Chapter 13: The Board Dinner

The private room of the steakhouse on Grant Street had a table for fourteen and a view of nothing.

Winston had told me to come as "the author of the model," which was true and also a trap.

I wore my black boots and a dark green sweater, and I sat on his left.

Nobody on the board looked at me for the first twenty minutes.

Then the chair did.

He was sixty-three, with a white mustache, a ruddy face and the voice of a man used to being the last one speaking.

"Ms. Orlowski," he said. "You're the engineer."

"I'm the engineer."

"Remarkable work. The number is a triumph."

"Which number?"

"Ninety-nine," he said, and smiled down the table at the two PR people, who smiled back like twins.

"Thank you," I said, and drank my water.

Winston was drinking sparkling water too.

He never drank at work dinners, and I had stopped asking why.

A waiter set down the first course, a tiny scallop on a spoon.

The chair began to talk about Liberty Avenue.

He talked about the billboard, the font, the color of gold, and the television spot he wanted to cut to the stage.

Winston sat very straight and said "yes" and "I see" in his office voice.

Under the tablecloth, I slid my hand onto his knee.

He did not move at all.

His knee went hard under my palm.

I leaned toward him.

"Don't look at me," I said, barely a breath. "Look at him."

"Yes."

"Keep your face the same."

"Yes."

"If you do, I'll keep going."

He put down his fork.

My hand moved up the inside of his thigh, slowly, over good wool.

I found him through the cloth, already thick, and I closed my fingers around him.

He drew one breath through his nose.

"Mr. Aldridge," said the chair. "You'll want the line about destiny."

"What line?" Winston said.

His voice was perfectly level.

I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard.

"That the algorithm knew before you did."

"That's a strong line."

I squeezed once, and slid my hand up and down, just a little.

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

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