Mafia Chic. Erica Orloff
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standing still here. Positively shivering. What do you say we take a walk around the block? Get the blood pumping.”
Mumble.
“Grand!”
And that was my cue. I dashed out the door, much to the bemusement of the doorman, who, I think, was on to our charade—this wasn’t the first time we’d gone to such ridiculous lengths. I made a sharp left and raced around the corner for a cab.
Flawlessly executed. Or so we thought.
But it turned out that Di’s pastry hand-off was to have devastating consequences.
I plead an overflow of sake. The piping-hot liquid must have, like some alcoholic Drano, busted through my brain’s tiny capillaries and rendered me stupefied. So stupefied that I revealed more than I usually do on a first date.
Robert Wharton was dressed like a power player. Maybe that was it. I was overwhelmed by his expensive suit and silk tie, and his dimpled smile and flawless TV-teeth. His manners, as he pulled out my chair for me.
Or maybe it was just the sake.
“So do you have any brothers or sisters?” he asked, leaning in to better hear me, his face illuminated by a single candle in a Japanese-inspired lantern on our table.
I had been mid-lift of a delicious piece of eel on the ends of my chopsticks. Oh, God, here comes the obligatory family discussion, I thought. I dropped the eel in the little dish containing my soy sauce.
“A brother. Actor. He lives in Hollywood.”
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