“Slightly disturbing as well, but yes. Blaine.”
At the mention of the artist’s name, a light switched on behind his eyes, and he smiled this wonderful, broad smile. I could feel a shift in the air. It may have been a combination of the Grey Goose, the ’91 Bordeaux, and the Italian cappuccino (who knew, the little cookie could’ve been an edible), but he was clearly impressed that I knew the Blaine. He told me he had three Blaine pieces in his backyard. He also said something about some skulls, very precious ones. It was all blurring a bit for me, but even through the alcohol haze, I could see the recognition in his face, like the look Barkley first had at the EDP, and Banana Republic a little too. I was being seen.
Michael of Austria, who had taken his cookie with him, took a bite and froze, his mouth locked in an oval shape. At first I thought he was being dramatic, but then his eyes burned with a palpable fear. I knew right away, even in my inebriated state, that something was terribly wrong. The cookie was caught in his throat. Michael of Austria couldn’t breathe. He started to rock his head a little, as if he was about to pass out, and that’s when I felt adrenaline rush into my blood. In that instant, I became sober, remembering distinctly the time I learned the Heimlich maneuver in eighth grade. I just jumped up and scooted my body behind him, squeezing my arms around his torso, trying to remember the right spot, and then I pulled in and up at the same time, and it worked exactly as I hoped it would. The cookie, or rather, the almond that was on top of the cookie, probably imported from some special nut farm in Spain, literally shot out of his mouth and across the room, and he said, “Oh, oh, oh God,” and his head dipped like he was about to faint. Then Barkley came into the room, and by the look on his face, he was definitely confused as to why I was embracing Michael of Austria from behind.
“He had some trouble with your cookie,” I said, catching my breath.
“Your nuts almost killed me,” Michael said, and then we all started laughing, and Barkley had Mauricio bring us more wine. The three of us toasted like everything was normal and Michael hadn’t almost choked to death. My inebriation came back tenfold, but I was glad to have been useful.
This is what I remember about the rest of the night: Michael of Austria’s chauffeur-driven Bentley, how it smelled like cigars and made me dry heave. He kept smiling at me, like it was so natural for us to be together, like I was some kind of angel. We went to a convenience store for bottled water, and I saw my reflection in the window. I was definitely wrecked, but I looked okay. Maybe Brady was right. Thirty-four wasn’t the end of the world.
When I got out of the car, Michael just said, “See you tomorrow.”
I laughed, fumbling for my set of keys.
CHAPTER 10
HUNGOVER ON A HORSE
I woke at noon to my phone buzzing through the tiny pocket in my LBD, which was clumped in a pile on the floor. My head was throbbing in the same rhythm. I had three texts from Michael of Austria. He must have given me his number, or maybe Preston did.
I have a lunch but how about 2pm
I will send a car for you at 1:15?
What the hell? Did I say something to him last night? That I would meet him? Or does he just assume that whenever he beckons, people will come to him? How does he even know Brady’s address? Oh yeah, duh, his driver dropped me off.
Wear jeans and boots.
Huh? I reached for a water bottle next to my bed and chugged the whole thing.
We can take horses out if you like.
I looked at the screen, shaking my head a little. Of course. But where were we going to ride horses? In Dupont Circle? Then I remembered he had said something about a country house.
My phone rang, and it was my mother. I answered right away.
“Hi, Mom. You never call me. What’s up?”
“Are you still in bed?”
“No, I just ran a 5k and now I’m painting the kitchen. Are you at Charlie’s?”
My mother had been dating a married man for three years, so one could easily deduce where my expertise in men came from.
“Yes, we’re at his lake house. Any luck on the job front?”
“Yeah. I’m going to walk this guy’s dog.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I got here weeks ago, Mom. Can you just tone it down?”
“Well, I worry. You know me, worrywart.”
“Well, five chardonnays a night is probably not helping.”
I was one to talk. I smelled like a distillery.
“Sorry,” I added.
Silence. My mother never admitted the fact that she was an alcoholic. Brady and I called it “the slur” when she called after seven o’clock. When it started happening in the daylight, we knew there was an issue. But what could we expect? Our father had died ten years ago, and her self-medication regime moved from anti-anxiety pills to large amounts of cheap wine. It could be worse. If I had lost my husband of over twenty years, I probably would have chosen crack. It was hard enough being the daughter. Grief changes shape, but it never goes away.
“How is Charlie?”
“Fine,” she said, in a tone that meant it was the end of the conversation.
It was admittedly hard to picture her with anyone else. My father was one of my favorite people in my world. He had the power to make me feel like I was the center of the universe. I still have all the letters he wrote me in college, preferring real ones over email. He loved to watch (and gamble on) sports, and I still get emotional when I hear sports announcers on TV.
“Call me when you get a job,” she added.
“Is that all you care about?” I asked.
“Well, a boyfriend too.”
“Mom!”
Yes, these were both things I wanted, but I didn’t need my mother breathing down my neck about it. Especially when she barely called me anymore. Was that why? Because I was somehow broken?
I took a long shower, and it felt really good. I thought about the dinner party, how it was a world completely outside of what I was used to, but still kind of felt like one I belonged in. While I was drying off, my phone buzzed again. Another text from MOA:
car coming
So I was going horseback riding with Austrian royalty. Not exactly what I expected, but better than what I had originally planned for that day, which was nothing.
When I got in the car, a silver SUV this time, I air-kissed Michael. In the rearview, the driver gave me a knowing look.
“How are we feeling today?”
It was all coming back to me. The driver was from Berlin. I had practiced my terrible German on him last night, and he’d laughed at me.
“Tip top,” I said, giving him my best smile.
The ride to the Shenandoah foothills was only about an hour, and MOA kept going on tangents, talking about the Olympics, then refugee camps, then his love for Taylor Swift.
“What is it about her that you love?” I asked.
“She is so so so so clever. Her breakups, her insecurities, she turns them into hits!”
“That’s true,” I agreed.
“And she is like the anti–Barbie doll.”
I wasn’t sure about that, but Michael seemed so convinced I didn’t say anything.
“So what brought you to DC?” I asked.
“Well, I was going to move to California, believe it or not, and my plane got stuck in DC. And one thing led to another, as you Americans say.”