, I brunched or had dinner with no one. So there is no one to dispute the claim that I wasn’t in Majorca on that particular Saturday or Sunday. Oh, the lies I’ve been telling for the money. They’re building their own dark palace.
Anyway, the day has raced by so fast that there’s too much to sort out. The meeting I’m in now began at five p.m. Lolly, Ingrid, our events manager, and I have been going down the list of celebrity parties that we’ll be hosting this month. The celebrities’ requests are expensive, and it seems each and every one of them wants us to accept the currency of their popularity rather than cold hard cash.
“It’s so funny,” Ingrid says, reading the list. “All the money they have, they forever want shit for free.” She looks up to frown at me curiously. “Why is that? Are they that spoiled?”
“Yes,” I say without delay. I know a lot of famous movie stars and music artists. Fame can go to the head faster than a speeding bullet.
Lolly sighs as her arms flop, and she drops the pages she’s looking at onto the table. “So what do we do? Incur the cost ourselves?”
I’ve been around her long enough to know how loaded her question is. That look in her eyes is asking, do you want to pay to be popular or finally make some real money?
I gnaw on my bottom lip, confused about where the line is—the line between the value of being a hotspot for the Who’s Who of the world or just being popular for making melt-in-your-mouth good food like the majority of the restaurants in New York City. Being a celebrity hot spot was my stab at standing out from the crowd.
I jump, startled when the alarm on my phone chimes. It’s time I head out to meet the car that Achilles has waiting for me. I tell Lolly and Ingrid that I’ll get back to them about the event expenses.
“But first, only write up an expense sheet that doesn’t go over the amount of the money they’re paying. Make sure you’re as thrifty as possible.” I rise to my feet seized by the overwhelming feeling that I don’t have a second to spare. “Maybe that’s our problem—giving them caviar when they only want to pay for tuna.”
Lolly starts to say something, but I raise a finger and ask that she holds that thought until tomorrow morning.
“I have to go.”
I openmy laptop and crunch more numbers on the way to my counseling session with Achilles. At this rate, I’ll never be able to pay back the trust. And I can see it on Lolly’s face. It seems we can’t get a grip on our expenses. No matter what we try, they’re out of hand. And what can we cut?
I slam my laptop shut and circle the tips of my fingers against my temples when the car rolls to a stop. I didn’t pay attention to what neighborhood we’re in. I duck my head to look for the nearest street sign—Third near Lexington. We’re on the Upper East Side, and then Achilles walks out through the black-tinted glass door of the building we’re in front of. Of course he’s one of those people who’s always either early or on time. I wish I had been well enough to sit through to the completion of Sunday night’s dinner. I’m certain I would’ve gotten a more complete picture of the Lord family dynamic. Although, I do remember Achilles saying to Orion that he should remain at the table and be there for his family for once, or something to that effect. I bet Achilles is the responsible one who’s always cleaning up Orion’s fuckups.
I thank the driver, who opens my door, and as soon as I’m out and standing on the sidewalk, Achilles doesn’t fail to give me that look. I don’t know—maybe he’s been a sourpuss for so long that he can’t stop being one.
But he did smile this morning, and that’s a good sign.
“Good afternoon,” I say with a smile that’s meant to be infectious.
He starts to speak but then seals his lips as he thinks better of it.
“Your reply should be ‘Good afternoon,’” I say, helping him along.
“Good afternoon,” he blurts and then glares at his watch. “We should get inside.”
