“I can’t imagine what kind of experiences a billionaire would value,” I reply. “A trip to space? Hunting endangered species? Bankrupting a small-town bookstore?”
Before I can come up with more ideas, Theo chimes in: “He already knows what he wants. He wants us to work together. He offered me a job.”
“A job?” I say, confused. As far as I know, the only job Theo’s had is when he tried to start a private members’ club in London with some of his boarding school friends, a more exclusive Soho House with a younger clientele. It failed spectacularly; there weren’t many twenty-four-year-olds who could afford the exorbitant membership fee. But even then, Theo was the money guy. He didn’t have any operational role outside bankrolling the whims of his cofounders.
Since we’ve known him, he cochairs the Art Party at the Whitney every year and sits on the board of a handful of charities giving underprivileged students access to arts education programming, but I don’t think he’s ever had a meeting that wasn’t accompanied by lunch or cocktails.
Theo drags his hands down his face, horrified by the prospect of working for his father.
“What did you tell him?”
“I asked if he’d broken Colin, his little business boy. I’m just the spare for the day when Colin finally has a nervous breakdown, but I hadn’t expected it to happen until his fifties, at least.”
“Are you thinking about accepting?” I can’t stop a note of panic from creeping into my voice. I assume the job would mean a move to London and I don’t have the stomach for another friend leaving.
“No.” He waves this off like it’s a ridiculous idea. “It’s just some power play.”
He takes a sip of champagne to cleanse his palate of this distasteful notion.
“What’s new with you?” he asks. “You’ll forgive me for saying it, but you seem . . . off.”
“Off?” I echo.
He doesn’t elaborate, just looks at me, waiting me out, and I almost blurt out everything going on with David—our fight on Thanksgiving, the weirdness that’s persisted since, the ring in his sock drawer—but I can’t bring myself to. The more people I tell, the more real it feels.
“Oh, I’m fine,” I lie, but I feel like I need to give him something. “Just stressed about work, I guess. I keep pitching this music history podcast and getting shot down. It would be my first solo project, but I can’t get my boss to see the potential I see.”
It’s especially frustrating given that Mitch has greenlit every flavor of two-dudes-talking show in his three-month tenure. Two dudes talking about cult eighties movies, two dudes talking about actual cults, two dudes talking about fantasy golf. Last week, he made his threat official: if I can’t line up mutually agreeable talent for the pilot of Aural History by the end of the year, he’ll shut the whole thing down. He alluded to needing a lead producer for Porn Stache, his newest two-dudes creation, where two comedians watch and dissect VHS tapes of eighties pornos.
“What’s your show about?” he asks.
I tell him my idea for the podcast and he smiles when I reveal the name. “That’s very clever,” he says. “I think it sounds like a smash. What’s the problem?”
“We can’t agree on which song to use for the pilot. I had my boss sold on ‘Candy’ by Mandy Moore, but her people never got back to me. You don’t happen to know her, do you?”
“Can’t say that I do. But what about Clementine?”
“What about her?”
“I’m sure she’d love to help!”
“That seems like a stretch. I can’t imagine she even remembers me.”
“Of course she remembers you. Didn’t you see her on Fallon last month? She taught him how to play sheet game and the whole thing went bloody viral.” I must have missed that. “Do you want me to call her for you?”
“Are you in touch?”
“Not really.” He shrugs.
As much as I want to say yes, to get the story behind her moody new album and clinch my own podcast—Mitch would go bonkers for this; the album has already gone platinum—I hesitate. It feels disloyal to Finn to bring Clementine back into the mix, just when Finn and Theo are both single. What if he calls and it rekindles their old spark? This is unequivocally against the best friend code. “I’ll think about it,” I tell him, but I already know I won’t take him up on his offer.
I take a sip of my champagne. It’s perfectly dry and tastes like a really good croissant. I don’t know anything about wine, and even I can tell this is the good stuff. “You keep taking me to all these fancy places,” I muse.
“You’re welcome?”
“I feel like it’s my turn to take you somewhere.”
“Where would you have us go?” he asks, and I can hear a hint of fear in his voice.
* * *
? ? ?
?An hour later we’re installed in a brown patterned booth in the Times Square Olive Garden, when Priya joins us.
“This is the actual last place on earth I expected to find you two,” she announces as she slides into my side of the booth. Theo has two matte black Saks shopping bags on his side, one with a bejeweled photo frame and the second with the two-ton limited-edition red handbag. He couldn’t decide which Lourdes would like more, so he bought them both.
“Trust me, I’m equally shocked.” Theo locks eyes with me, uncharacteristically serious. “Of all the restaurants in Manhattan, this is where you wanted to bring me?”
“Well, there isn’t a Chili’s in Manhattan, or we would have gone there,” I tell him.
“I’m more of a Taco Bell gal myself.” Priya’s eyes go dreamy at the mention of the fast-food chain.
“I’m sure I’m sorry to have missed both of those,” Theo drawls.
“Make fun of it all you want, but we used to go to Olive Garden or Chili’s every Friday night when I was a kid. You’re never too old for soup, salad, and breadsticks. You took me to shop for things your parents would like, now I’m taking you somewhere that mine would like.”
“Now I feel bad for making fun of it,” he says with a sigh.
A waiter arrives at the table, interrupting our play-bickering. “One Tour of Italy,” he announces as he places my meal in front of me.
“And your Zuppa Toscana, sir. Flag me down when you’re ready for more. Or if you want to try a different kind of soup, that’s fine, too. However you want to make the most of it,” he says, oblivious to the disdainful glare Theo’s giving his bowl of soup.
“And should I bring you a menu?” he asks Priya.
“No, thanks, I’m good. I already ate.” It doesn’t slip by me that Priya doesn’t volunteer any details about where she’s coming from, but I decide not to press the issue. I’m just glad she came.
“But we are definitely going to need to get a photo of this for Finn,” she says. “He won’t believe Theo stepped foot in here without photographic evidence. Smile,” she tells Theo. And reluctantly, he obliges.
As Priya takes the photo, I’m struck with a realization. “This is so weird,” I say aloud.
“I know,” Theo agrees. “I can’t believe they use iceberg lettuce.”