Read In the Age of Love and Chocolate for Free Online

letting people know that you’re involved with this great project.”
    “But they dredge up parts of my life that I’m not comfortable discussing.” The difficulty was this: they felt that nothing was off limits while I, who was reserved by nature, felt that everything was. I did not wish to speak of my past—this included my mother’s murder, my father’s murder, my relatives in general, the time I’d spent at Liberty, the reason I’d been thrown out of school, the fact that my brother was in prison, the fact that my ex-boyfriend had been poisoned, and the fact that my other ex-boyfriend had been shot. “Mr. Delacroix, they want to unearth ancient history that has nothing to do with the club.”
    “Ignore the questions. Discuss what you do want to discuss. That’s the secret, Anya.”
    “Do you think the club’s going to flop because I’m awful at interviews?”
    “No. It’s too good to flop. People are going to come. I believe in this enterprise. I do.”
    I wanted to run my fingers through my hair but then remembered that I had no hair. The media strategist had thought it would be a good idea if I got a new look before the launch of the club. Gone were my curls, which I was told made me look like an unkempt preteen and not like the owner of—her words—“the hottest new nightclub in New York City!” Instead, I had a sleek, choppy bob, chemically relaxed and flat-ironed within an inch of its life. I did not mean to sigh, but I did.
    “You miss your hair, poor thing.”
    “You are mocking me, Mr. Delacroix,” I said. “Anyway I’ve worn it short before. It’s only hair.” It was only hair, but I had cried after it was cut. The hairdresser had spun around the chair for the big reveal. I regarded an alien in the mirror, who looked as if it might have trouble surviving life on the hostile planet where its spaceship had crashed. I looked vulnerable, which was my least favorite way to look. Who was that girl? She certainly couldn’t be Anya Balanchine. She certainly couldn’t be me. In a display that I considered so unlike myself as to be disturbing, I had buried my shorn head in my hands and wept. How embarrassing. One wept at funerals; one did not weep over hair.
    “You hate it,” the poor hairdresser had said.
    “No.” I took a shuddery breath and tried to come up with an excuse for my behavior. “It’s … Well, my neck is awfully cold.”
    Luckily, only the stylist had been privy to my moment of weakness.
    “I forget. Girls are sensitive about their hair. When my daughter was in the hospital—” Mr. Delacroix cut himself off with an ironic nod. “And this is not a story I want to tell right now.” He studied me. “I like the new hair. I liked the old hair, too, but the new hair is not bad.”
    “What an endorsement,” I said. “Not bad.”
    “Now I have a silly but potentially awkward matter to run by you.” He paused. “In her infinite wisdom, the media strategist thinks it would be good for the club if you brought a date to tomorrow’s opening.”
    “Other than my sister, I suppose?”
    “I believe they are willing to arrange someone suitable for you if you don’t have anyone lined up.”
    “I suppose Win’s away at college,” I joked.
    “He left last week.”
    “And also he hates me.”
    “Yes, that,” he said. “I didn’t become New York City’s district attorney, but I did manage to squelch that little high school romance.”
    “Well done, you.”
    I honestly didn’t have anyone to take me. I’d been working, not dating. And I was not on good terms with my exes. “I don’t want an arranged date,” I said finally. “I was planning to take my sister and I think I’m going to stick with that.”
    “Okay, Anya. I will inform the team. I told them you would say that, by the way.” Mr. Delacroix started walking to the door.
    “You always did think you knew my moves.”
    He came back to me. “No. I did not predict this.” He gestured around the space,