From the bar phone I dial Marina's cabin but there's no answer.

At 8:15 the crew finally says it's time for the next setup, that the Wallaces are waiting. I stub out a half-smoked cigarette, cursing, and before I can finish the rest of the second martini the director takes it "gently but firmly" away, suggesting I've had "enough," that perhaps I should "Pace" myself, that maybe this will "aid my performance." I grab the martini back from the director, finish it and, smacking my lips together, say loudly, "I-don't-think-so." I toss the Gold VIP Caya prop at him and mutter, "Sign for it, doofus."

8

The Queen's Grill is jammed but the Wallaces are at a table for four up front by the entrance. As I make my way down the steps leading to the table, Stephen stands up, dressed in a tuxedo, waving me over as if this were some sort of grand occasion, Lorrie sitting primly next to him wearing the same strapless Armani gown from last night. There are huge flower arrangements everywhere in the Queen's Grill to navigate around and dozens of waiters carrying trays of champagne glasses brush past me. I gently bump into a maitre d' at the table next to ours as he prepares crepes for a group of Japanese women, who smile admiringly at the handsome young gall'in as he shakes Stephen Wallace's beefy hand.

"Ah, Victor-hello," Stephen says as a waiter pulls a chair out for me. "Where's your guest?"

"I'm not sure, man," I say, about to lift my wrist to check my nonexistent watch. "She said she'd meet me in the lounge for a drink and never showed." I pause glumly. "She knows where we're eating, but man, I'm bummed."

"Well, we do hope she comes," Stephen says. "in the meantime-champagne?"

Definitely," I say, reaching for a glass.

"That's, um, mine," Lorrie says tentatively.

"Oops, sorry," I say as a waiter pours from a bottle of Dom Perignon into a flute sitting by my napkin.

"So Victor, what is it you've been doing?" Stephen asks.

"You know, Stephen old chum," I start vaguely, pondering this while chugging down the bubbly, "I'm really not quite sure what I've been doing."

Dismayed, they both laugh.

"What do you two do?" I finally ask, catching my breath.

"Well, I work in an advertising agency in London-" Stephen starts.

"Oh really? That's nice," I interrupt. "But I actually meant on this boat, but whatever. Continue. Can I get another glass of champagne?"

"I open restaurants," Lorrie offers, a little too greedily, while a waiter fills my empty flute. "We were just in Manhattan scouting locations in TriBeCa. It would be my first in the States."

"Oh really?" I say again, groaning inwardly. "That's super. What kind of restaurants?" I finish the new glass of champagne and point to the flute again after the waiter finishes topping off Stephen's and Lorrie's glasses. Hesitantly, he fills mine again. Stephen then nods at the waiter, a gesture to bring another bottle.

"The last one I opened was in Holland Park," Lorrie says. "Which I would love to have you visit when you're in London."

"But see, I'm not-going-to-be-in-London, baby," I say, straining, leaning toward Lorrie for emphasis, but when I realize how rude that sounds, I add, "Though that's a very, um, cool offer."

"Lorrie's a splendid cook," Stephen adds.

"Oh really?" I say again, grinding my heels into the floor. "What's your specialty, babe?"

"It's a variation on classic Californian cuisine, you might say." Lorrie tilts her head thoughtfully.

When it becomes apparent that I'm supposed to say something, I ask, staring, "You mean compared to just... Califomian cuisine?" and then, measuring each word carefully, totally not interested in an answer, "or... post-Californian cuisine?"

"There's definitely a Pacific Rim influence as well," Stephen adds. "I mean, we know it sounds awfully trendy, but there is a world of difference."

Stuck, I ask, "Between?"

"Between... Californian cuisine and, well, post-Californian cuisine," Stephen says, a little too patiently.

"And Pacific Rim as well," Lorrie adds.

There's a long pause.

"Does anybody have the time?" I ask.

Stephen checks his watch. "Eight-forty."

There's another long pause.

"So it's like the whole baby-vegetable-guava-pasta-blue-corn-scallops-in-wasabi-fajitas situation, huh?" I ask, glazing over.