Free Jet Set by Carrie Karasyov

offered.
    â€œI’m okay, thanks.…” I demurred.
    â€œYou sure? They have killer mocktails, like Jimmy’s Swisstini,” he said.
    â€œJimmy is the eighty-seven-year-old bartender here,” Sofia explained. “He’s an institution.”
    â€œWow, Oliver. I must say, that’s what American guys would refer to as a chick drink,” I teased.
    â€œWell, we Brits have enough confidence in our virility to partake of so-called feminine beverages.” He smiled. I blushed.
    A tux-clad gentleman holding a baby handheld glockenspiel sounded the keys to announce dinner.
    â€œI’m off to get a glass, then. See you in a moment at dinner.” Oliver walked off, and I started to melt like the nearby giant ice sculpture of a trumpet.
    â€œOh my god. You were totally flirting with him!” Sofia accused.
    â€œNo I wasn’t,” I protested. Was I?
    â€œYes. You. Were,” she said with her bony finger jutting at me. “Lucy. How are we supposed to get dirt on the royals if you’re so up the royals’ bums? You have to see it as predator and prey. Oliver wouldn’t give a rat’s arse about you if he knew your background, so don’t melt at the sight of his batting lashes. Understood?”
    â€œI guess.”
    â€œI’m only telling it like it is. Only true friends have candor like that.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œSee you in the dessert lounge afterward.” And with that Sofia turned and strode away to her table.
    Alone in the midst of the crowd, I looked around, trying to find my social bearings. There were so many kids, luckily many of them now familiar from my seeing them in the dining room orteeing off at the golf range, which was by the courts.
    â€œHi, Lucy!” It was Rioko. “Thank you for your email—no worries!”
    â€œOh, I felt terrible about not getting it in time. I haven’t been logging on at all.”
    â€œWhat table are you? I’m seven,” she said, and suddenly in my head I heard happy violin music, knowing that I wouldn’t be alone.
    â€œMe too!” I exclaimed, genuinely happy. Rioko semed very friendly, and she had such a warm and sweet face that I always smiled when I saw her. We walked over to our table together.
    Lucky table seven was covered in flowers—an explosion of three dozen peonies, with one more on each place setting, tied with a brown velvet ribbon. Crystal goblets glistened from the flickering light of fifty votives. Rioko was two down from me, and because it was boy-girl-boy-girl, I looked to see who was next to me. One place card bore Maxwell’s name. Gag. On the other side there was a name I didn’t know. Above my place card was a hand-calligraphied menu card with gilded edges listing the courses they would serve during the meal. I had never seen anything like it.
    â€œHi there, I’m Antony,” said a chipper blond guy who approached the table, pulling out the chair beside me. “I see I’m your dinner partner.”
    â€œI’m Lucy.”
    â€œThe tennis star, I know! Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
    We shook hands just as Oliver came to the table holding two Swisstinis, one for him and the other for Angelina, who was, of course, seated beside him.
    â€œLet’s get this paaartay started!” screamed Maxwell, who sidled up to the table like he owned it. “Hey, ladies, lookin’ sharp!” he said after scanning everyone. Which meant scanning their chests. Gross.
    â€œLucy, Lucy, Luuucy,” Maxwell said, looking me over. I suddenly felt like a rotisserie chicken turning under the gaze of his lecherous eyes on my boobs. “Smart dress.”
    I wanted to boil myself, I felt so grody, but instead I managed somehow to mutter a weak “Thanks.”
    Antony leaned in to whisper, “Lucy, don’t mind that jerk, he’s a bit of a clod.” I smiled. Here I didn’t even know this guy and