She blew her nose. Then, as Ayelet was sitting down, she had a thought. “One more thing before we get back to the Compromise of 1850. I know a lot of you have younger brothers and sisters, some in the elementary school. So, I have a favor: when you talk about Mrs. Chapman’s meltdown—which I know was epic—please do what you can to make sure the story doesn’t get back to my daughter. Melissa is in the fourth grade. Kazuo, your sister and my daughter obviously are great friends. They’re in the same class. Same after-school dance class, too. So, I would be seriously grateful if all of you could be—and here is an SAT word to keep in mind—circumspect. Judicious.”
Kazuo grinned. “No prob, Mrs. Chapman. These days? She’s all about the clothes and inappropriate TV.”
“Melissa, too,” she agreed, and once again she dried her cheeks with her fingers. She felt her wedding and engagement rings against the skin there, and found herself—much to her surprise—smiling back at the boy.
…
Richard watched the afternoon sunlight pour through the wide restaurant window and brighten the soupspoon beside his napkin. Most of the lunch crowd was gone now, and the hostess was helping a waiter straighten the white tablecloths and tidy the menus. When Richard looked up from the spoon, his brother was talking—it seemed as if his brother was always talking—moving his hands a bit like he was a lunatic given a conductor’s baton and an orchestra. The gestures were too big for a table this small. And he seemed to be speaking mostly to Spencer Doherty, who was leaning back rather comfortably in the third of the four chairs. The fourth chair, the one opposite the window, was empty except for the blazer that Spencer had draped over it. He was wearing gray suspenders with silhouettes of people tangoing on them.
“I mean, I know we’re lucky to be alive,” Philip was saying to Spencer, “and I’m not blaming you. It’s not your fault, buddy, it’s really not. But how the hell did it all go so wrong so fast? One minute those girls are like this dream come true—”
“Wet dream,” Spencer said, pretending to correct him.
“Wet dream. Agreed. But the next? A nightmare. I mean, how much legal trouble are you in?”
“Me? A lot. My lawyer is going to stress that I thought I was just hiring dancers. The problem is that I used this service before, and the girls—different girls, but still smoking hot imports—were pretty much down for whatever. So, it will depend on how much the police feel like digging and how much the feds feel like prosecuting me. It’s early, but it looks like the deal will be something like this: no criminal charges in exchange for my testimony against the escort service.”
“You would testify against the Russians? Are you nuts?”
“I probably don’t have a choice. If I don’t, I’m looking at charges that may even include sexual assault on a minor—if they can prove either of the girls was underage.”
Richard felt himself cringe reflexively at the word underage. He almost said something, but his brother beat him to it. “How would they prove that? And…either? Does that mean you fucked them both? You dog, you! Wow!”
“I only fucked the blonde. But I had the other one naked on my lap, and it’s not like I was sitting on my hands. That could be a problem if it turns out she’s a kid. Besides, that’s only part of the nightmare.”
“Only part? God. Can’t wait to hear the rest, man.”
“My legal fees are going to be…costly. You would not believe what I had to plunk down. Scary big. And I may be looking at some very costly civil crap.”
“Civil crap?”
“My lawyer has already gotten…overtures…from Chuck’s lawyers. And Brandon’s.”
“Are you kidding me? What the fuck is that about?”
“It’s all just preliminary right now. But he’s hearing words like ‘emotional distress.’ ‘Mental anguish.’ All, of course, caused by my ‘reckless’ conduct.”
“Those pricks! Those gutless bastards! Look, I’ll call them right now and—”
“Don’t. It’s Brandon’s wife. And I don’t know what the deal is with Chuck. It may be nothing at all. This all may go nowhere. But your calling them won’t make it better and could make it worse.”
“Bottom line, you’re not looking at jail time, right?” Philip said, both hands silencing an imaginary percussion section.
“God, no. Can you imagine? Holy fuck, that would be crazy awful. Still, even my legal fees are going to be astronomical. I wonder…”
“Go on,” Philip encouraged him.
“Do you think your friends at the party would kick in some dough to cover my lawyer?”
“Yeah, I don’t see that happening. Didn’t everyone already give you a few hundred bucks each for the girls?”
“Most of the guys did. Not all. But this isn’t about that. We’re not talking a few hundred bucks each. My legal bills are going to be batshit crazy.”
“We’re all dealing with fallout,” Philip told him. “I have a fiancée that is still royally pissed. I mean, I have a sick feeling any minute now she is going to call off the wedding.”
“Are you serious?” Richard asked. He had been so appalled at the conversation around him—it was like dining with sexist (and sexually voracious) seventh graders—that he hadn’t spoken in a few minutes, and the sound of his voice surprised him.
“I am. And you have to really fuck up to get someone like Nicole so pissed off at you that she calls off a wedding.”