couple swimming in old money—both friendly but boring as fuck—and Mr. Pomery, an attorney advisor who used to work for our apartment a while ago. He’s verging on retirement, but his company, a blonde beauty with fake lashes and a wide, cherry-red smile is closer to my age than his. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s paid to be here. We exchange quick and polite greetings, introducing each other when necessary, all of which is putting a palpable strain on Ella. Her disdain for this environment is palpable even when she’s barely speaking.
“Where’s your drink?” I ask as we sit down, noticing that she didn’t bring her champagne flute to the table.
“Gone, I finished it,” she replies, looking confused. “Was I supposed to keep the glass?”
Her question prompts a round of snickering around the table, to which she responds with a frown.
“Oh no, dear, you’re fine,” Mrs. Winterbottom assures her, adding an appeasing smile. “The waiter will bring you a new one if you wish—or wine, if you’d rather have that with your meal.”
“I thought so.” Ella forces a short-lived smile on her face when she nods at Mrs. Winterbottom.
I’m a little concerned about the fact that Ella emptied her champagne within less than ten minutes, but still wave for a waiter when I spot one close to our table, and don’t interfere when she orders both, another glass of champagne and a glass of white wine to go with her food. I finish my champagne and leave empty glass on the waiter’s tray before ordering a glass of white for myself.
“So, Mr. Boulder, anything you have your eyes on tonight?” Mr. Pomery inquires, nodding toward the stage behind his back. “Or are you attending as a sponsor?”
“Just here as a sponsor, really,” I respond. “Frankly, I haven’t even looked at tonight’s list of items to be auctioned off.”
“Oh, I heard there’s a beautiful Westport Yacht,” Mrs. Winterbottom interjects. “Anchored in Rhode Island and hardly used. We might give it a try.”
She winks at her husband, who nods, chewing and without lifting his eyes from the plate in front of him.
“What a coincidence. That yacht is mine,” I let her know—noticing how Ella’s face turns to me immediately.
“You’re giving away your yacht?” she asks, scrunching her nose.
“What a coincidence indeed!” Mrs. Winterbottom rejoices, and I regard her with a quick smile before turning to Ella.
“It’s not mine, actually,” I tell her. “A little favor from Logan. He bought it last year and never uses it.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Logan, huh. It’s nice that you guys are still close.”
Her words don’t sound sincere and I’m sure they aren’t. The two of them used to share a weird love-to-hate-you-relationship in college—united in their love for the occasional joint, but driven apart by their many differences and Logan’s disdain for Ella’s role in my life.
“Sounds like he’s doing pretty good for himself,” she adds briskly. “Having yachts just lying around all over the place.”
“Not all over the place,” I correct her. “Just this one in Newport.”
Ella nods, stabbing a piece of salmon with unwarranted force. “He moved to Rhode Island?”
“He has a home there, yes. Among other places.”
“Of course,” she retorts, rolling her eyes before she reaches for her wine.
The Winterbottoms chime into our conversation, seemingly oblivious to Ella’s—and frankly, my—evident unwillingness to engage with them. Superficial small talk is already annoying on its own, but in this environment it usually spirals into a boasting competition about whose wealth—and generosity—trumps that of everyone else at the table. Talks about “wonderful months” spent at the newly-acquired summer home at the coast and lengthy praise for the “talented designer” who was hired to decorate the interior never come without a subtle hint at the price tag attached to it. It’s a ridiculous dance, but one I mastered to perfection.
Of course, Ella doesn’t add to the conversation, quietly focusing on her food—and her drinks—for most of it. She doesn’t let it show, but I’m sure she’s fuming with rage and maybe even a kiss of envy as she endures our shallow exchange. And while I’m low-key worried that she could embarrass herself with an ill-considered remark or too ostentatious eye-rolling, I happily stoke the fire as I talk about my many achievements and the financial rewards that came with them. It’s just what I’d do with any other date, well aware that it’s these things, my accomplishments, my possessions and my power that’ll make the girl’s panties drop at the end of the night.
This, however, is