A Toast For Me

The three of us bolt out of the car, aware that there’s only a minute remaining until the family dinner is due to start. One of the staff sees us coming for the door and hurriedly pulls it open, and a second later, we’ve rushed inside the familiar dark hallways of my childhood.

We race past the Teardrop, the colossal work of suspended gold still the centrepiece of the entryway, and I follow half a step behind Mandy through the twists and turns of the mansion, not wanting to betray my familiarity with the place by overtaking her. Tiffany, in her high heels, somehow manages to keep up with our sprint. With just seconds to spare, we dash into the dining room reserved for these family dinners.

The first thing that strikes me is just how gold this room is: it lines the walls, adorns the decor, and is everywhere from the plates to the silverware to the chandelier that hangs from the ceiling. It is gaudy, it is ostentatious, and it leaves its intended impression on its visitors.

Then, I notice the people in the room. A dozen or so members of my family, some of the faces looking familiar as ever and others that I’ve never seen in person before. And then, at the centre of it all, my Father.

He sits at the end of the table, effortlessly dashing in his charcoal grey suit, pulling off a look that few other men in their sixties could. I meet eyes with him and have to resist the instinct to bow; those dark blue eyes are still deadly sharp. I notice the quick curtsies that Tiffany and Mandy offer him upon entering the room.

“Please, take your seats,” he says, gesturing at the table. “You were almost late.”

The gold plates sitting before each person are inscribed with the first letter of their name. It’s not hard to find the three open seats. There’s an “A” to Father’s left, for Amanda, and a “C” to his right, for “Claude.” Tiffany gets the next seat down, where she sits opposite of Claire.

I see the glances thrown my way by the various members of my family and try not to squirm as Father turns his attention to me.

“We like to start these occasions off with a toast,” he says, his voice dark and smooth. “Do you have a champagne of choice?”

“I’m partial to the Krug Grande Cuvée,” I say, name-dropping the best in the business. “But it would be rude to demand that a host part with such a fine bottle just for a humble guest like me. So I’ve brought my own. It’s in Mandy’s car.”

Father chuckles heartily, and it’s only in the softer curve of his smile and the wrinkles in his eyes that I see how he’s aged.

“I like the way you play, son,” he says, and then he turns, gesturing a servant over while I freeze up, wondering whether he knows—surely not? There’s no way he would let it slip so casually if he knew. But, did he ever use the phrase ‘son’ so casually, back when I was around? I can’t remember…

“There should be a Krug still in Mandy’s car. Let’s get that ready for the toast,” he says to the servant, dismissing her with a curt nod, hardly noticing my little breakdown.

The pretty little plaything disappears a second later, gone to retrieve my bottle.

“How was your flight over?” he asks once she’s gone, turning back to face me again.

“One of these days, I should get myself a private jet,” I laugh.

“They don’t come cheap,” Mandy says, from across me. “But who knows, you may earn it some day.”

“Good things come to those that deserve it,” Father says, quoting one of his favourite aphorisms. “You’ve helped us a great deal this last month, Claude.”

“It’s been my pleasure, Mr. Najbreit,” I say.

“And yet, that intrigues me,” Father says, pausing carefully after those words. He wants me to think on them, to second-guess myself. I don’t. I’ve done nothing wrong. The pauses stretches until he is **** to break it, a smile playing upon his lips as he does. "This deal was worth billions. You played the key role in getting in done. You had many chances to negotiate a fee for yourself, and don’t tell me that someone savvy enough to put together that deal wouldn’t have known to ask for a piece of the pie. So why would you walk away from it with not a dollar more to your name?”

I see Mandy smirking from the other side of the table. Tiffany, engaged in her own friendly verbal spar with Elianne, turns to look at me anxiously, too.

“The goodwill of this family is all that I ask for,” I reply with an easy smile.

It’s a smile that my Father returns as the servant returns with the champagne. She uncorks it expertly, and then makes her way around the table, filling our champagne flutes with a series of slow pours that silences conversations wherever she goes.

“A toast,” Father declares, as soon as Scarlet’s glass—the last one—is filled. “To my dear wife Sofia, for her work in the ever-important feminist cause, and of course, for joining the ranks of Time’s 100 Women of the Year at number seventy-six. You’re in good company here at this table: Scarlet was ninety-two once, and Tiffany in the top twenty-five, and then of course, Maddie and Kara were both in the top ten last year. I look forward to seeing you there again next year, should you find something else interesting to occupy your time. To Sofia!”

“To Sofia!” we chorus, everyone raising their glass in toast to the ravishing blonde beauty sitting down the table.

She flashes us a dazzling smile, though she must be seething inside from the sequence of backhanded compliments. But still, on the Time 100 at the age of twenty-five? It’s no small feat, even for a supermodel like her.

I savour the champagne then, feeling its full complexity, the exact blend of flavour and creaminess perfect on my tongue.

“And another toast to our Jessica, who’s finally gotten a first author in the New England Journal of Medicine for her novel treatment of thyroid cancer. Of course, she first pioneered the Najbreit method years ago, but these things move slowly,” Father says. He raises his glass in the air. “To Jessica!”

“To Jessica!” we echo, and I meet my half-sister’s eye, giving her a friendly smile.

Her gaze sweeps right past mine into the not-quite-adoring eyes of my Father, which stings just a bit, but makes sense. She doesn’t recognise me. And then there’s that genuine thrill on her face—she craves this, needs this validation from Father as much as the oxygen in the air, and I know that she’s going to have a heavy reality check someday soon. Poor girl’s not in the will.

I take another sip of the champagne, the fizz and finesse of the **** so, so fine.

“And finally, a toast for those who championed our takeover of STX Studios. To Claire, for her legal support. To Mandy, who came up with the idea and stuck with it through thick and thin. To Tiffany, for finding Claude Ashworth. And finally, to Claude, for actually getting the damn thing done. Now that was a plan worthy of my younger days,” he says, lifting his glass. “To Claire! To Mandy! To Tiffany! To Claude!”

“To Claire! To Mandy! To Tiffany! To Claude!”

The salute goes around the room, to each of the ladies in turn, before it finally lands on me, all the glasses raised in my honour. I drink in the adoration with a deliberate distance, feeling its seductive pull, knowing that I can’t succumb to it. I clink glasses with my Father, and he gives me a wink and a nod as I set the glass down afterwards, knowing that my etiquette is being judged, much as I’d love to get another taste of that delicious champagne.

“Let’s serve dinner,” Father says, after he downs his glass with a polished movement.

Here’s where the real game will be played, I know, and I lean back, ready for whatever may come.