The bestseller

The original plan was to go to The Odeon because they make the best cosmos. This is my opinion, to which I am entitled. I’ve always liked The Odeon. I like the food, I like the energy, I like the maître d’, Roya, with her cool haircut and feminine-sovereign vibe. And I like a cold, strong, pink drink in a pretty glass that I can hold just-so.

Before my husband and I left for dinner, I met some of his colleagues for the first time.

“What are you doing after this?” one man asked.

“We’re going to a work party,” my husband said.

“Where?” he asked.

“It’s for Substack,” my husband answered.

“You work at Substack?” the man asked me.

“No,” I said. “I’m a bestseller on the plaf-platform.” I stumbled on the last word because this is an insufferable thing to say. This comment was met with great enthusiasm by the man and a few others near him, which was kind, though I had a sudden desire to slam my face into his desk. Before we left for dinner, I complimented a woman on her shoes.

“Those are perfect,” I said. “No, really, I’m going to buy them.” This absolved me of some of my guilt for being insufferable earlier.

The Odeon is downtown, and my husband and I were in the West Village, so we walked to Charlie Bird instead, around 6 p.m. We said we were fine to sit at the bar, and the host said he “absolutely needs the seats back in an hour, by 7.” Okay. We were confused because bar seating at most restaurants—all restaurants?—is first come, first served. But okay.

In a corner booth, there was a woman hosting her own birthday party with friends. This group of women was aspirationally diverse, early 40s if I had to guess. The woman whose birthday it was said, “Thank you all for coming,” and one of her friends said, “Thank YOU for being born.”

When we sat down at the bar, my bar stool got locked up with the stool of the middle-aged woman seated next to me, an interior designer, based on what I could overhear from her conversation. I read the texts on her phone over her shoulder.

“At a client dinner,” she wrote to Steve. “It’s a big one. Kisses.”

“I think our stools are locked together,” I finally said, after a few minutes.

“Hi, I’m Marcy!” she said, shaking my hand.

“Nice to meet you,” I said. “Sorry, I think our stools are locked together.”

“Oh,” she replied. “I thought you were introducing yourself to me.”

“No,” I said. “But it is nice to meet you.”

And it was. I like a brassy broad like Marcy. The kind with a deep tan, a going-out top, bangles, hairspray. The kind who believes rose gold’s moment started last year. I pictured Marcy at her beach house on the Jersey Shore with Steve. Closing deals, crushing sauvignon blanc, watching Bravo, going to showrooms all over the city, running her hands over various cream-colored carpets.

We disentangled the stools. I ordered a cosmo. It was cold and pink, but probably the weakest drink I’ve ever had. I told my husband I thought they forgot to put vodka in it. When we left at 7:04 p.m., the restaurant was half full, with notably no one at the bar. Okay.

The Substack party started at 7, so we decided to walk twenty blocks uptown. I was wearing a black tube top, black trousers, and lug loafers with socks in 99-degree weather. I was even carrying a wool cardigan in case they were pumping the AC at Substack HQ. When we arrived at the party, the AC wasn’t really working, and the food was placed directly on the tables (no trays, no plates that I could find). This is why I always eat dinner first. I ordered the “signature drink,” which was called “The Bestseller” (something too sweet with mezcal).

It was probably 85 degrees inside, so I stepped outside, where it was 97 degrees instead.