Veronica shakes her head, and I almost laugh. Meg is describing 90 percent of the people at that event.
Meg says, “God, I can’t believe I don’t remember their names. Not just rich, but really wealthy. And he’s some kind of big deal…”
“The Morgensterns?” Veronica offers.
Meg snaps her fingers and says, “Yes! Thank you. Anyway. I overheard them say something about how Ron was low class masquerading as high class.” Meg wrinkles her nose. “She said, ‘He’s supposed to be a successful developer and yet he lives in a neighborhood with houses so close together you can hear when people are in the pool or grilling at their barbecues.’” Meg takes a salmon roll and pops it into her mouth, chewing. When she swallows, she says, “One thing I’ve learned over the years is that rich people care about really weird shit.”
Veronica looks worried, but Meg shrugs and says, “I’m sure it’s fine. I mean, who cares where he lives, right?”
Then she changes the subject to our yoga teacher’s upcoming vacation to Cabo. “I guess if you’re looking for a spring break vibe, Cabo’s great.”
But Veronica isn’t listening. Not really. Meg’s careful comments have framed the outline of what she wants Veronica to do. Tell David that Ron’s major donors don’t see him as one of them. And she very quietly laid out what was holding him back: his house.
***
After lunch, Veronica catches an Uber in front of the restaurant, and I wait with Meg while the valet brings her car, though I’d parked my own at a meter three blocks away. On the street next to us, traffic slows to a stop as the light turns red.
“Hey, blondie, does the carpet match the drapes?” The voice comes from a convertible next to us. Three men—boys really—look back at Meg, smiling.
Irritation passes through me, and I put on a stony expression most women would recognize, ready to pretend I don’t hear the sexual harassment being hurled our way by boys who have already learned that their passage through life will be largely unobstructed.
But Meg turns toward the one who spoke, a smile plastered on her face. “In my living room, you mean?”
Confidence drains from his expression as Meg takes another step toward the car, and a bubble of a laugh wells up inside of me at how easily she’s turned the tables on him.
“Do people even do that?” she asks, looking back at me. “Matching carpets and drapes would be a lot of the same color.”
“Most people don’t even have drapes anymore,” I say. “They have some kind of blinds.”
Meg nods and leans down toward the passenger, whose cheeks are growing flushed. “Some people have plantation shutters,” she says.
“Put the top up,” the kid mutters to the driver.
His friend laughs and says, “The light’s about to turn green.”
“Plantation shutters are really nice,” I say.
Meg edges even closer to the car. “So, you want to know if the flooring in my house matches my window treatments. Are you looking to buy a place? I sell real estate and I can add you to my weekly newsletter if you want.”
Just then, the light turns green, and the boy’s face melts with relief. As they accelerate, we can hear the sound of his friends’ laughter. “She worked you,” one of them says.
Meg steps back from the curb, grinning. “Someone has to teach them,” she says.
Regardless of whether or not she knows who I am, regardless of whether or not I’ve placed a target on my back, being around Meg is always entertaining.
I turn to face her. “So Ron’s house,” I prompt. “It would be great to get that listing.”