Lam blinks, then covers up his momentary discomfort with a smile. “This is my assistant, Nora. I can’t keep track of my life without her, really.”

Everyone at the table ignores the fact that he’s asked me to get him coffee and I flat-out refused.

“Even so,” says Vidal, “perhaps we can continue alone.”

I don’t move. Lam clears his throat. “No, we’re fine here.”

Now I see it. The power that Vidal embodies is just about equal to the entitlement that Lam projects into the room, at once sweeping over me and bringing me into the circle. I’m here because he wants me to be. It’s as simple as that.

Vidal isn’t happy about it, but he’s willing to let my presence at the round table slide. “Let’s get to business, then. I’d be very grateful for your assistance. I’m sorry that the development proposal for the Chinatown complex was turned down. Community pushback, you know. It’s my hope that we can . . . make Vancouver more business-friendly. If we can spread the message to the community that more business means more prosperity, then I don’t see things like that happening as much moving forward.”

It seems like a flaming pile of lies to me, but he says it so nicely, with that gentle voice. I might be willing to give him the permission for his development myself, if I could. This must be what those waitresses see in him before they get onto his boat. Before he sends them home in tears.

“We think,” Vidal continues, “that a dedicated space for the arts would go over well, especially if it’s backed by your family, given your significant investment in arts and culture. As I was saying to you at the club, the Devi Group was happy to participate in your gallery launch in Seattle.”

“That was a fun one,” says Lam. “Some of my contacts within the Chinatown business community here might be interested in revisiting your proposal if there was more commitment to the arts. Chinatown has such a vibrant history. It would help if people understood that you’re as interested in preserving and celebrating that history as you are in prosperity.” He neglects to mention that his contacts really belong to his father, whose reputation in Vancouver’s business and cultural circles is iron-clad.

Vidal seems to be buying Lam as a mouthpiece for his father. “And you’d share them for what price?”

And just like that, it’s like I’m not even there. There’s no place for me to exist between these two and their egos. They’ve said meaningless words about community, arts and culture, and now are finally getting to the point.