The place is all glass and gold accents, with a discreet door and a sign so minimalist it might as well not be there. There’s a queue of very glossy people waiting to get into the bar, and a gaggle of paparazzi waiting outside, but bizarrely for a place with so much glass, you can’t see beyond the waiting area (which only has me waiting in it, and no one is interested in me).
I smooth down my dress, my boobs higher than I’m expecting them to be thanks to the bra I let JJ talk me into buying earlier. It’s almost like a jump scare, when I can’t find them where they usually chill, but JJ assures me dates go much better when your tits are closer to your chin, so we’re humouring her on that one.
She kept telling me to sell myself – adding ‘not like that’ when I rolled my eyes. She’s making it seem like it’s a job interview when really it’s just dinner… right? These things always go much better when I’m more casual about them. The last thing I need is myself getting in my head – if that makes sense?
The host looks over at me like I might be lost.
‘I’m waiting for Max Hart,’ I tell her, pre-empting her questioning. I can tell by the tightness in her jaw that she wants to throw me out already. I don’t look like their usual clientele.
‘Mr Hart is already here and seated at his table – he used the preferential guest entrance,’ she informs me. ‘Who shall I tell him is here?’
‘Whitney,’ I reply. ‘He’s expecting me.’
‘One moment,’ she says simply, her expression never changing.
She wanders into the dining room before returning, still with that same aggressively blank vibe.
‘This way, please. Max is ready for you,’ she informs me.
Well, great.
She leads me through the main part of the restaurant to a slightly raised section at the back, semi-screened off by plants and frosted glass panels. A private area in an already private area.
And there he is.
Max Hart is exactly what you’d expect a man made on a reality TV show to look like. Tall. Broad shoulders. Hair that has clearly seen more salon time than my own. He’s in a black shirt, open at the collar – two buttons, very slutty of him – sleeves rolled up. He’s smart casual in the sense that some parts are smart, some parts are casual. I suppose they would let someone like him wear anything in here, whereas I have the kind of profile where if I so much as thought about deviating from the dress code, they would show me the door.
He has two waiters, one either side of him, one pouring wine, the other chatting to him. Max looks so easy-going between them, sitting at the table, one elbow rested on top while he uses his free hand to gesture as he talks.
He spots me while he’s mid-conversation and lights up, standing to greet me. The two waiters dutifully scarper.
‘Whitney?’ he says, walking around the table to greet me.
His voice is lower than I expected. Warmer even.
‘Nice to meet you,’ I say, offering him my hand to shake. Of course, as I do this he goes to kiss me on the cheek, so I end up awkwardly pushing my hand against his trousers while he winds up with a mouthful of my hair. Thankfully, he laughs.
‘You look great,’ he says easily, not making me feel awkward about what just happened by swiftly moving on from it. ‘I’m really glad you could make it.’
‘So am I,’ I lie, because that’s what you say… Then again, with each second, I have to say, I’m kind of warming to the idea of having dinner with him. Perhaps I can dare to dream for more than simply ‘not a serial killer’. Perhaps this date could even be… dare I say it… good.
He pulls out my chair for me – which wins him some points, if you’re keeping score – and I sit, placing my bag by my feet, doing my best to have an air of the kind of person who often frequents such eateries, although looking down at the table, I can’t say I’m at all used to places where you have six forks each. Six knives too, and five spoons – if you count the teeny-tiny one too.
This place is nice, metric fuck-ton of cutlery aside. Crisp white tablecloth. Real candles. Soft lighting clearly designed to filter your skin in photos. Everyone looks so smooth – unless they all use the same surgeons and/or aestheticians, in which case, I’m the only crusty-looking one here.
‘Can I order you a drink?’ he asks, gesturing to the wine in front of him. ‘Or I’ve got a bottle of red on the go. It’s decent.’
‘Wine would be lovely,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’
He nods to the waiter who has reappeared at our table. He pours me a large glass, so obviously I like this place already.
‘So,’ Max says, once we’re alone. ‘JJ tells me you’re a writer.’
‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘Do you know her through work?’
‘She’s trying to get me to write a book,’ he says, rolling his eyes. ‘I keep telling her: who wants to read a book written by me? Apparently, I don’t even have to write it.’
‘Yeah, she has a lot of high-profile clients. She gets them book deals, finds them good ghostwriters,’ I explain.