Today my boss took an author and his wife to lunch and I got to tag along. Well, actually, it's one of my new authors, or I should say, I'm his new editor. Anyway, I was a little nervous. I'm his sixth editor at this publishing company in the ten or so years he's been writing for us. He asked me to stick around, please. But he was so nice, and so was his wife, and I went from feeling apprehensive to warm and fuzzy by the end of the meal.
We went to a hotel on the other end of our block. It's a schmancy hotel on the corner of Fifth Avenue, with doormen and a roof terrace and potted palms. They sat us in four pink armchairs at a small round table in the corner of the upstairs lounge, rather than in the dining room. I should have had a salad, but Caesar was the only option, and it's not my favorite. Instead I had grilled chicken with goat cheese and roasted red pepper on toasted ciabatta.
In the opposite corner a twentysomething woman sat by herself with a magazine, eating her own solitary lunch. A waiter in a white vest served her a Bellini from a tray. Must be nice, I thought.
Then I turned back to my own table and thought, This is as nice as a work meeting could possibly get.