She finally lit the cigarette in her hand. “Maybe.”
“Do you like your job?”
“What?”
“Your job. Do you like it?”
Her walls came up. “It’s not my calling, if that’s what you mean. But sure, it has its moments.”
“What’s your calling?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Everyone has one. I believe that.”
“I don’t. But I suppose that doesn’t matter to you.”
“You have a calling, I’m certain of it. We just have to find it.”
“What’s yours?” She wanted to talk about him.
He wagged his finger “All in good time, Ms. Kapur. I’m asking the questions.”
“Bullshit. You can’t do that. You claim everyone has—”
Ajay entered with drinks and some snacks. He laid a coaster, placed hers down, and announced: “Venetian spritz.”
Neda examined Ajay with interest—he was powerfully built, but with a face of childlike openness. She smiled sweetly, pointed to one of the snacks. “And what’s this?”
“Madam,” he replied in English, in earnest, “this is fried, salted anchovy in zucchini blossom.” He looked to Sunny for approval.
“Thank you, Ajay,” Sunny said. “I’ll call you.”
“He adores you,” she said as he slipped away. She held up her drink, examined the color. “And this is beautiful.”
“Try it.”
She took a sip. “Damn.”
“Good.”
“Bitter. But good.”
“Your palate will adjust. And the snack?”
“You get off on this, don’t you?”
“I enjoy giving people new experiences.”
“You know,” she said, examining the plate, “I actually never had anchovy before.” She took a bite, chewed a moment, nodded affirmatively. “Yeah, that’s amazing.” She pointed at his plate. “What did you get?”
“Oh,” he shrugged, “these are Japanese.”
“Japan.” She pointed at the Taschen book. “I’d love to go to Japan.”
“It’s insane.”
“You’ve been? Course you’ve been. What’s it like?”
“Insane. Impossible to describe. But you know,” he motioned toward the drink in her hand, “I prefer Italy. The food, the culture, the passion, the style. I get all my suits made there. I have one tailor in Milan, another in Napoli. It’s all . . . like I said . . .”
“Spritza-ma-somethin’?”
“Sprezzatura.”
“That’s the one.”
“It means ‘effortless cool.’?”
“You could tell me it means ‘asshole’ and I wouldn’t know the difference.”
“But you’d believe me?”
“No,” she shook her head.
He laughed. “You’re funny.”
“Am I?”
“And you talk back.”
“Yeah, well . . .”
“No one talks back. Not anymore.”
“No one?”
“Not to me.”
“Not even your friends?”
“Not even my friends.”
“Not even your bestest, bestest friends?”
He shook his head solemnly.
“Well, that’s because they’re scared of you,” she laughed.
“They’re scared of my money,” he countered.
“No,” she shot back. “I’m sure they love the money. What they’re scared of is losing access. This is basic school shit. You’re the cool new kid. You never watched 90210? I mean, who wouldn’t want to rest in the warm shadow of Sunny Wadia?”
He looked at the table momentarily. “I don’t know.” Then he looked up at her. “Me?”
She gave a mock cluck of sympathy. “Oh, is the poor rich kid sad?” She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and she could feel the alcohol working on her. It went like this sometimes, loosening her tongue so that she chose to prey on the traits she found intriguing when she was sober. Seeing his face, she tried to rein herself in, arranged her face accordingly. “But I remember now,” she said. “We were talking in the restaurant that night. You said you were a loner. I didn’t believe you. I thought you were being cute. But maybe it’s true.”
“You’re perceptive,” he said.
She batted it away. “I have two eyes and a brain.”