Chapter 123 - The Conversation over Cocktails (2/2)

When the drinks arrive, Dale holds his ċȯċktail glass up, then theatrically shakes the glass so that the single olive dances in the bottom of the crystal vodka. ”See, I'm shaking it.”

”Just like Bond, James Bond?” Claire says, smiling, taking a sip of her own beverage.

”I love my James Bond stories,” Dale says, appearing suddenly serious. ”Did you know why Bond ordered his drink specifically to be shaken, and not stirred? Because shaking waters down the alcohol when the ice melts. So Bond can sip it without getting too drunk, but while appearing drunk to his potential enemies.”

”Oh, that's ridiculous!” Claire says, watching the olive in her drink. ”Because even if all of the ice melts, it's the same amount of alcohol if you finish the drink, right? You'd still be drunk. But James Bond is a heavy drinker. He's not going to get hammered by a single serving of some watered down drink.”

”I didn't know you're also quite a connoisseur on all things James Bond, Miss Claire!”

Claire shrugs. ”Thanks to my mother, who loved all the James Bonds, even the reviled Timothy Dalton.”

”It's great to find a kindred spirit,” Dale says, then raises his glass. ”May we have a toast?”

”Sure,” Claire says. ”Let's toast to a world without problems.”

”Let's toast to peace, love, and understanding!” Dale adds.

”Let's toast to a good life, then,” Claire finishes. Their glasses clink.

The one glass was followed by another, and another. And before they knew it, Dale is staring at their little table filled with about a dozen empty ċȯċktail glasses. Claire follows his gaze, her eyes going round. ”Oh my God! Did we really drink all of those?”

Dale snickers, his face red. ”I'm more shocked that the server never took away our empty ċȯċktail glasses!”

They both laugh and giggle like teenagers. ”We should do this more often,” Claire suggests.

”Well, we should, Miss Claire. But hopefully in celebration, and not like… Well, not like what you had today.”

”Oh,” Claire mutters. The reason why they're here suddenly returns to her. Miguel's face flashes in her mind and she's depressed once again. She sighs. ”What time is it, Dale?”

He glances at his watch. ”I think it's long past your bedtime, Miss Claire.”

”Yeah, I think so, too.” She rises from the seat. ”I think we should call it a day.” She sighs. ”And what a day.”

”Yes, Ma'am,” Dale says. ”Because tomorrow is another day.”

”Yes, indeed it is,” Claire slurs. ”Bond, James Bond.”

Dale even walks Claire back to her penthouse suite, insisting that he can hold his alcohol and that it would take ”much, much more to bring down Dale.” She relents, glad to have some company.

When she's finally alone in her suite, surrounded by the creature comforts reserved only to the highly privileged, Claire feels a certain coldness around her. Like she doesn't deserve all this. She keeps thinking of Miguel even as she goes through her pre-bedtime ablutions. As she lies down in bed, finally, all she has is Miguel's face on the iPad, so nonchalantly saying the world's biggest lie to her face. Worse, Gabriel was there to witness it and be confused by it.

Poor Gab, she thinks. And there's that lunch date tomorrow. Is it so bad to wish that Miguel would fall ill enough to skip that lunch? Or maybe she should just call Gab up and tell him she's not feeling well. That maybe they should reschedule next time, next week, next century even. Just so long as she avoids facing Miguel. Ostriches sink their heads in the sand; Claire Monteverde reschedules.

She falls asleep with ugly thoughts in her head, and the resolve to tell Gab she's not making it to that hellacious lunch date. Yet, she wakes up from a sound so shrill it feels like someone's drilling her eardrum. She opens her eyes—yes, she has been asleep for the whole night, and not ”just a few minutes” as her body seems to tell her—and finds the bedside phone screaming. She grabs it.

”Good morning, honey!” It's Gabriel, his sing-song cheeriness she finds somewhat threatening at this time of the morning. ”Wonderful lunch food awaits at The Grille downtown, don't forget. I'll be at your doorstep in about three hours.”

”But—” Claire is about to protest, but Gabriel doesn't let her finish. He says, ”I love you!” then hangs up.

Claire looks at the phone, as if bitten by a snake.