“I need you to show me your pictures from last night?” I end the statement with a upward lilt, and silently curse myself. I think of Henry, who speaks with gusto, who would have thrown off the statement like a command, and Cash would be scrambling to meet it. I get raised eyebrows and a friendly smile.
“Oh! Yeah, I got some really great shots!” He’s enthusiastic now, leaning back in his seat. “I’d love to run them by you. You know, you’re easy to photograph.” He picks at his nail.
“Well, that’s what I wanted to tell you. I need you to not run any shots of me, in particular.” I try for my Henry voice. “I did discuss that before the event, you know.”
“Oh, that’s almost impossible. I mean, you ran the show. The whole event was spectacular, and you were the shining star of the night. Really, if you’re worried about the shots, I’m telling you, they were stunning. I say that professionally, you know?”
“No, Mr. Murray, listen, it’s not that. I just can’t have my picture in the paper, okay? I won’t sign off on it.”
“Well, to be honest, you don’t have to. I was invited to the event to take pictures. If you want me to run the article, I need to use you. Frankly, photos of impoverished kids aren’t selling the society pages. Beautiful women who care about impoverished kids are.”
“Then don’t run the article.”
“But I already wrote it.”
“I don’t care, can’t you just call the whole thing off?”
He eyes me suspiciously and I shift in my seat. I maintain eye contact, refusing to be the one who breaks first. Finally, he gives me a wry smile.
“Why don’t I show you what I have and we can go from there?”
I nod slowly. Okay, fine.
“But my camera is at home. How about we meet here Monday, same time?”
“When is the article running?” I’m surprised, I’d expected it to run tomorrow.
“Oh, well, it’s a write-up of the event but it’s more a spotlight of the charity, so it’ll run next Sunday.”
I agree to meet him, then almost laugh out loud at a sudden thought. The reason behind my insistence is a better story than the one he’s trying to protect. I realize then why Cash Murray is a journalist for the society pages. He lacks the nose for hard news.
I pull out my cell phone and call Henry.
“Zoe, I had a feeling you’d change your mind. I was headed to Gramercy Tavern. Join me.”
By the time I get there, he is already seated. He has chosen a table in the center of the room with an eye on the door where he can view the comings and goings. He wears a casual Saturday dress shirt with pressed khakis and he flashes me a genuine smile. My heart catches.
“Sit, sweetheart. I’ve ordered you wine. How did you spend your morning?” He eyes me keenly over his menu. He means to look nonchalant but how I spend my time is always of utmost interest to him. Sometimes, this irritates me. Today I do something I’ve never done before—I omit.
“Oh, I spoke with Francesca about last night.” A technical truth.
“Ah, and she was thrilled, I imagine?” Henry studies the first courses. I don’t know why he bothers—he’ll order beef tartare with a single glass of Barolo.
“Completely thrilled. Thanks for all your help. Last night, the past few weeks.”
Henry had been publicly supportive of the benefit, talking it up in conversations with colleagues and giving statements to the media. Above the menu I can see his eyes, crinkled at the corners. He looks older, somehow, than he did even last night.
“Why wouldn’t I? What matters to you, matters to me. Is that so hard to believe?” He folds the menu and looks at me intently. This is his thing, this intense you’re-the-only-one-in-the-room gaze. Everyone from investors to servicemen are equally charmed by Henry Whittaker. Which is mostly why he can order a bottle-only wine by the glass.
Henry motions to someone across the room and through the rest of lunch I sit silently while Henry discusses business—market dips and trades—with anyone who stops by our table. He makes attempts to include me, blathers on about last night, calls me brilliant to his friends. He receives polite nods in return; they’re used to his posturing when it comes to me. I stay for an hour, enough time to placate him, and then excuse myself. I kiss his cheek and walk myself out.