Lucky Night

Chapter Sixteen

Sixteen

There’s smoke in the room.

He pushes back onto his knees. She sits up. She smells it, too.

The door, she says.

He jumps up. She follows him to the foyer, where he looks through the peephole. Is it smoky out there? Hard to say. She picks up the wet towels left in a heap by Edvin. He helps her wedge them along the bottom of the door. Then they turn and survey the rest of the room.

The vents, they say at the same time.

There are three, high up on the walls. He ransacks his laptop bag and finds a paper clip, then climbs onto the chair and unscrews the cover of the one above the desk. She hands him a pillow, then another, then a third. He stuffs them in tight and screws the cover backon.

He tackles the vent above the bed while she gathers more pillows and blankets from the closet. The sofa cushions. A cashmere throw.

She moves quickly around the room, fixed in her purpose. She passes the thermostat near the bathroom, stops and switches it off.

The air looks clear. There’s no haze. Just the smell of it. The very faint smell ofit.

As he finishes screwing the cover onto the vent above the sofa, she disappears. He hears water running.

He goes to the bathroom door. She’s bending over the tub, filling it. Still naked. So is he. He hadn’t noticed in the rush of activity.

Are we supposed to save water?

I read it in a novel once. It can’t hurt.

He plugs the sink and turns on the taps.

Is the phone charging? she asks. We might lose power.

He goes back into the room and checks. It’s charging. He sits on the edge of the bed and googles : how to shelter in place during a fire.

Millions of results. Excellent.

The first one appears to be an emergency management pamphlet issued by Tufts University. He taps on the link. Scrolls.

Close all windows and doors. Done.

Turn off the A/C and air-handling systems. Jenny did that when she switched off the thermostat. Smart.

Move away from outside windows.

And that’sit.

What the hell? Surely there’s more they can do. But what did he expect? Tufts is such a mediocre school. He returns to his search results. What else…ah. Here we go. A FEMA site: Shelter-in-Place Guidelines for Ten Different Hazards. He taps on it and scrolls.

Hazard number one: Active Shooter.

Jesus Christ. FEMA makes a list of potential disasters, and Crazed Gunman is number one?

This fucking country.

Moving on. Chemical Hazard. No. Earthquake. Flood. Hurricane. Nope.

Fifth on the list? Nuclear detonation. Wow, that’s a little…whatever. He scrolls on. Pandemic. Thunderstorm. Tornado. Blizzard.

That’s it. Those are the ten hazards.

What the fuck, FEMA? You offer tips on dealing with nuclear war, but not a goddamned fire? The priorities here are just…

She comes out of the bathroom. Try the fire department again.

He does. It’s busy.

He ends the call. Dials again.

Busy.

He lowers his head, rubbing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.

I feel, he says, gathering about him all his patience, his great forbearance, drawing it around him like a kingly robe, that the management of this disaster leaves a great deal to be desired.

She takes the phone out of his hand and sets it down.

She pulls him to his feet and embraces him.

They hold each other for a long time.

What should we do now? she says, remembering when that question provoked the jaunty answer, maybe a little light fellatio? She’d been profoundly uneasy back then, no matter how she’d tried to hide it. But those were golden times, compared to the present.

Let’s get dressed, have a drink and catch up on the news, he says.

Get dressed. Because they’re still naked. Which doesn’t feel remarkable because they’re usually naked when they’re together.

I don’t want to get dressed, she says. I’m sick of clothes.

An attitude that would normally gladden my heart, he says. But with the heat off, and that big window, it’s going to get chilly in here.

He brings the robes out of the closet. She doesn’t want to put on one of those, either—they remind her of Edvin. But better a robe than her tired, tiresome skirt and blouse. Picked out so carefully last week, when she was packing for her trip, anticipating this night. Silky, clinging things, intended to arouse him, very briefly, before he tore them off her.

So robes it is. He pours them each a glass of champagne—they’ve barely touched the second bottle, given the events of the evening—and they sit at the end of the bed.

He unmutes the television.

Though the hotel isn’t commenting, and the FDNY is a little too busy to entertain media inquiries at the moment, journalists, fire experts and internet sleuths have been hard at work piecing together what happened on the twenty-fifth floor. The leading theory, relayed to them by Brian, the self-serious CNN reporter, is that while firefighters were busy dealing with the fire on twenty-one, flames were sneaking upward via the building’s electrical conduits, as smoke had traveled to different floors earlier. Trapped inside metal tubes, the fire triggered no alarms or sprinklers as it snaked past the twenty-second, the twenty-third, the twenty-fourth floor.

At last it hit twenty-five, a vast open space, intended to be an exclusive lounge with views of the city. The space was still under construction when the hotel opened last week.

Sources tell us that the floor was serving as a staging area for building materials that construction workers, racing to meet the opening deadline, didn’t have time to remove. Those materials are believed to include large amounts of oils and solvents used in the hotel’s decorative paintwork, as well as dozens of lithium-ion batteries used in cordless hand tools.

Fucking hell, he says.

When the fire reached the unfinished floor, it escaped the exposed conduits, hit the highly flammable materials, and exploded.

Jenny takes the remote and changes the channel. Fox is reporting on the fire, too. She keeps flipping. ABC, NBC, even BBC America is covering it. The chyrons blare phrases like:

Deadly Blaze

Historic Calamity

Urban Conflagration

She flips past channel after channel. If it’s on Al Jazeera, they’re truly fucked.

Look at that. A little humor. A touch of irony. Even now.

She cycles back to CNN.

…has not officially disclosed whether any first responders have been killed, but a source tells us that a crew of firefighters, dispatched to evacuate guests on the upper floors, is believed to have been near the twenty-fifth floor at the time of the explosion, approximately one forty-five a.m.

Dead firemen. Possibly dead firemen. That’s…hoo, that’s not great. She takes a swig of champagne. Does another self-check-in. She’s nervous, but not freaking out. Calm? Ha, no. More like, spent. Scoured out. It’s as if she has a tank of feelings, and once it empties she has to idle, waiting for a refill. She knows she’s petrified—she must be, she was only recently losing her shit—but she can’t access it right now.

She observes her own numbness with a kind of wonder.

Nick is intent on the television. Leaning forward, gnawing on a thumbnail. It took a skyscraper-shaking explosion, but he’s finally worried. He was so good to her. It’s a blur now, but she knows he held her and spoke to her. He took care of her. When he must have been so scared himself. He said he was. That, she remembers.

She nudges him with her shoulder. Thank you. For before.

He notices how he’s going at his thumbnail and stops. Which part?

Soothing me, after the…after whatever happened. Wrangling the wild beast.

He nudges her back, holding his shoulder against hers. You’re welcome.

Questions are mounting regarding the fate of what’s believed to be scores of guests still trapped in the upper stories of the building.

She goes to his phone. The internet is now consumed by the fire. It’s an onslaught of speculation, analysis, utter nonsense. They have a hashtag. No, several.

She checks in with @firechieftim, who has been a sane, steadying voice throughout. He’s got a long stream of new posts. The latest:

remember the old firefighter’s saying, folks: a building on fire is a building under demolition.

Jesus Christ.

Not helpful, Chief Tim.

Really not helpful!

Though hotel management is remaining tight-lipped, social media is alight with rumors and evidence of celebrity sightings at the luxury hotel in recent days.

Called it! Nick says. The jackals.

He called it, huh? He was right about something? She was right about something, too. A big fricking something. She should be angry—she should be enraged at having been right, and having been ignored by him, having ignored herself. She should be kicking herself, kicking him, kicking the door down.

But she can’t find her anger. It must be hiding out with her fear. Waiting to be toppedup.

She moves to the door. Still no smell of smoke. If she pulls the towels away…

She’s not going to do that. Why would she do that?

The towels are fine where they are.

She wanders back into the room. No, she’s not angry. Certainly not at Nick. Look at him, peering at the television. One of his knees is juddering up and down.

CNN is playing footage of the explosion filmed from different angles, including at what looks like the same height. People must be watching from other buildings. Filming with their phones.

Guests are frantically calling loved ones and posting on social media, looking for any information they can find. We’re about to show you a video filmed by—have we confirmed this is genuine? Okay, we’re about to play you a video posted by a man on the thirty-seventh floor, who identifies himself as Howard Beale.

Is CNN really going to…yes, they’re airing a TikTok from inside the hotel. A man holding his phone way too close to his face starts explaining what the explosion felt like. His voice is strained. The image is shaky. He’s five floors below them.

Look at all the likes at the bottom of his screen, Nick says. He’s going viral.

He’s going infernal, she says.

He turns to her, surprised. I thought we aren’t allowed to joke.

You can’t joke, she says. I can do whatever the hell I want.

That earns her a smile. She sits and leans into his shoulder. He leans into hers.

The FDNY has issued a statement, which they’ve asked us to read for the benefit of hotel guests who may be unable to get through on the dedicated line.

Continue to shelter in place. Do not leave your rooms unless accompanied by fire department personnel. The FDNY is aware of the location of every guest and is making plans for your evacuation. We urge you to remain calm. Make sure your doors are shut completely, and block your ventilation ducts with any available materials, such as blankets or pillows.

Gold stars for us, he says. Get you anything from the bar, my lady?

She watches him root around in the fridge. Gold stars. They’re well-fortified, tucked in to wait for rescue. All guests are accounted for. Even the pseudonymous ones.

Are there others in the building right now, people like them, who shouldn’t be here, but are? Maybe they passed some of them on the stairs, everyone averting their eyes as they slipped back to their rooms. Other Graces, other Normans, who aren’t here as their real selves, but as slightly skewed versions. Who talk and think and fuck differently, in service to their personal deceptions.

Why is she so hung up on what he named her? Compared to the lies they’ve both told to keep coming to rooms like this one, the hundreds, thousands of lies, to spouses, friends and families, to themselves—aname is nothing! Hell, she changes her identity every time she walks through one of these doors.

She has lied, and lied, and lied. Categorically, provisionally and by omission. She has lied to the whole world. And now she’s lost.

She rises and heads to the window. Is this an existential crisis? Now, when she might be about to stop existing? She presses her forehead against the glass. You exist. You’re here. The room is here. Nick is here. Breathe. He came to her the instant the building began to sway. He held her tight. It must have been an instinct, like his jokey bravado. Instinct, too, when he dragged her away from Edvin—kept her from being hauled off, anyway, until she could pull herself together.

He returns to the bed with a bottle of green juice. She checks his phone. On news site after news site— The New York Times, The Washington Post, USA Today, The Wall Street Journal, The Guardian, The Financial Times —the fire is the top story.

Breaking

Developing

Leading

9+ updates

It’s frustrating, how he’s constantly having to rescue her. Is it an instinct, or something learned? Maybe men are conditioned to protect women. To attack and destroy them, too, of course. Are the impulses connected—to save and to ruin? Stemming from the same attitude toward women’s bodies. Not ownership, exactly. Some kind of managerial urge.

Has she been trained to collapse, then, to need male managing? Can’t she keep her shit together on her own? She wouldn’t have expected it before tonight, all the tenderness he’s shown, the care. Or the far-from-heroic shit he’s been up to, either. Not to mention his surprising confessions: about his marriage, how he was afraid he was losing her.

How did she fall in love with him when she didn’t really know him? What did he say—insufficient information never stops it from happening. You gather scraps and fragments, and project the rest. Your creation holds together, or it doesn’t.

Maybe if she’d known him in all his fullness, she never would have loved him.

Or maybe she never would have stopped.

Well, but she did.

She did.

She goes to a site that tracks trending topics across social media. The fire is number three.

The whole world is fixated, she says.

It’s a Tuesday night in February, he says. Nothing else is happening. And this is hot stuff—pun intended. A burning building, loaded with rich people? What’s not to love?

People don’t love this, Nick. They’re horrified. It’s a compelling story, sure, but they want a happy ending.

What they want, Jenny, is a high body count.

God you’re cynical! Remember the Thai kids stuck in the cave? People around the world were praying for them. And those Chilean miners from way back? Nobody was watching that ordeal thinking, gee, I can’t wait to see them haul a bunch of dead bodies out of that pit.

There’s a big difference between us and the Chilean miners, he says. They were hardworking bastards who got stuck in a hole in the ground. We’re wealthy assholes trapped in a three-thousand-dollar-a-night hotel room. Trust me, the world wants to see us suffer. We…why are you looking at me like that?

You paid three thousand dollars for this room?

I did.

Three thousand? she says. For one night?

I was trying to impress you, remember?

That’s insane! she cries.

You aren’t flattered? I picked the finest room, for the finest pieceof—

Oh my God, stop!

He sips his juice. I thought you’d be pleased. It’s a junior suite. And the price was even higher because…

Because why?

He doesn’t answer. He’s suddenly absorbed in whatever Brian is saying.

Why was the price higher?

He sighs and rubs his face.

Nick?

The price was higher, he says at last, because I chose a room on a high floor.

She sits down heavily and covers her face with her hands.

He rubs her back.

The good news is, the FDNY believes that the steel-frame structure is fundamentally stable, despite the severity of the explosion. A team of engineers and architects is working to assess the situation, but structural damage may be minimal.

He flips through the channels. She walks in a circle, twirling a lock of her hair.

The fire department has also confirmed that the original fire on the twenty-first floor has been contained. All efforts are now being directed to the situation on the floors above.

What did you mean when you said you’d never lost? he asks.

What?

Earlier. When you were, you know…

Out of my mind?

Basically. You said this was all your fault, and God was going to make you lose. You were so distressed. What’s got God all workedup?

She roams over to the sofa. Then the desk. Circling again. There’s nowhere to go. She comes back and sits beside him.

It’s this superstition I have, she says. It’s nagged at me for a while now. The feeling that something horrible is going to happen to me because I haven’t suffered enough in life.

Jesus, Jenny.

I know. It’s totally irrational, but it preys on me. Because I’ve never ever experienced anything really bad. I’ve got great health, I love my work, I have money, wonderful parents who are still alive, happy kids, a loving partner. I’ve never been traumatized, never truly grieved. And sometimes I think, well, it’s coming for me. And the longer it takes to get here, the worse it’s going to be, you know? Like an overdue earthquake.

Tom cheated on you, he points out. A lot of people would consider that traumatic.

She shrugs. It was temporary. I got overit.

Well, I don’t think your overdue earthquake is happening tonight.

No? She laughs. How reassuring. Because your predictions have been spot-on so far.

Hey, he says. Don’t forget what they say. A clock that’s wrong twice a day isn’t necessarily stopped.

What? That’s…how much have you had to drink?

I’m thober, mother, I thwear. Look. He holds up the juice. I’m antioxidizing. Actually, fuck this vegetal filth. And the champagne’s gone flat. Let’s have more wine.

Nick…

It’s fine, he says. He’s already back at the minibar, hunting among the bottles. We’ll nurse this one. Look, it’s a screw top. Classy. Now, as to our situation, I don’t deny it’s bad. But it’s not hopeless. Did you see the statistic CNN just had up on screen? Five hundred firefighters have been deployed downstairs. And these aren’t a bunch of schmoes, Jenny. It’s the FDNY. The greatest fire department in the world.

You find it comforting that we’re in a situation that requires five hundred firefighters?

He hands her a glass of wine. I’m saying we have resources. And this is a brand-new, high-tech building. It’s not like we’re in some rickety piece of shit thrown together with Popsicle sticks and Scotch tape. This is America. Things don’t burn down here.

Things don’t burn down here? She laughs in disbelief. Things burn here all the time, Nick. They burn and collapse and rot and wash away. Guys like you, who can drop three grand on a hotel room? You don’t burn. That’s why you can’t believe this is happening.

Of course. He whacks his forehead with the heel of his hand. This is all about my privilege. I’m a rich, white, heterosexual American male, whose many and varied crimes have brought him to this room. How did that slip my mind? He toasts her with his glass. Thanks for the reminder, rich American white lady.

She toasts him right back. Here to help, sweetheart.

Speaking of total assholes, you said something else odd. That it shouldn’t be me. It could have been anyone, but notme.

What? I never said that.

Yes you did.

Weird, she says. Can I have more wine?

When you stop bullshitting me. No more lies, remember?

She sighs. Nick, can we not—

Can we not! he cries. Can we not, begs the woman who’s been hounding me all night, demanding confidences, details, secrets! No, Jenny, we cannot not . We can, and we must, andwe—

Tom gave me a pass to sleep with someone else, as long as it wasn’t you, she says.

His mouth falls open.

He felt terrible about cheating on me. After we got through it, he started mentioning from time to time that if I ever wanted to do the same, he’d understand.

Sorry. He’s still stunned. This—you—this is allowed ?

Not at all, she says. He was clearly imagining a one-off thing, not a…not something like this. Plus, like I said, he set an important condition.

Anybody but me, he says. Why?

He doesn’t like you, she says.

Tom doesn’t likeme?

She shakes her head.

Fuck that guy! What’s his problem?

Let’s talk about something else.

No chance. Please. Enlighten me as to my grievous shortcomings, according to your high-quality husband.

Nick…

I’m a big boy, Jenny, I can handle criticism.

She takes a swig of wine. Courage!

He says you’re way too impressed with yourself and not nearly as funny as you think you are. He also hates how you always interrupt him when he talks.

I see. Is that it? He reaches for the hotel notepad. Or should I start making a list? We could divide his complaints into categories, and—

Why do you care, Nick? You don’t like him, either.

Yes, but I have good reasons. Tom is a complete—

Nope! she says.

Fine. But for the record? I only interrupt him because he talks too slowly. Not to mention that his conversation is about as stimulating as watching algae bloom on a retention pond.

So this is how big boys handle criticism? she says. Good to know.

He stares at her. Then he laughs.

What the fuck, Jenny? I can’t believe you never toldme!

Crazy, right? It’s almost like I had a premonition about how well you’d takeit.

Hold on. I didn’t know you when he cheated. Weren’t you still in the city?

She nods. The condition got added after we moved to town, and he got to know you.

Only one condition, he muses. Yet you violated it. You couldn’t help but taste the forbidden fruit.

Oh God. She covers her face. I should have known you’d twist this into some huge compliment.

I am a massive egotist, after all. But it sounds like I should be even more impressed with myself than I am. I’m irresistible.

Only to me, she says. I always go weak at the knees when some drunk asshole starts eating my jewelry.

He bursts out laughing. You’re really something tonight.

What kind of something? she says.

Honestly? Kind of a bitch.

She laughs. Mortal peril will do that to a person.

You called me sweetheart a minute ago, he says. You never call me any sort of endearment.

He’s right about that. She trained herself to be careful, early on. Not to give herself away.

He takes their glasses to the minibar and pours them both more wine. What do you call Tom? In your tender moments, I mean. After some of that solid sex.

She thinks about it. Babe. Tommy. Sometimes we call each other babyloves, but that’s only because we’re making fun of another couple.

The Goldmans, right? They’re disgusting! And totally sincere about it, too. Oh, hey. Brian’s looking excited about something.

She reaches for the remote and bumps up the volume.

…planning is in the preliminary stages, but we’re told the FDNY is exploring the possibility of evacuating via the rooftop, using helicopters and—

We can’t get to the roof, she says. The stairwells are full of smoke.

—which would involve firefighters transporting additional sets of breathing equipment as they descend through the building, locating each occupied room and leading guests out individually or in pairs, up to the roof, where—

Jesus, that’ll take forever, he says.

—a painstaking process, as guests’ rooms would essentially be cleared one by one.

Old Brian’s reading our minds, he says.

—also depend on weather conditions, particularly wind gusts at the roof level. Our source cautions that this is only a contingency plan, and despite the seriousness of the fire the FDNY is still optimistic about evacuating all occupants of the building by traditional means.

She turns to him, smiling innocently. Do you think guests who paid extra for their rooms will get priority?

You better hope not, he says. There are penthouse suites above us, babyloves.

She gives him the finger—again! Two birds, one night! He heads once more to the minibar and tops up his wine. He is not drunk, as it happens, and he fully recognizes the hazards of getting sloshed. But he is booze-mellow, pleasantly hazed. They shouldn’t be having this much fun. Because this situation is not good. Still, better to stay positive. He doesn’t want her falling apart again. She seems all right now, but that could change.

Jesus, it’s been a night. So very different from what he’d planned. And Jenny so very different, too. Mortal peril bringing out something new. She’s being hard on him. Driving him crazy from time to time. Being so insistent, and contrary. It’s a whole new side of her.

He likesit.

As he busies himself among the bottles and glasses, he glances over at her. Her face is tilted up, catching the light of the television. She’s never lost? Impossible. She’s got an upbeat disposition, that’s all. An essential happiness. It must be hard for her to be trapped here, with so much to lose. Her family, her soaring career. Things that could be damaged even if they get out of here.

If? Where did if come from? This is not an if situation. They’re getting out. He’s concerned, sure, there was a goddamn explosion after all. It might be dangerous, difficult, but they’re a long way from last rites.

She’s never suffered, she said. Never grieved. Well, she shouldn’t. She deserves only good things. Does she know he thinks that? She’s said things tonight that suggest she doesn’t. Shocked I’m not a total idiot? she’d said. It’s all I’m good for —meaning sex. But that’s not true.

Though she is good for that, of course. His compliments do tend to center around her body. And he has said some things tonight that…some less than generous things. Accusing her of lying, manipulating, et cetera.

He also broke up with her. And he just called her a bitch.

But that was in fun!

She knows, doesn’t she? What he really thinks?

He tops up her wine, sits beside her and is about to put a hand on her leg but stops himself. He doesn’t want to be accused of walloping her like a mule.

Jenny?

She’s flipping channels. Hmm?

You’re extraordinary.

She looks startled. Then she laughs. Okay.

I mean it. You’re an extraordinary person.

Are you making fun ofme?

What? No! Am I so awful you can’t believe me when I say nice things about you?

Pretty much, she says. Oh, don’t look like that! I’m joking. She pauses. Sortof.

This is not going as planned. Not that he’d planned it. Which may be the problem.

It’s not you, she explains. I have a hard time believing people when they say nice things about me. I have to deflect them, or downplay them, or joke them away. Anything but, you know, accept them.

This confounds him. Why?

She shrugs. It’s a midwestern thing, I think. And a woman thing. Praise is a trap, you know? If I take the bait, I might be found out. Exposed as a fraud.

Look, he says. I expose frauds for a living. I also conceal and deny them as the occasion demands. The point is, I know frauds. You aren’t one. You’re amazing.

So are you! she says instantly.

He shakes his head, mystified.

You are, though. I’ve read about your cases in the Times . That big antitrust one last year?

Sure, he says. Asshole Gets Asshole Corporation off the Hook. I’m a credit to the species. But we’re not talking aboutme.

He takes her hands. You, Jenny Parrish? Are great.

She tries to pull away, but he holds her tight.

Stop it! In the time I’ve known you, look at what you’ve done. You were a, what, a stay-at-home mom with two kids, frazzled, exhausted, being mauled and manhandled all the time. And the work you’d done before that hadn’t been anything special, right? What wasit?

I was a digital marketing manager.

I have no idea what thatis.

It involves using the internet to…you know what? she says. Doesn’t matter.

Right. Anyway, you had this full life, crammed with people and their wants and needs. Always grabbing at you and making demands. Even more when I came along. But one day, you had an idea. You started to write, fitting it in—before the kids woke up and after they went to bed, you told me once—and you didit!

She’s looking away. She’s blushing! Too bad. He’s not finished.

You wrote, with no experience, no outside encouragement, not knowing if it would come to anything or if anyone would ever read it, and now you’re famous! Your books are everywhere. I saw them in the Dubai airport last month.

It’s not like I took any risks, she says.

Just like you can’t take any goddamn compliments, Jenny, Jesus!

I mean it, she insists. We had money, I didn’t sacrifice,or—

Why is that the metric? What astounds me is that you did it. You reinvented yourself. Two huge bestsellers, a third on the way—and who knows what’s coming after that?

You’re awfully impressed by my books all of a sudden, she says.

I’ve always been impressed.

By the author photo, sure. She smiles. You might not be so thrilled by what’s inside.

Right, he says, nodding. I…right.

He rises and walks to the window.

The snow is scanty now. Just the occasional flake whippingby.

He looks out at the night. Feeling a little killed.

She has no idea what he thinks of her, and she doubts his sincere compliments, because he has consistently diminished and mocked her. Pretended he’s too good for her books, made crude jokes about them. Showed no consideration for how she might feel about her accomplishments.

He leans forward and rests his forehead against the glass. It’s pleasantly cold.

Who wouldn’t feel undeserving of praise if they were belittled, teased, all in the guise of good fun?

He nearly confessed, earlier. When she asked for his deepest secret. He almost said:

I’ve read both your books. I think they’re phenomenal.

But did he? No. In fact, he went the opposite direction, implying that her work was valuable only as a tool for his sexual gratification.

He bangs his forehead lightly against the glass. Once. Twice.

You. Are.

An. Asshole.

He turns from the window.

Jenny?

She’s flipping through the channels again. Hmm?

I’ve read them.