For an hour I served them. I refilled Vanessa’s glass three times. I smiled when her husband Greg toasted himself, smiled when she introduced him to a tall silver-haired man as ‘the future of Halston Capital.’ That silver-haired man was Mr. Halston himself, the founder, the whole reason this party existed. He took a flute from my tray, glanced at my face, and froze.
“Margaret?” he said. “Margaret Doyle?”
The room turned. Vanessa’s smile cracked at the corners.
“Arthur,” I said quietly. “It’s been a long time.”
He looked at the apron. He looked at Vanessa. He looked back at me. “What on earth are you doing serving drinks at my firm’s party?”
“Helping out,” I said. “Apparently I wasn’t dressed appropriately for a guest.”
Vanessa rushed over, laughing too loud. “Oh, it’s a little family joke, Mr. Halston, she volunteered—”
“She is the woman,” Arthur said, cutting her off, “who turned down my offer to run our European division last spring because she was building her own fund. Doyle Capital. The one that just closed a ninety-million-dollar round.” He turned to Greg. “The one we’re courting as a strategic partner next quarter. The decision your promotion depends on.”
Greg’s champagne flute tilted in his hand. A thin line of gold ran down his sleeve.
I untied the apron slowly, folded it into a neat square, and placed it on Vanessa’s tray.
“Smile wider, sweetheart,” I said. “The investors don’t tip executives who humiliate their families.”
I walked Arthur to the quiet end of the rooftop, where we talked about Lisbon and Frankfurt and a partnership I had not yet decided the fate of. Behind us, I heard Vanessa hiss at Greg, and Greg hiss back, and the soft, terrible sound of forty guests pretending not to listen.
The partnership memo went out Monday. Greg’s name was not on it. Mine was at the top.
