Evelyn thought about the Grey Goose she’d bought last night, and then thought that not getting wine when Camilla had requested it was a bad idea. She made the liquor store her first stop. In the store, nothing over $150 was displayed within arm’s reach, partly to discourage the petty thieves of Southampton, partly so those who wanted to buy a Ducru-Beaucaillou could announce those intentions loudly to the crowd. Evelyn walked directly to the Bordeaux section, so anyone watching would seem to think she knew what she was doing, and picked up bottles until she found one that cost $125; even if it wasn’t cabernet, it was expensive enough that no one would complain, and she got two for good measure.
She found Johnson’s after she’d passed by it three times. It was an old-fashioned butcher shop. Long and slim, Johnson’s was not made for crowds, and as a result was always very crowded, with everyone wishing everyone else would go back to Manhattan so they could enjoy the authentic Johnson’s. After twenty minutes, she ordered. “I need some steaks?” she said. “Um, six, I guess? Or eight, if people are hungry?”
“You call ahead?” said the butcher.
“I didn’t, actually.”
“Porterhouse, flank, filet, strip, whaddaya want?”
“Uh, filet mignon, I guess?”
“Whole filet, or center cut?”
She was guessing like it was an eye exam. “Center cut?”
“How big? About a pound each?”
Evelyn checked the display case for a price, but she was in front of the pork section, not beef. “Sure.”
“Six filet mignon, center cut, pound each!” the butcher shouted.
“Eight, just in case.”
“Eight!”
“Some lobster salad, too? I guess, how much would you need for six people?”
“Six people, two pounds and a half for sandwiches.”
“Okay, that sounds fine.”
She got her packages and struggled to the front, plunking down the heavy, chilly parcel of beef and the vat full of lobster salad on the counter. The woman ringing her up was chewing gum and busied herself blowing a giant pink bubble before she said, “Five forty.”
Figuring the woman spoke Nick-ese, in which five bucks meant, variously, five thousand, five hundred thousand, or five million, Evelyn deduced the woman meant $50.40, and handed her three twenties.
The woman chawed her gum and stared. “What’s this?”
“It’s for fifty-forty. Sorry, I don’t have forty cents.”
“Ha!” She laughed, spitting berry-colored saliva over the cash register. “Bill! Get a load a this! Fifty dollars for all this crap!” She waved her hand over the packages. “You just made my day. No, it’s five forty. Five hundred forty.”
“What? Dollars?”
“No, lire. Whaddaya think, dollars.”
“What? It’s just some beef and lobster salad.”
“Filet mignon,” the woman said loudly, holding it up, “thirty-four a pound, eight pounds. Lobster salad, ninety a pound, two and a half pounds. Plus sales tax. That’s five hundred forty. We take Visa or MasterCard, no AmEx.”
“The lobster salad is how much?” Evelyn started to say, but then noticed a pair of sockless loafers and frayed cuffs behind her, and knew an impatient Southhamptonite was waiting his turn, judging whether she was really that naive or really that low on funds. “I’m so sorry,” she said to the clerk, while smiling at the man behind her and handing over her debit card. She weighed whether to tell Camilla the story. On the one hand, it showed she was insouciant about money. On the other, shouldn’t she already know that lobster salad in the Hamptons cost $90 a pound?
“My wife’s the same way,” the frayed-cuff man said, and Evelyn gave him a who-me? shrug and laughed.
“Aren’t they all,” the clerk muttered, and ran the card through.
“That’s what you get when you send civilians to do the job, I guess,” Evelyn said, and met the guy’s eyes as he laughed. “My cook usually does all the shopping here,” she added. “Have a great afternoon.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Alumni Affairs
Evelyn had been hesitant to invite Scot to the Sheffield alumni reception, which her parents would also be attending. She liked being alone with him: he had recently taken her to The African Queen at the Film Forum in the Village, and had smuggled in Good & Plentys, and the fact of being on a date with this sweet and thoughtful man had been reassuring. Their forearms touched on the shared armrest like they were shy teenagers, albeit from a teenage phase Evelyn had never experienced. Afterward, making their way through the drooping August city, they’d gone to Scot’s favorite bookstore and then drank cold white wine at a tiny dark-wood-and-candles bar. She felt like a happy part of the Ella Fitzgerald “Manhattan” song on the summer weekend, a young couple ducking into places bohemian and smart.