Lies and Weddings(86)
“Eat some…good food for me.”
“It’s been a pleasure.”
“You’ll come…and visit me again?”
Eden glanced at her father before answering. “Yes, of course.”
“I’ll tell you stories…about your father…that will make your hair…stand on end.”
“You better! Now, rest up, and I’ll see you soon!” Eden gave Rene’s hand a squeeze, hugged her father, and left the suite with Tessa.
A few moments later, Rene summoned Thomas to his bedside and asked weakly, “Your girl…still lives…with you?”
“She does.”
“Lucky bastard.”
“I am. Now, you should really stop talking and get some rest,” Thomas suggested.
Rene ignored him. “I can tell she’s…a good doctor.”
Thomas nodded. It took everything in him to discuss his daughter with Rene. He had tried so hard over the decades to build an impenetrable boundary between his patients and his private life.
“I’ve fucked things up…with my son…haven’t I?”
“You just need to rein him in.”
“I gave him…the world…and he hates me for it.”
“It’s not too late for you to change your relationship with him, Rene.”
“Yes it is,” Rene said with a deep sigh.
Skip Notes
*1 Actually, in 2018 a Ferrari 250 GTO sold for $70.2 million.
*2 Neither of them was actually knighted by a royal monarch. “Sir” is simply a courtesy title commonly used by Filipinos, so if you need a little ego boost, book a trip to the Philippines.
*3 Nude except for his Calvins.
*4 Loosely translates to “What nonsense are you talking about?”
IV
Daddy Mustang
HOLLYWOOD, CALIFORNIA ? EVENING
As they sped down Sunset Boulevard, Freddy eagerly gave Eden the lowdown on the treat that awaited them. “Michelle Obama just ate here with her daughter. Harry Styles slept on the banquette after winning his Grammys. And Leo’s a regular. Daddy Mustang is—”
“The most exclusive restaurant in the world?” Eden cut in.
“How did you know?”
“Because that’s what you’ve said about every place we’ve been to since I arrived in LA!” Eden said with a laugh. “Tell me, do you ever go anywhere that isn’t exclusive?”
Freddy appeared momentarily flummoxed. “Sure…I go to plenty of normal places, like, uh…South Beverly Grill.”[*1]
“I’m so relieved to hear that.”
“But why would I take you to any normal places—I’m showing you the very best my hometown has to offer! Wouldn’t you do the same for me if I came to visit you?”
“I’d take you to our local Caffè Nero, but I’m afraid I’ve been banned from it.”
“Caffè Nero? Sounds super cool. Why did they ban you?”
Eden laughed. “It’s a long story.”
They pulled up outside a one-story strip center, in the middle of which was a single wooden door painted glossy black. A tall, spindly man with floppy blond hair stood outside at a metal podium, the kind used by high school band conductors, his face aglow from the iPad in his hand.
“This is it?” Eden asked, a little surprised by how nondescript the entrance looked.
“Yup, this is Daddy Mustang. It’s so cool you’d never know it was here. We gotta thank Dani—you have no idea what it took for her to score a table tonight!”
“Did she have to book this a few weeks ahead?”
“A few weeks? Ha! First of all, they don’t have a phone number, so the only way you can get a reservation is through their website. Tables only open up the week before, at twelve oh one a.m. on Sunday night, but by the time you click on it at twelve oh one and one second, all the tables for the week are booked up!”
“How is that even possible?”
“I know, right? The website is a total scam, because tables are never available online. It’s worse than scoring tickets to a Taylor Swift concert, because at least those tickets actually exist somewhere. This place just has to pretend that they’re open to the public and ordinary people can dream of eating here when it’s literally impossible. The only way to get in is to hire a top publicist, put them on retainer for eight thousand dollars a month, and once they’ve generated enough media hits for you and your Wikipedia page is at least six paragraphs long and your social media accounts are all fully verified with throbbing blue check marks and there are enough googleable pictures of you at the Met Ball or the Vanity Fair Oscar party, your publicist may then dare to call the reservation number that’s a more closely guarded secret than the president’s phone line with all the nuclear codes, and if they actually pick up, which is rare, there’s a fierce woman on the line who sounds just like Jamie Lee Curtis who mans ‘the Daddy List,’ because apparently every month they update this list of everyone on the planet who’s cool enough to dine here, and your publicist simply has to say ‘I represent Eden Tong’ and there will be a pause while pseudo Jamie Lee checks the Daddy List and if your name isn’t already on it, you can forget it, you’re fucked and never getting in, but once you make the list you’re allowed the privilege of booking a table like eight months from now.”