Lavender Haze

Chapter 19

"Don't be late."

I roll my eyes at Ambrose, who's been a thorn in my side the whole morning. I was supposed to meet Mila and River at the St. James hotel in the morning, but what I found was Mila and Ambrose, a match made in hell. River has been unavailable the whole day for a family emergency, and though it's none of my business to know what that concerns, I can't help but wonder.

The air has a different texture at the hotel when River is not around. It's heavy and hazy, the art on the walls blurring together in a gigantic Rorschach inkblot depicting a woman standing alone on a lakeshore (I've been staring at the paintings too long, trying to avoid glaring at Ambrose, and now they've all merged into one monstrous mega-painting in my mind). Even the lights in the room appear dimmer when River's not with us, the restaurant cast in a soft golden glow that strains my eyes.

I've been, admittedly, less congenial than usual today, trapped in this meeting with a prickly Mila and an overbearing Ambrose, and I've run out of politeness and patience now that Mila has finally left. I can't even begin to understand why Ambrose's getting involved in the wedding preparations now, if for months he's been cut out, but here we are, with Ambrose Primrose schooling me into punctuality even though I've never been late to a meeting a day in my life (if we don't count that day a couple of weeks back when I was sick; and even then, I was still two whole minutes early to the scheduled appointment), and I don't know for how long I'll be able to reel in a stabbing comment. Or real stabbing.

Mila, Ambrose and I have gone over the guest list three times in the five hours we've spent together. We've added and crossed out names countless times, and still there's no definitive choice for the wedding, even if the RSVPs need to go out at the end of this week the latest (we've finally put a deposit on the location three days ago and mailing the invitation is the top priority of this week). The problem seems to be that Mila and River constantly fall in and out of "love" with their alleged friends at a psychotic pace (which is the reason why we are still looking for a new caterer, as the old one was a personal friend of the Baumans who's no longer welcome in the ranks), which has caused the rearrangement of their guests. I'm certainly not looking forward to having to organizing the seating chart.

Once 6PM hits, Mila proclaimed the end of our session and left me alone with Ambrose. In the ten minutes I've had to make small talk, my ability of sociability has been greatly challenged, slowly but steadily decaying. I really don't know how River can spend hundreds of hours alone with Ambrose and not strangle him every twenty minutes.

As I was getting ready to leave, Ambrose informed me that River had arranged (read: Ambrose had arranged) a new menu tasting for this Friday. "The chef is a friend of Mr. St. James," he told me. And in my mind, all I could think was, if we go with this guy, and he and the St. Jameses argue over the right temperature you should serve caviar, he's out, and I'll have to find another caterer.

Not that I said that to Ambrose. To him I said, "Wonderful. Will it be here?"

He consulted his phone. "The Colossus. On Madison Avenue."

I scrunched up my face. "Isn't that that fancy place that requires a reservation two years in advance? I thought they were booked solid for the foreseeable future."

Ambrose's face was a blank mask. "The chef is a friend" was all he said. And then he started with his lecture about punctuality, which brings us to now, where I'm trying not to choke Ambrose with my freshly dusty-pink manicured fingers.

"I'm never late," I assure Ambrose now.

"There's a dress code," Ambrose goes on.

I arch a brow. He is really testing my temperament. "Meaning?"