Page 74 of Pity Pact

“I don’t care what the audience thinks of me,” he says. “I only care whatyouthink.” While his words are charming, his delivery is a little slick for my taste.

“Think about it,” I tell him. “No one wants to go on national television and then be the target of negative social media posts.”

A whole spectrum of emotions crosses his face. They seem to range from irritation to acknowledgement that it’s possible I might be predicting his future. He finally says, “Let’s see how things go.” It’s a good thing Fielden doesn’t seem to have the same aversion that Tim does, or tonight could be a disaster.

Several minutes later, Trina comes out of the conference room. She informs Fielden and me, “We’re going to play this date off as an accidental meeting. The two of you will walk in and when you see Cami and Tim, you’ll decide to eat together.”

I’m no actress, so I’m not sure I’ll be able to be convincing. I decide to just follow everyone else’s lead.

As the hostess takes us into the fake dining room, she says, “It’s a pleasure having you join us tonight.” Then she walks by Tim and Cami. We’re almost past their table when Cami calls out, “Paige, over here!”

I turn as though I didn’t previously see her. “Oh, my gosh, Cami! How are you?” She stands up and we hug like long-lost sorority sisters.

Tim stays seated and Fielden is as immobile as if someone surgically implanted a steel pole up his backside. “Why don’t you join us?” Cami asks. Although her delivery isn’t as smooth as that. It’s more like, ‘Why? Don’t. You. Join us?” Apparently, Cami is no actress either. Though her delivery does bear a striking resemblance to William Shatner in those old Star Trek episodes, and it seemed to work for him.

“We’d love to!” I practically shout. While Fielden pulls out my chair, I ask Cami, “Do you know Fielden?”

She smiles at him. “We met briefly during the first mixer. How are you, Fielden?”How? Areyou. Fielden?

“Good, thanks.” He doesn’t say anything else as he sits down on the chair next to both me and Cami.

This exchange is so painfully awkward, I can’t imagine what it’s going to look like on television. That realization helps force me to sound more natural when I ask, “Fielden, have you met Tim?” Hoping to break the ice a bit, I tell him, “Tim and I both grew up in Elk Lake.”

Fielden doesn’t make eye contact with Tim, while answering, “How interesting.”

“We met the night of the first mixer.” Tim’s tone implies he’s itching for a fight.

At this point, nobody says anything for several long moments, which results in Trina coming over to the table.

She leans down so she’s at eye level with us. “Look, you guys, I realize this isn’t your normal double date, what with cameras around, but watching you all is as riveting as waiting for a pot ofwater to boil. Can you please do something to increase the energy?”

We release an assortment of grunts and groans like she’s just asked us to bathe in a pool of hot lava. Which honestly might be more fun than what’s happening here.

Once Trina’s gone, Tim tells Fielden, “I think you’re an arrogant SOB.”Terrific.

Fielden pushes against the table and scoots his chair back like he’s about to jump to his feet and engage in battle. “What did you just say?”

“I didn’t like the way you belittled Chip Baker that first night,” Tim tells him.

Fielden appears to be weighing his dislike of Tim against his public image when he finally leans back in his chair. “I wasn’t really myself the other night.”

Instead of accepting this for what it is—a poor excuse for an apology—Tim asks, “Who were you? Peter Parker?”

A blood vessel in Fielden’s forehead starts to visibly throb. “I said I was sorry.”

Tim responds, “No, you said you weren’t yourself.”

Fielden clears his throat loudly. Then as insincerely as humanly possible, he says, “I’m sorry.”

“It isn’t me you owe the apology to.”

Before the two men come to blows, Cami asks, “So, Fielden, what do you do for a living?” Her delivery is slightly less stilted, which I attribute to her very real desire to change the subject.

“I’m a corporate lawyer in Chicago,” he says stiffly.

He doesn’t ask her what she does in return, so I tell him, “Cami is a caterer in Chicago!” I say this with the same amount of enthusiasm as if she were an Olympic pole vaulter.

My date doesn’t seem to care. Instead, he turns to me. “Thank you for agreeing to go out with me tonight.”

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