“He went for more wine. Or to smoke his ciggies.” Zania made a face. “He likes to pretend we don’t know.”

“He smokes in the wine cellar?”

“There’s a door out to the yard,” said Erik. The sashimi slipped from his chopstick, and he slammed the table with his fist. “I can’t do this,” he muttered.

“Erik,” said Layla. “Calm down.”

“Stay,” Zania said to me. “We ordered too much. Besides, if you’re looking for a real job in L.A., there will be tons of networking tonight.”

“Great.” I sat and tried to chew through the chicken, but it tasted too salty, too wet. I had twenty-five minutes left before I was supposed to meet Ray. I listened to Layla talk about her portraits of nail salon workers and how she was eye-dropping chemicals the salons used on the photos, melting holes. “The problem is, I can’t stop the holes once I start them. They keep spreading.” Beside her, Erik ate savagely. None of the three would look at one another. It all seemed like a stage set. Unreal. Fixed for an audience. My T-shirt clung to my damp skin and I tugged it loose, struggling to keep even breaths.

Erik’s phone buzzed and he looked at it.

“Hal,” he said. “I’m answering it.” He stumbled up and pressed a button, holding it to his ear. “Here,” he said, walking out of the room, out of earshot.

Layla and Zania watched after him. After a few minutes, he came back and slumped down, hanging his head.

“What did he want?” Layla asked.

Erik’s curls fell in his face and his white teeth flashed. “He said he hopes we’re having fun. He says I shouldn’t worry. The board can’t prove anything. It’s all going to blow over. Because no one”—his open palm slammed the table—“did”—slam—“anything”—slam—“wrong.” He looked at Layla. “I can’t do this. I can’t let him fall on his sword for me and my career.”

Layla gaped at him as if unsure she’d heard him right. “You think they’ll spare you?” she said distantly. “That you’ll have a career?”

The phone slid from Erik’s hand onto the table. “I can’t do this,” he repeated.

“Can you excuse us three for a minute?” Zania was talking to me, her eyes hard points.

I checked the clock. It was 8:47. “I’m going for a cigarette,” I mumbled, then grabbed my purse and scooted down the steps to the wine cellar.

Behind me, I heard Zania say, “Everyone’s going to be here in an hour. You need to get it together, or you’re going to embarrass my dad.”