The Getty Ball: The Dinner Table

“Looks like my husband’s found his way to our table already. You two have a good night,” Hanna Maria smoothly says seconds after we join the line, and then she’s gone before I can muster up a response.

She slips past the others in wait and heads directly into the ballroom. Though the gap between the ballroom doors reveals most of the interior, her husband is nowhere to be seen within. I figure she probably left for the better anyways. I wasn’t relishing waiting in line with Mandy and Hanna Maria staring daggers at each other the whole way through.

Some tall man in a sharp suit walks up to us and gives Mandy a peck on the cheek.

“And there’s my date,” Mandy says, giving the man the first warm smile I’ve seen from her all night.

They’re gone a second later, too.

That leaves me alone with my thoughts, and a whole lot of them, at that. Who was that man? I don’t recognise him, and so far as I know, Mandy isn’t dating anybody at the moment. So is he, like me with Tiffany, “just a friend”?

But more importantly, things with Hanna Maria did not go well. I was caught off guard, not yet prepared for the encounter, and it’s half a miracle that everything resolved as nicely as everything did. I ponder what my next steps should be as the queue in front of me quickly dwindles.

Once I reach the front of the line, I distractedly follow the server, who takes a second to review the seating plan on his tablet, to my table. Sitting across from me are the Zuboffs, an old couple that made a killing in semiconductors back in the day, and then next to them, a girl who is far more interesting to me.

Morgan Merrygold, talking with that kid from that boyband that she’s supposed to be seeing, looks at me with intrigue in her eye as I take my seat. Or maybe it’s Madison. You can never tell with the twins.

Her boyfriend looks annoyed by the interruption in their conversation.

“I didn’t know they’d let just anyone roll up to this place,” the guy says, giving me his best sneer. “This is who Tiffany decided to show up with? No wonder Eric left her.”

So the kid wants to play?

I smile back at him, cold, and then angle myself just slightly so that I’m facing Morgan’s pretty dolled-up face.

“Is that a Rolex on his wrist?” I ask. The boy opens his mouth to answer, but I’m faster: “The Submariner 1680/8? That’s a fun model. Lots of quirk, like how that crown in the inner ring doesn’t align with the rest of it. Little defects like that really make it special.”

He’s unable to resist looking at his watch, and Morgan, bless her soul, can’t help but lean over and look too. His expression falls, while she looks at me with renewed interest.

“You’re much better off with a Lange and Söhne,” I say, turning my wrist just enough to give them a glimpse of my own timepiece. “It’s Swiss craftsmanship, done right. Or maybe you haven’t heard of them?”

“Sure I have!” he says indignantly. “Rolex is just the better Swiss brand! I bet your watch has a dozen other problems. Like… ones that are… just as bad.”

“You know, Sean,” I say, finally recalling his name. “Lange and Söhne happens to actually be a German brand. But you’ve heard of them, so you knew that.”

“Who even cares?” he says, looking to Morgan, and then the Zuboffs, to back him up.

He finds no allies.

“Fame, Sean, is temporary. Class is forever.”

I eat kids like him for breakfast.

Mr. Zuboff chuckles and shares a look with his wife.

“Now that’s Warren’s killer instinct, right there,” he says to me. “Been on the wrong end of that one before, I can tell you. Small wonder the Najbreit’s taken a shine to you.”

“Tiffany’s not like that though,” his wife says, grabbing his arm.

“It makes the two of you an imperfect match, you know?” Morgan says, giving me a coy smile.

Now this is interesting… is she saying I’d be better off with somebody else in my family? Or with her?

“The two of us aren’t consorting in that way,” I say, laughing it off.

“Of course,” Mr. Zuboff says, giving me a sly wink.

It’s around then that Claire Najbreit shows up, talking with two older couples. It takes me a second to place them—partners at her old firm, and the five take a seat at the table, filling it out save for the empty seat next to me.

“Hello Mr. Ashworth, it’s nice to meet you,” Claire says, reaching out and giving me a firm handshake.

The petite half-Korean half-German beauty is dressed in a slim tailored navy-blue suit, the blouse topped with a complex of ruffles about her neckline. The faintest red highlights streak through her hair, soft enough that it almost looks like a trick of the light. It’s the quiet confidence of a woman who knows precisely what she can get away with.

“Nice to meet you, Claire. I didn’t know you were in Los Angeles,” I say.

A lie. I knew from Father’s messages, but he hadn’t told Tiffany.

“Just landed a few hours ago,” she smiles. “The Getty Ball’s not one to miss. Have you met the Thodays and the Onassises? They’re great friends to have on hand if you’re ever hoping to skirt the law.”

“My pleasure,” I say, shaking the two sets of hands in turn, returning their idle pleasantries.

We settle into a comfortable conversation about the best outfits we’ve seen during the night, during which appetisers are served. The absence in the seat beside me is something that everybody can’t help but look at once every few minutes.

As we work our way through the delightful mushroom and truffle bruschetta, I take a quick glance around the grand ballroom to see if I can spot Tiffany. I spy her green dress at the opposite end of the room, where she appears to be walking and talking with another Hollywood celebrity.

She finally gets to our table by the time they’re serving the main course, having picked up two producers as travelling companions along the way.

“But you must have a look at the material some time in the next week, I’ve got another studio just itching to use to concept, but I thought I’d give you the chance to see if you wanted it first,” one of the producers says in a quick, animated voice.

“I’ll take a peek first thing tomorrow,” Tiffany smiles at him.

I do the gentlemanly thing and pull out the chair for her, and that seems to finally give the producers the hint that they needed. They get in their final goodbyes to Tiffany, and then she sinks down in her chair with a laugh.

“Been busy?” I ask.

“I’ve been trying to make my way here for the last half hour,” she says, shaking her head. “Sorry for the delay, everyone! And Claire, you didn’t tell me that you could make it!”

“Last minute change of plans,” her half-sister smiles in return. It’s a much colder smile than the one Tiffany gave her.

“Come on, you don’t have to be perfect all the time and entertain all those fools, Tiff. I find that it’s easy to be punctual when you just brush the annoying ones off,” Morgan says blithely. “It’s such a convenient excuse, now that I’ve got the Lionsgate exclusive. I don’t know why you haven’t done it already, with all that your da’s been up to.”

I meet Claire’s eyes, the two of us thinking the same thing: does she know about the deal? Either way, it’s amateurish of her to do this with so many others around.

On the other hand, Tiffany’s hand on my thigh has tightened a fraction.

“It’s good to keep an open mind,” Tiffany answers diplomatically. “Some of us have done well for ourselves that way.”

She cuts into her steak and takes a small bite, looking at the Zuboffs meaningfully.

“Oh, so you know my little story, don’t you, Tiffany,” Mr. Zuboff says with a hearty chuckle. “Let me tell you, back in the nineties, I was looking for some fabs to handle our semiconductor designs, and this was back when pure play foundries were just becoming a thing, right, so I flew out to…”