Three tables away, two men were finishing their meals. One man stooped low to the table and spoke while his companion ate in slow, even bites. "I think you could use another pair of hands," the talker said. "You've got more clients than you can handle. I've got more clients than I need—and none of them any good. You've got good people and I've got good contacts. What do you say? Want to hang out a shingle?"
The other man motioned to his eggplant. "I'm in the middle of a meal."
"I know, I know. You need some bread. Here, let's get you some bread."
Almost every table was occupied in the noon-hour rush as waiters in long, white aprons scurried around, carrying baskets of bread and plates of pasta. The rich, decadent aroma filled the small dining room and seeped onto the street outside, where Lance Collins stood formulating a plan, watching his agent on the far side of the room. He saw Richard Stone turn and scour the room for someone or something. He might as well be looking for me, Lance thought as he mustered his courage and started inside. But he'd hardly passed the threshold when themaître d' stepped in his way.
"May I help you?" Giovanni asked.
"No thanks," Lance said. "I see the person I'm looking for." He moved to step around the little man, but Giovanni slid quickly into Lance's path.
"Oh." Giovanni smiled, still studying Lance but seemingly with a new objective in mind. "You are Miss James's agent?"
"No," Lance said, stepping forward only to be cut off once again.
"You have a reservation?" The tone hardened.
"No, I told you. I'm meeting—"
Giovanni stopped smiling. "Miss James is meeting an agent. Mrs. DiAngelo is meeting a daughter. You are no agent, and you are no daughter. You must leave Stella's." He had a hand on Lance's arm and was steering him toward the door, and Lance felt opportunity slipping through his fingers. With one last look at Richard Stone, he grasped for inspiration.
"Representative!" Lance yelled.
Giovanni's grasp on his arm loosened, so Lance carried on, "I don't like the term agent" he said, as if he hated to be a stickler for such things. "I prefer representative."
With that, Giovanni studied Lance, and then he brought both hands to the side of his face. "You are a friend of Miss James?" he asked.
"Oh, yeah," Lance said. "A close personal friend."
A giddy grin flashed across the man's face, and he took off through the tables. As Lance followed, he began to worry what he was going to say or do when they reached this woman called Miss James. From across the restaurant, he saw a woman sitting alone at a table, studying a notebook. Lance found himself staring at the graceful curve of her neck and the way her red hair swept across her shoulder. He was instantly glad to be getting an introduction. Then he remembered that they were already close personal friends. He put his hand on Giovanni's shoulder and stopped him. He pulled a rose from a vase on a nearby table and spoke low in Giovanni's ear: "I can take it from here."
Giovanni turned to Lance and said, "Oh, it is a beautiful day!" When he turned and went back to the entrance, Lance realized he was standing alone in the dining room holding a damp, stolen rose and looking at the kind of woman a normal man would probably only approach if he was drunk or on a dare. Behind her, he saw Richard Stone at his table in the back. He could just walk past her, Lance decided, but a glance behind him warned that the maître d’ was watching his every move. Maybe men made a habit of coming there and trying to pick up women who were out of their league? Maybe he was just the latest in long line of suitors to go down in flames, and the little man at the door didn't want to miss the show. . . .
At the back of the restaurant, a waiter cleared Richard Stone's plate.
It was then or never.
Lance shook the excess water from the stem of the pilfered flower and slipped into the chair across from the woman called Miss James. "Excuse me," he said, and the woman looked up. "I don't mean to impose, but do you see that man over there?" He motioned to the two men in the back of the room.
"Yes," she said, drawing out the word as if considering the possibility that she might be on Candid Camera.
"Well, I really need to talk to him, and the only way the guy at the door would let me in here was if I said I was meeting you. I lied. I'm sorry. You're probably thinking that I'm a terrible person, and you're probably right. But if I could just sit here long enough to keep your boyfriend at the door from getting suspicious, then I'll go talk to that man and you'll never have to see me again. I promise."
Julia surveyed him. "I'm quite fond of Giovanni, my 'boyfriend at the door.' "
"And he's fond of you, too." Lance sat up taller. He gave her a toothy grin, but she didn't budge—not even a smile. He eased to the edge of his chair. "Anyhow, I'm sorry to bother you. You've been great. Really, very nice. Enjoy your lunch."
He got up and moved slowly, with cautious, backward steps, toward the men. When he saw the rose still in his hands, he tossed it casually to Julia, watched her catch it, and then turned to speak to Richard Stone.
"Richard?" Lance asked, feigning surprise. "Well, this is a stroke of luck, running into you like this!" He eased casually into a chair at the table and glanced at Richard's companion. "Hey, how ya doing?" he asked before turning his attention back to his agent. "So, I've been thinking about the types of auditions I've been going out on—"
Richard put a hand out, stopping Lance. "Do I know you?"
Lance looked at Richard, and then at the other man, then choked out a nervous laugh. "This guy," he said to Richard's companion while he pointed to his agent. "Seriously, Richard, I've been—"
"Seriously. I don't believe I have ever laid eyes on you before in my life."
Lance sat, shocked and confused, as he tried to process this one-sentence slam on him and everything he'd ever wanted.