This BOA place is nice, albeit kind of dark and pretty crowded at 6:00 p.m. for a city full of people who don’t like to dine until after 9:00 p.m. But that’s okay because I believe those things—dark and crowded—are helping to take the attention off the fact that I’ve sausaged myself into cigarette pants that suddenly feel two sizes too small.

And that I have Decker’s urn in my purse.

I’ll admit that it feels inappropriate to have brought Decker along to something like this, but what other choice did I have, given Debbie’s stop-at-nothing antics? I try not to think too much about the fact that Decker in my bag makes us a party of seven and glance down at my watch. This dinner will be over relatively soon, and once it is, I’ll head straight back to my place, where I will put Decker back on my nightstand or the kitchen counter. Then tomorrow, I’ll take time over my lunch break to hunker down and pick up on my mausoleum research. I’ll even book a conference room later in the afternoon to make some calls in private. I will put this task first, I promise myself.

A waitress zips by and swaps out Zareen’s lipstick-stained water glass with a fresh one. I like their attention to detail here. I admire and I appreciate it.

That said, I must give the interns major kudos not only for having the balls to shit-talk me behind my back in the bathroom of a small office building, but also for securing the early reservation Zareen was eyeing at the most coveted restaurant in Beverly Hills. We’ve been here an hour already and every seat is filled. I’m not sure how a simple steak house can be the hottest ticket in town—usually that’s a title reserved for places with celebrity chefs that serve twenty-course meals, one of which is simply a marinara-flavored vapor that you inhale. But for what it’s worth, we’ve cruised through our entrées already and the meat was broiled to a perfect medium rare and the spinach was sautéed in some sort of garlic-butter nirvana. Not to mention, James Van Der Beek has been sitting at the table next to us all night and it’s taking everything in me not to walk over there and ask for a selfie with Mr. Dawson’s Creek himself.

The waitress is pouring my third glass of pinot noir. The pours are heavy, too. You can tell she’s trying to move through the expensive bottles to bring up the overall tab for our table—oldest server trick in the book. Zareen secures a moment of eye contact with me and makes a subtle “easy on the wine” motion with her hand. The same one my driver’s ed instructor would make as I approached a stop sign with a little too much heat.

To no one’s surprise, the dinner thus far has been largely the Monica-and-Zareen Show. Zareen has an enchanting spirit about her, which is only exemplified by her raspy smoker’s voice (even though she doesn’t smoke) and heaps of dangly gold jewelry that clink together when she makes hand gestures. She is also wearing a silk caftan that looks more like an ornate rug, a piece of clothing that is fascinating in and of itself. Looking at her is accepting that I’ll never be the type of woman who can pull off a caftan as “business casual” attire.