I shook my head.
“Well, you’re in for a treat. And it’s on me tonight. No big deal.”
No big deal, I thought five minutes later when we’d been seated and I listened to Skye order another $60 glass of wine from the sommelier. Then she told him we’d both do the chef’s tasting for dinner, and I caught the price on the menu before the waiter whisked it away—$225.
My curiosity was piqued. As far as I knew, young women in book publishing typically didn’t budget for $500 weeknight dinners at four-star New York restaurants. Fifteen minutes later, during one of the many courses, I said as much.
“I’m sorry.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “I shouldn’t have ordered for you like you’re a child. I’ve just been here so many—” She paused. “This is my dad’s favorite restaurant in the city. The chef’s tasting menu is expensive, but it’s unreal.”
I sipped my hot water with lemon—just call me Gwyneth fucking Paltrow—and eyed Skye quizzically. “Well, I feel terrible that I don’t have my wallet.”
Skye put down her fork. “I should probably be up front about something.”
I’m not sure if she was trying to impress me or if she simply wanted to acknowledge the elephant in the room, but Skye didn’t beat around the bush. She explained that her mother’s grandfather had started a pharmaceutical company called F&C Pharmaceuticals, which was acquired by Johnson & Johnson in 1951.
“My family owns a substantial stake in J and J,” Skye clarified. “It was technically my mom’s stake, but she died when I was twelve. So, yeah, I’m that trust-fund kid. Which I sometimes hate because I never did anything to earn it and that’s a weird feeling. But if there’s one thing I don’t have a problem dropping money on, it’s amazing food.” She pointed to the plate between us. “You have to try one of these oysters. They’re like pure cream.”
I watched as she used the tiny silver spoon to scoop horseradish onto a meaty little oyster, then slurped the whole thing back.
Now, I didn’t get specific numbers, Dr. K, but in the men’s bathroom of Le Bernardin a quick Google search of F&C Pharmaceuticals + Johnson & Johnson led to the discovery that the fortune is substantial. Skye’s grandfather appeared in an article on CNBC titled “197 Billionaires ‘Too Poor’ to Make Forbes List of 400 Richest Americans.” The article claimed his net worth to be $1.2 billion from “inherited pharmaceuticals.”
Holy fucking fuck, Dr. K. I’ve never been one to believe in the workings of fate, but it’s just too strange that in the midst of the direst financial crisis of my life I meet someone like Skye—the trust-fund baby of a $1.2 billion fortune.
I spent the rest of our dinner in an odd, dreamy sort of haze. How many times had I considered the insanely rich before? How many times in the past six months had I thought to myself, Jeff Bezos has $160 billion; if he could just give me a quick million, all my financial troubles would be solved forever, and he wouldn’t even notice.
This thought is irrational, and one I probably share with every other middle-class American asshole. But last night at Le Bernardin sitting across from Skye Starling—the girl I’d spent the past two weeks wining and dining and screwing—I asked myself a similar question. And perhaps it was the physical proximity to such exorbitant wealth, but somehow, this time, the question seemed entirely rational. The outcome felt attainable.
No, I wasn’t going to directly ask her for a million dollars, Dr. K; I’m not a complete fool. But the wheels were beginning to turn. By the time the waiter deposited our final course of burnt-orange crémeux with clementine sorbet, I knew how I would pose the question I couldn’t shake from my mind.
“Thank you for being honest with me about your … situation,” I started.
“Of course.” Skye blinked, her eyelashes long and impossibly thick. “I figured I would tell you. We’re starting to spend more time together, and it’s … obviously a part of who I am.”
I nodded. “Trust funds can be tricky. I have some clients who’ve really gotten the short end of the stick in that situation. From a wealth management perspective, I mean. But it sounds like your father didn’t get tied up in any trust-fund laws.” I paused, sorbet dripping from my spoon. “Sorry, I’m babbling. I don’t mean to pry.”
But Skye nodded. “No, you’re right, I’ve heard it can be a total nightmare.” She swallowed. “But, yeah, luckily the trusts weren’t tied up legally or anything. My grandfather made sure of all that before he passed away.”
I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, the plan gathering speed in my mind.
“So, what did you think of your first Le Bernardin experience?” Skye asked as she handed the waiter her black AmEx without looking at the bill.
“That was the best meal of my life,” I said, though in truth I’d been too distracted to fully appreciate each of the decadent courses. “You’re going to have to roll me back to your apartment.”
I don’t know much about dating, Dr. K, having married my first and only girlfriend. But I do know that, millionaire or not, a girl doesn’t treat a guy to a chef’s tasting dinner at Le Bernardin if she’s not into him. That’s just not the way the world works.
Back at Skye’s I used the bathroom and studied my reflection in the mirror above the sink. And it was strange, Dr. K, but for the first time since I met Skye, I could see what she saw. Staring at myself, tall and clean-shaven in a blue blazer, I could understand what would draw a woman of her caliber to a man like me. I recalled the time, not a year earlier, when I’d overheard one of Maggie’s friends say I looked like a dark-haired David Beckham. She and some girls had been watching a movie in the den, and I’d listened to Maggie make puking noises in response while the other girls giggled. Still, that had happened. To young women I was handsome. David Beckham handsome. And though I’ve aged, with my full head of black hair—only a handful of grays if you dig—I could pass for late thirties.
What I saw in Skye’s bathroom mirror was a catch, Dr. K. I’ve been married a long time; I’d forgotten the way I appealed to women before Heather, the way they’d always bypassed Scott and Andy and my other buddies and flocked straight to me. But I’d only ever wanted Heather—spunky, stunning Heather with her twinkly green eyes and ambitious resolve, different from the other conventionally attractive girls whose sly smiles told me I could have them. The man in the mirror was a catch, but he was also Heather Michaels’s husband.
I was never a cheater, Dr. K. I’m not a cheater—that’s what I’m trying to explain. For the past two weeks Skye Starling has been my midlife crisis, but last night, drifting off beside her, I suddenly missed Heather so badly I couldn’t sleep. I missed the life we’d spent thirty years building together. I loathed the ocean of lies I’d put between us, and all the other ways I’d let her down. It was more like remembering than realizing. I think love is like that sometimes, Dr. K. It’s like finally finding the trail again when you’ve been lost.