As they paused at the threshold of the party, Max had the sensation of time folding in on itself. They were in the same place, a lounge inside the university’s faculty club. There was a bar at the far end, manned by the same bartender as at Christmas.
He scanned the room. It was populated by the same types of people as before—mostly men, mostly older. He spied Dani’s friend Sinéad leaning against the bar. She must have felt his attention. She looked up, took him in, and smirked—though it seemed a friendly smirk. He hitched his head to summon her—they could use an ally—and she started making her way toward them. He took note of where Vince was—standing near a window with a deep ledge that Berkeley was sitting on. Vince hadn’t noticed them yet.
Max had a plan. At the Christmas party, his goal, which had only emerged as he’d gotten a bead on the situation, had been to shamelessly exploit his perceived poshness, to make Dani look good in front of both her departmental chair and her abominable ex. Max was fully aware of the power his status afforded him, and he had never been shy about using it, be it to advance his own aims or in service of others. It was bullshit, but it was reality. Today, though, he was planning to fade into the background.
“Hel-lo.” Sinéad arrived and gave Dani a quick hug, assessing Max over Dani’s shoulder as she did so. When she straightened, she flicked the lapel of the suit he was wearing. “Linen. Nice.” Yes, he’d packed seasonally appropriate dukeish casual attire.
Sinéad was wearing fitted black pants, a white button-down shirt with a skinny black tie, and a shiny green blazer with the sleeves pushed up. She looked like a Beatle dressed up for a party—in other words, fantastic. He pointed at the blazer but didn’t touch her. “Silk. Nice.”
“You two are perfect for each other.”
They both turned to Dani, who also looked fantastic in a white sheath dress and gold sandals.
“All right.” He gestured to both women to come closer. “Here’s the plan.”
“There’s a plan?” Dani said.
Max turned to Sinéad. “Her lawyer wants her to come off as friendly and not threatening in case the divorce gets ugly, so I’m thinking she should make the rounds.”
Sinéad nodded. “That makes sense. Is the point widespread coverage, or are we targeting, say, the power brokers in the department?”
“Um, hello?” Dani said.
“Good question. Can we do both? Aim for maximum coverage but start with the power brokers? I don’t know who they are beyond that chair I met last time—James, I believe his name was?—so you’re going to have to take the lead.”
“Got it. And should she talk to Vince? I’m going to say yes. A friendly conversation initiated by her and witnessed by colleagues can only be a good thing to have in the bank, right?”
“I can hear you, you know,” Dani said.
Max turned to her. “Just be charming, all right? I know it will be a stretch, but think of the sauna and the McMuffin as your reward.”
“Sauna?” Sinéad raised her eyebrows.
“We’re going to hit the sauna in my hotel after the party,” Max said.
“And dare I ask about the McMuffin? Is that a euphemism for something?”
“Oh my god, no,” Dani said. “He means it literally. I took him to McDonald’s this morning for the first time, and now he’s obsessed.”
“Have you tried the sausage one?” Sinéad asked. “Mmm.”
“There’s a sausage one?” Max asked.
“You guys,” Dani said, “I appreciate the support, but I don’t think we need a strategy for this party. It’s—”
“The man who’s arriving now is a senior professor in the department.” Sinéad said to Max. She lifted a hand and called, “Gordon! Dani and I are talking about your seminal article on Ulysses. Did you know she assigned it in class this term?”
Dani huffed a defeated-sounding sigh. “Hmm, I wonder if I assigned a reading on James Joyce in my women writers course or my American lit course?”
“Chin up,” Max said. “Be good, and soon it will be McMuffin time.” He wagged his eyebrows to try to make her laugh. She rolled her eyes but failed to suppress a smile.
“All right.” He cracked his knuckles. “Here we go.”
“Oh my god, I’m tired,” Dani said as she lowered herself onto a bench in the piping-hot sauna at the Four Seasons. It wasn’t particularly sauna weather, but it was still a relief to surrender to the gloriously dry heat after what had turned out to be an exhausting, if productive, party.
She hadn’t even questioned how Max had made this happen. She’d just followed the hotel employee who had let them into the spa that had closed hours ago and then into the women’s locker room. It turned out that the steam rooms and sauna Max was so devoted to were inside single-gender locker rooms, and, she was pretty sure, normally only available if you booked an oxygen facial or some other treatment that would set you back a month’s rent. Dani had gone into a closed stall to change into her bathing suit, listening to the woman have a murmured conversation with Max about how to let her know when they were done so she could lock up.
“She thinks we’re getting it on in here, doesn’t she?” Dani asked when Max, changed into his swim trunks, appeared in the sauna a minute later.
“I try not to concern myself with what other people think,” he said as he unpacked their McMuffins and a bottle of Veuve from a bag he’d brought in with him.
“You are too much.”
He popped the cork on the champagne. “Does that mean you don’t want any of this?”
“Heck, no.” She grabbed one of the plastic cups he produced and held it up to be filled. “You do know, though, that not concerning yourself with what other people think is easier when you can buy them off.”
“I do know that. Wealth has its compensations.” He had turned serious, almost somber. It was interesting that he used the word compensations, as if being wealthy was by default negative. His mood change fit with a growing sense she had of a darker undercurrent to Max’s affable, pleasure-seeking exterior. There was a wistfulness to him she sometimes saw flashes of, and that, together with his tendency to deflect attention from himself, made her feel like maybe Max was actually . . . sad. “Max, I wish you would—” No. She was being weird.
“You wish I would what?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me,” he insisted.
Well, hell. He’d inserted himself pretty firmly into her business earlier this evening—to good end, she had to admit. She had chatted with everyone at the party, even Vince and Berkeley. She had laughed and nodded and flattered and commiserated. It had all been a performance, and it had been exhausting. But Max had been there to bolster her. Unlike at Christmas, he hadn’t had the aristocratic charm turned up to eleven. This time, he’d been more of a quiet, steady presence, laughing at her jokes, answering questions when asked, but otherwise keeping quiet. He had pitched everything—his own performance and the one he’d thrown her into—perfectly. They were real, true friends, friends who helped each other—which meant she could speak truthfully. “I feel like you’re unhappy. Not right now but . . . elementally. I wish you would tell me why.”