Page 69 of Gilt

“It’s nice to meet you, son.” He stands and holds out his hand. The two shake once. I’m not an expert on male greetings but I’d give theirs an eight for formality and a ten for tension. “Hans Von Essen.”

“I know who you are, Mr. Von Essen.” Jameson doesn’t hide the insinuation in his words.

We take our seats as Hans begins to scoff, ignoring Jameson’s coldness. Meanwhile, I wish I had a blanket to cope with the chill. “Please, call me Hans.”

“I suppose that’s fitting.” Jameson unfolds his napkin and places it in his lap without bothering to look up from his place setting.

Hans smiles tightly and beckons for the maid to take his tablet. “I’m sorry?”

“To call you Hans. After all, I’m dating your stepdaughter,” Jameson offers the alternative explanation, dangling it like a carrot overhead. If Hans goes for it maybe we can spend the evening in awkward silence, making small talk, and escape unscathed.

“I had no idea you two were so close.”

Or maybe not.

Hans studies me with interest and I can almost feel the future interrogation now. My love life has never really come up with my stepfather before now. Probably since he had little real interest in me, other than to offer parenting advice to my absentee mother and back up all her paranoid plans for my future. But now I have something he wants, and he’s never going to get it out of me. I turn my full attention to the flatware to avoid meeting Hans’s gaze while wondering if a butter knife is sharp enough to commit harakiri.

“We’re very close,” Jameson tells him and I distinctly hear another nail being driven into the coffin that now holds what’s left of my stepdad’s disinterest. I’m going to miss it. Two parents is bad enough. Now I’ll have three at me all the time.

“Oh yes, I have no doubt of that,” Hans waves him off dismissively. “I’m afraid I haven’t been around as much as I would like. I just wrapped a major film for Paramount and I’m in pre-production on two more.”

“They don’t want to hear about the business darling,” Mom interjects. “People only want to go see the movie, remember?”

“Not at all. What are you working on?” Jameson asks and the question hangs in the air.

The arrival of our salads grants a brief reprieve, but any hope I had of Hans choking on a cucumber slice is dashed when he ignores it entirely. “I’m afraid the projects haven’t been announced yet, so I’m not at liberty to share.”

“I understand the need for discretion.” Jameson tips his head in acknowledgment. But if the butter knife wouldn’t be enough for ritualistic suicide, it could definitely cut through the tension in the air.

“I was telling Emma about our thoughts about Los Angeles,” Mom pipes up as if somehow this topic will be less uncomfortable than the first. Jameson’s eyes flash from her to me for confirmation.

“And I told her hell to the no,” I add.

“Oh, Emma,” Hans begins, “there are some very good schools in Los Angeles.”

“I’m happy where I’m at,” I protest, dropping my salad fork on the table. “Where I was.”

“I had to beg you to attend Belle Mère Prep,” Mom reminds me, “And now suddenly you love it there.” I don’t miss the none-too-subtle glare she casts at Jameson. “I think you would be more concerned about getting into a good college, then.”

“I told you I would take a few classes at UNLV,” I say without hope that it will stop her from digging into this topic.

I never intended to make good on that promise. As far as I’m concerned, I don’t need more than a high school diploma to take over the family business. Of course, that was before what happened with my father. Given that the police had used his false claim of assault to hold Jameson for nearly a month, I probably need to reconsider that life plan. “I’m not about to be bullied into becoming a valley girl.”

“You don’t have to go,” Jameson says with an air of authority that makes me cringe. At any other time, I’d find it seriously hot, but considering that we’re in the presence of my mother, it only makes me queasy.

“It would be selfish to ask her to miss this opportunity.” Hans spears a leaf of lettuce onto his fork, but instead of eating it, he spins it in the light.

“What about the East Coast?” Mom suggests as if we’ve been discussing my matriculation to Harvard and Yale for years.

“What about it?”

“There are some good schools there,” Jameson tosses his opinion into the ring.

I narrow my eyes at him and mouth, Traitor.

“Why would I want to go someplace I’ve never been?” I point out with a shrug.

“You’ve never been to the East Coast?” Jameson asks. He stares at me like I just announced I’m from a different planet.