Confused, she asks, “Really? Who?”

“Milla… Vanilla,” I repeat slowly.

“Milla… Vanilla?” she asks uncomfortably.

“Milla… Vanilla,” I say. “I think that’s what their name is.”

She says, “I’m not sure.”

“About going?”

“No… of the name.” She concentrates, then says, “I think they’re called… Milli Vanilli.”

I pause for a long time before saying, “Oh.”

She stands there, nods once.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say—I don’t have any tickets to it anyway. “It’s months from now.”

“Oh,” she says, nodding again. “Okay.”

“Listen, where should we go?” I lean back and pull my Zagat from the desk’s top drawer.

She pauses, afraid of what to say, taking my question as a test she needs to pass, and then, unsure she’s chosen the right answer, offers, “Anywhere you want?”

“No, no, no.” I smile, leafing through the booklet. “How about anywhere you want?”

“Oh Patrick,” she sighs. “I can’t make this decision.”

“No, come on,” I urge. “Anywhere you want.”

“Oh I can’t.” Helplessly, she sighs again. “I don’t know.”

“Come on,” I urge her, “where do you want to go? Anywhere you want. Just say it. I can get us in anywhere.”

She thinks about it for a long time and then, sensing her time is running out, timidly asks, trying to impress me, “What about… Dorsia?”

I stop looking through the Zagat guide and without glancing up, smiling tightly, stomach dropping, I silently ask myself, Do I really want to say no? Do I really want to say I can’t possibly get us in? Is that what I’m really prepared to do? Is that what I really want to do?

“So-o-o-o,” I say; placing the book down, then nervously opening it up again to find the number. “Dorsia is where Jean wants to go…”

“Oh I don’t know,” she says, confused. “No, we’ll go anywhere you want.”

“Dorsia is… fine,” I say casually, picking up the phone, and with a trembling finger very quickly dial the seven dreaded numbers, trying to remain cool. Instead of the busy signal I’m expecting, the phone actually rings at Dorsia and after two rings the same harassed voice I’ve grown accustomed to for the past free months answers, shouting out, “Dorsia, yes?” the room behind the voice a deafening hum.

“Yes, can you take two tonight, oh, let’s say, in around twenty minutes?” I ask, checking my Rolex, offering Jean a wink. She seems impressed.

“We are totally booked,” the maître d’ shouts out smugly.

“Oh, really?” I say, trying to look pleased, on the verge of vomiting. “That’s great.”

“I said we are totally booked,” he shouts.

“Two at nine?” I say. “Perfect.”

“There are no tables available tonight,” the maître d’, unflappable, drones. “The waiting list is also totally booked.” He hangs up.

“See you then.” I hang up too, and with a smile that tries its best to express pleasure at her choice, I find myself fighting for breath, every muscle tensed sharply. Jean is wearing a wool jersey and flannel dress by Calvin Klein, an alligator belt with a silver buckle by Barry Kieselstein Cord, silver earrings and clear stockings also by Calvin Klein. She stands there in front of the desk, confused.

“Yes?” I ask, walking over to the coatrack. “You’re dressed… okay.”

She pauses. “You didn’t give them a name,” she says softly.

I think about this while putting on my Armani jacket and while reknotting my Armani silk tie, and without stammering I tell her, “They… know me.”

While the maître d’ seats a couple who I’m pretty sure are Kate Spencer and Jason Lauder, Jean and I move up to his podium, where the reservation book lies open, names absurdly legible, and leaning over it casually I spot the only name for two at nine without a line drawn through it, which happens to be—oh Jesus—Schrawtz. I sigh, and tapping my foot, my mind racing, I try to concoct some kind of feasible plan. Suddenly I turn to Jean and say, “Why don’t you go to the women’s room.”

She’s looking around the restaurant, taking it in. Chaos People are waiting ten deep at the bar. The maître d’ seats the couple at a table in the middle of the room. Sylvester Stallone and a bimbo sit in the front booth that Sean and I sat in just weeks before, much to my sickened amazement, and his bodyguards are piled into the booth next to that, and the owner of Petty’s, Norman Prager, lounges in the third. Jean turns her head to me and shouts “What?” over the din.

“Don’t you want to use the ladies’ room?” I ask. The maître d’ nears us, picking his way through the packed restaurant, unsmiling.

“Why? I mean… do I?” she asks, totally confused.

‘Just... go,” I hiss, desperately squeezing her arm.

“But I don’t need to go, Patrick,” she protests.

“Oh Christ,” I mutter. Now it’s too late anyway.

The maître d’ walks up to the podium and inspects the book, takes a phone call, hangs up in a matter of seconds, then looks us over, not exactly displeased. The maître d’ is at least fifty and has a ponytail. I clear my throat twice to get his full attention, make some kind of lame eye contact.

“Yes?” he asks, as if harassed.

I give him a dignified expression before sighing inside. “Reservations at nine…” I gulp. “For two.”

“Ye-e-es?” he asks suspiciously, drawing the word out. “Name?” he says, then turns to a passing waiter, eighteen and model handsome, who’d asked, “Where’s da ice?” He’s glaring and shouting, “Not… now. Okay? How many times do you need to be told?” The waiter shrugs, humbly, and then the maître d’ points off toward the bar, “Da ice is over dere!” He turns back to us and I am genuinely frightened.

“Name,” he commands.

And I’m thinking: Of all the fucking names, why this one? “Um, Schrawtz”—oh god—“Mr. and Mrs. Schrawtz.” My face, I’m sure, is ashen and I say the name mechanically, but the maître d’ is too busy to not buy it and I don’t even bother to face Jean, who I’m sure is totally bewildered by my behavior as we’re led to the Schrawtzes’ table, which I’m sure probably sucks though I’m relieved anyway.

Menus already lie on the table but I’m so nervous the words and even the prices look like hieroglyphics and I’m completely at a loss. A waiter takes our drink order—the same one who couldn’t locate the ice—and I find myself saying things, without listening to Jean, like “Protecting the ozone layer is a really cool idea” and telling knock-knock jokes. I smile, fixing it on my face, in another country, and it takes no time at all—minutes, really, the waiter doesn’t even get a chance to tell us about the specials—for me to notice the tall, handsome couple by the podium conferring with the maître d’, and after sighing very deeply, light-headed, stammering, I mention to Jean, “Something bad is happening.”

She looks up from the menu and puts down the iceless drink

she’s been sipping. “Why? What’s wrong?”

The maître d’ is glaring over at us, at me, from across the room as he leads the couple toward our table. If the couple had been short, dumpy, excessively Jewish, I could’ve kept this table, even without the aid of a fifty, but this couple looks like they’ve just strolled out of a Ralph Lauren ad, and though Jean and I do too (and so does the rest of the whole goddamn restaurant), the man is wearing a tuxedo and the girl—a totally fuckable babe—is covered with jewels. This is reality, and as my loathsome brother Sean would say, I have to deal with it. The maître d’ now stands at the table, hands clasped behind his balk, unamused, and after a long pause asks, “Mr. and Mrs… Schrawtz?”

“Yes?” I play it cool.

He just stares. This is accompanied by an abnormal silence. His ponytail, gray and oily, hangs like some kind of malignancy below his collar.

“You know,” I finally say, somewhat suavely, “I happen to know the chef.”

He continues staring. So, no doubt, does the couple behind him.

After another long pause, for no real reason, I ask, “Is he… in Aspen?”