“Do you actually have a girlfriend in Germany?” Sophie asked.
“Yes. Claudia. She’s a model; she walks the runway for Hugo Boss.”
Sophie raised an eyebrow, and I sensed that wasn’t the end of her questioning.
“She wants to go to America, too,” I quickly added. “If everything works out, she’ll work here as a model. That’s the plan.”
“Well, I’m curious to see how that goes. The business here is tougher than in Europe—only the best make it.” She leaned forward, fixing me with her sharp eyes. “Do you really think your Claudia will stay faithful in the meantime?”
The question caught me off guard. “I think so,” I said, after a hesitation that surprised even me.
She snorted softly. “Don’t count on anyone.” I felt caught out, as if she’d seen the doubt hiding behind my answer.
“I hope she stays faithful,” I said, and heard for myself how hollow that sounded.
“Until the first photographer sweeps her off her feet,” she interjected without batting an eye.
In that moment, I didn’t know whether to like her bluntness or fear it. “I hope Claudia knows what she has in me,” I said, a little more defiantly than I’d intended.
She laughed softly. “You’re sensitive. I like that.” She sipped her tea and kept watching me, and I felt my confidence waver. But at least I’d stayed honest—which, I realized for the first time in that moment, was apparently the only thing that mattered in her presence.
She asked about my grandparents, whether I had a good relationship with them. “Yes, I often visited them during the holidays,” I said. “My grandmother has always supported me.”
“I really like your grandmother Maria.” She said it with a warmth that surprised me, almost as if she were talking not just about a relative, but about someone who meant a lot to her. For a moment, she seemed lost in thought, far away from that afternoon at the Plaza. “Maria and I share a bond deeper than you might realize right now. She once helped me when no one else was willing or able to. You don’t forget something like that, even after almost forty years.” Before I could ask for clarification, she waved me off with a small gesture that brooked no argument. “That’s a story for another time, my dear. Say hello to her for me the next time you speak with her, and tell her I think of her often.”
She raised her hand to call the waiter. “Would you like to have a sherry with me?”
I nodded, and when the two glasses of light brown liquid were set before us, she raised hers. “Well then, L’Chaim. Cheers!”
When I stepped out of the Plaza later, it was still hot outside, but it didn’t bother me anymore. I started walking toward Times Square and, for the first time since my arrival, no longer felt completely lost in this city.