Free Food Whore by Jessica Tom Page A

thing of beauty. The person who looked back at me was sophisticated and poised, as if she belonged at a place like Madison Park Tavern.
    Emerald came up behind me.
    â€œLook, you’re gorgeous, okay? I realize I interrupted your dinner last night. That was a jerk move of me. I’m sorry.” She spoke into my ear and I began to sweat inside this beautiful suit by a designer I had learned about five minutes ago.
    â€œElliott and I were trying to catch up,” I said. “He works all the way in the Bronx, and I hardly see him.”
    â€œBut you guys love each other, right? What’s worrying you?”
    â€œI guess I just feel a little lost,” I admitted. “And . . .”
    Then her phone rang and Emerald clammed up. “Oh, Tia, I totally forgot I have an event! And now I’m late. The suit’s fifty dollars, I already worked it out with Sherri.”
    She left so fast the bells on the door smacked across the glass. I thought back to what Melinda had implied—­that Emerald was a flake and a flirt, someone to be wary of. Melinda was on to something. Emerald had something sketchy to hide.
    The suit still had its original tags: $2,500. The store had marked it down to $700, and then Emerald got me a $650 discount. She had really hooked me up.
    Sherri rang up the skirt and jacket, then put them in a bag. “Sweetie . . .” she said after inspecting my face, likely soured by Emerald’s hasty exit. “I’ve known Emerald since she was a little girl. She’s had a hard life and I’m sure she’s doing the best she can to be a good friend.” She handed me my bag. “Enjoy your suit. It’s a fabulous one.”
    I didn’t doubt the suit’s fabulousness. But a very hard life? As far as I could tell, it didn’t seem very difficult to be beautiful and talented and connected. All I had seen from Emerald was glossiness and unexpected generosity and an ease in the city that made me so tense.
    I didn’t thank her for the beautiful suit and never asked where she ran off to. I needed to keep my distance, so she wouldn’t have such a hold on me, wouldn’t make me feel so uncool and dull and common.
    T HAT NIGHT, S EPTEMBER turned from summer into fall.
    I slid through the revolving door and found the restaurant had already transformed to match. My first official night at Madison Park Tavern. A tall bouquet hung over the front foyer: winding tapering sticks, eucalyptus leaves, tiny bells hanging on wayward stems, exotic berry-­colored flowers the shape of lily pads, purple-­veined curly kale, featherlight white poppies ringed on the inside with black, like a goth girl’s eyeliner. I smoothed my Jil Sander skirt against my hips and walked up to the dining room. The fireplace crackled and the linens were a tad more gold, not the crisp white of newness, but something with a more weathered patina.
    â€œHappy first day,” Carey said. “Are you excited?”
    I paused to get my bearings. Even though from coat check I couldn’t see anyone eating or smell the aromas from the kitchen, I could still appreciate where I was: Madison Park Tavern, a four-­star restaurant in New York City.
    â€œYeah, really excited,” I replied.
    The cooler temperatures outside made coat check the place to be. I coddled every coat and bag, warmly welcomed every guest. There were big potbellied men and soft-­in-­the-­shoulders women who looked like the adoring and generous Pop-­Pop and Grammy children love to visit. There were younger men who shoved their packages in my face. One gave me a twenty-­dollar tip in front of his guests, who didn’t look all that impressed. I got a small thrill taking the coats of some local news anchors and one big-­time news anchor, and an even bigger thrill when about ten reality TV show contestants came in to celebrate something.
    But of all the faces and facelifts, one man