“She won’t fall for me,” I say, baffled. “She’s not interested in me in that way. Her ex is a fly half.”
It’s Scarlett’s turn to look confused. “I’m sorry, your point is?”
“She likes small weedy guys.”
“So you only like blondes?”
I think about it. “Point taken.”
“Just… be careful,” Scarlett says.
“No need.” Impatiently, I get to my feet. “It’s a business arrangement. I half wish I hadn’t told you it was fake.”
“Like anyone’s going to believe it’s real,” Orson scoffs.
I bend and steal the last cheese roll. “What do you mean?”
“We all know you too well,” Orson says. “Nobody’s going to believe you’ve actually proposed to a girl you’ve only taken on a few dates.”
“Oh, I’ll make it look believable.”
“How?” Scarlett wants to know.
“How do you think? I can fake adoration. Throw around a few kisses here and there for the tabloids.”
She giggles. “This is going to be great.”
“I’ve got an idea,” Orson says. “Scarlett’s right in that it’s overwhelming for someone who hasn’t been part of our world tosuddenly be thrust into it. Why don’t we double date? It might make it easier for her.”
“You’re just hoping I fall flat on my face,” I tell him.
“I’ll get the popcorn,” he replies.
I give up. Everyone’s a critic, but I know what I’m doing.
It’s not a bad idea, though, and we agree to a date the following day at seven at a restaurant on the waterfront. I promise to book it and leave the room, hearing them laughing as I walk down the corridor.
*
As it gets near to five, I walk the short distance to Whenua Law. The firm is on Victoria Street West, not far from the Sky Tower. It’s a fine afternoon, the bright sun bouncing off metal and glass, although there’s a coolness in the air that confirms we’re well into autumn, which is confirmed by the orange and purple leaves falling from the occasional sweetgum tree. I bet Chessie knows the Latin name for them, I think as I cross the road and go through the double doors into the building.
I’d hoped to get here before her, but as I walk into reception, I see her sitting on the visitor chairs to one side. Nearby, a female lawyer helps herself to some water from the cooler, while another is talking to the receptionist—they’re both wearing dark suits with crisp white blouses and high heels. One has a neat bob, the other has long straightened hair, and they’re both wearing lots of makeup.
Chessie looks incongruous in black trousers with Converses, and an oversized bright pink shirt that oddly goes well with her red hair, which is in a scruffy bun. She stands as she sees me, and I walk up to her. She still reminds me of some kind of Greek nymph. Man, she’s small. Apart from her boobs.
“Hello,” I say, and smile.
She scratches her head and looks up at me nervously. “When does it start?”
“The meeting? At five.”
“No, the engagement. I mean, I wasn’t sure how to greet you.” She glances at the receptionist and the lawyers.
My lips curve up. “I’m more than happy to smooch, if that’s what you’re asking.”
She gives me a wry look. “That wasn’t what I was asking. I’m just saying, if we were engaged, we wouldn’t just say hello.”
“What would be an acceptable greeting, do you think?”