"You need me around tonight?" Harvey asks. "For your...dinner." There's a perplexed tone to his gruff voice.
I ought to be annoyed at that, but then I don't take women out for dinner often. I certainly don't take out eligible, single women. If Harvey wasn't aware of this then he'd be shit at his job, and while his display of confusion is tactless, it's also demonstrative of the public's view of me: unattainable. Already taken by a redheaded rocket, and fiercely private about the fact.
Even Harvey isn't a hundred percent sure about the nature of my relationship with Tuija, and this amuses me like nothing else. Short of bugging the pair of us, he has no way of knowing what goes on.
"I'm good," I tell him. "It's not like we're going to Taco Bell."
"You know there'll be a media circus if you're seen. Speculation."
"I'll brief my editors. Get a couple stories out." I've already decided to announce a 'split' with Tuija if things with Leo go my way. For things to work...Leo must be mine in public as well as private. Gives her less wiggle room. Closes the cage. "I can deal with a little girl, Harvey."
"It's not her I'm worried about, sir."
Ah. "Tuija?"
"She's temperamental."
"She and I have an understanding." We turn into a copse of tall, overbearing trees. Shadows swallow us, fat against the grey sky. "I can deal."
"Her recent alcohol binges haven't escaped me," he adds.
"It happens. I've spoken to her."
"And I'll keep watching her."
Women. Are you reading this? All we do is watch.
Well.
***
Just before nine, and I'm waiting alone in a secluded booth at Blue River Kitchen. It's a favourite haunt of mine on the rare occasions I have to entertain; they pride themselves on upmarket, stylish soul food, and I like the crisp white table covers contrasted with their eerie blue lighting scheme. It's like somebody tried to pretty-up a strip club, something raw beneath the moneyed facade.
I like this booth, too: close enough to the rest of the restaurant to catch faded wisps of dreamy psychedelic rock, but far enough to afford a little privacy.
I'm not so presumptuous as to order a drink for Leo, though my driver already sent a message to confirm that he's picked her up. A part of me had wondered if she'd come; she's unpredictable, to an extent. Like me.
So I wait, a beer bottle cooling my left hand, my cell in my right. I take the time to perform a regular ritual: scroll through Facebook and scatter around the comments and Likes. My profile is a carefully orchestrated plethora of funny quotes, photos of Ash and snippets of business news. All very humble. I keep odd acquaintances from high school and college as Friends, and I make sure to congratulate them on their successes or post a sad face on their whiny status updates. It all keeps me looking grounded, and whenever other media is sniffing around for info, they're guaranteed to find an authentic source with nothing but good things to say. Never underestimate the power of offering a select few low lives a little privilege; it's like endless foreplay. You never fuck them, but they don't care. They're conditioned to be grateful for scraps.
I'm That Guy, you know. The one playing on his cell phone at a restaurant. The one in jeans and a nice shirt, the one who looks like you could take him home to mama.
Leo arrives just after nine. I hear the heels first, and my eyes settle on a pair of sleek black boots approaching the table. Said boots lead to slender knees, firm thighs encased in a slate grey mini skirt. A loose, slouchy black sweater slips from her tawny shoulders, coming into view as she slides into the booth before I can even get up to greet her.
I make a show of putting my phone away. "Jeez. Sorry."
Her lips are especially glossy tonight, as if she expects to be kissed and wants me to think about it. The blue lights half-spill over her tanned skin and pick out the purple of her painted mouth. "Did I startle you?"
"No. Well." I bring my hands up on to the table and lean a little, breathing in her mulled wine perfume. "Good evening to you, too."
She raises her eyebrows. Glances around, almost paranoid, her loose honey blond hair swishing about her shoulders and jaw. "It's nice in here."
"You've never been?"
"I get kinda busy." She gives an apologetic shrug. "You could say I don't get out much."
"We'll have to change that." As if I'm some sort of social butterfly; I probably go out less than she does. What a strange dance this seduction crap is. I gesture to a hostess, who trots over in her smart skirt suit to hand us menus in thin metal folders.
"Can I get you anything to drink?" she asks.
I wait for Leo to order, but she nods for me to go.
I lift up my beer bottle—European, light and crisp. "I'll take another one, thanks."
"Same for me," Leo adds, pointing.
The hostess briefly outlines the specials—which I nod at appreciatively, despite the fact that there's nothing special about clam chowder or an artisan hotdog—and then she disappears.
"So." Leo spreads her menu open with a little clatter. "What's good here?"
"You really want to talk about food?"