Chapter Two
Two
She blurts it, really. A notch too loud.
Excuse me?
I didn’t come. Before, when we…you know, when you did.
He opens his mouth to speak. Closes it. Frowns.
Yes you did.
No, she says. I didn’t.
What is she talking about? He pulls himself up, pushing the damn pillows out of the way.
You came, he says. You definitely came.
I didn’t. Hopeful smile. But I’d love to try again.
She moves toward the bed. He raises a hand to stop her.
All that noise. All that hooting and hollering and oh God, oh Nick ing! What was that?
It felt so good. I just didn’t quite, you know. Get there.
You fakedit.
A little. Can I get back in bed?
No, he says. You never fake it. You told me that once. It was a real point of pride.
She glances away, her eyes going vague. I know, I just…it felt wonderful, and I could tell you were about to come, which is always so exciting, almost as good as…so, I guess I joinedin.
Except you didn’t, he says.
Well, no, but—
Have you ever faked it before?
Nope, she says.
Nope. Nope! He knows what she’s doing. She’s in retreat, resorting to her midwesternisms, her jeezes and cripes, hiding behind a bogus aw-shucks simplicity until the storm passes and it’s safe to come out of the cellar.
Good luck with that, cookie.
I loved it, she insists. Like always. So what if I didn’t, you know, reach the pinnacle? Let’s give it another chance.
She’s close to him now. She pulls the duvet down, brushes his cock with her fingertips. It stirs. Traitor. She kneels beside the bed and kisses it. She takes it between her lips and sucks, gently. Maybe she’s right. It’s not a big deal. He shouldn’t give her such a hard time that she has to come over here and play handmaiden to his wounded ego. Isn’t it a little hypocritical to ding one’s affair partner for dishonesty? Plus, he could extract all sorts of concessions in round two. Punish her for her grievous infraction. His cock likes the sound of that. Yes, we have a seconding of that motion, we have an enthusiastic—
The problem isn’t that you didn’t come, he says. It’s that you pretended you did.
The delicious pressure ceases. It’s possible she sighs, even with his cock in her mouth. She releases him, sits back on her heels and waits, inscrutable.
That’s not totally accurate, he concedes. The faking is an issue. But also? I love making you come, Jenny! You know this. Being inside you, feeling you around me, feeling you chase it, and overtakeit?
The faraway alarm rings again.
And then, you’re so beautifully helpless, in the grip of it. That’s not polite to say, I know, I’m a Neanderthal, but I don’t mean helpless as in my prey or anything.
The alarm stops.
Something’s wrong, she says.
Your orgasms are the best, Jenny. They’re a splash of color in a drab, shitty world. If you could see them, feel them the way I do, you’d understand.
The alarm starts ringing again.
She stands.
And the thing is, I make them happen.I—
Nick, could you—
I know, he says. Trust me, I know what that sounds like. The arrogant male, the preening baboon, beating his chest and roaring about his vaginal prowess. I get it. Why do women fake orgasms? Because it’s such a big goddamn deal to their baboon-partners that they come, even though most of them have no clue how to make it happen! But I do, Jenny. I’ve done the homework, okay? Put the time in, sorted out all those complicated folds—
Nick, stop! I’m trying to count!
The alarm is still ringing.
It’s a million miles away, he says. It’s nothing.
It stops.
See?
But she doesn’t see.
That was at least twenty seconds. She moves toward the door.
Jenny, what are you—Jesus, don’t open the door.
I won’t. She places both hands on it, palms flat. She’s feeling the door for heat! Their clothes are heaped beside her in the vestibule. He’d stripped her right there and dragged her to the bed, both of them frantic and laughing. It had been so long.
I think I smell smoke, she says. Will you call down?
Call down?
To the front desk. Ask them what’s goingon.
This is a new hotel, he says. They’re testing the system or something. It’s not—what are you doing now?
She’s bending, nose to the doorjamb, ass high in the air.
She sniffs.
Well now. This is interesting. She’s distracted. He could go over there, grabbing the baby oil on the way. She squats farther, hands on her knees. He’s brought the same small bottle to every meeting, in case he finds her in a receptive mood. The thing’s like a holy relic by now.
She’s pressing her ear against the door. I can hear people in the hallway.
I don’t doubt it. He’s out of bed and rummaging through his roller bag. They were probably drawn by the sound of your fraudulent orgasms.
Oh my God, Nick, will you drop it? It doesn’t matter!
Doesn’t matter. He pulls out his Dopp kit. Doesn’t matter. Right. Hey, none of this matters. Their thing—never did, never could. Where the hell is the baby oil? This has always been a purely physical arrangement. Sure, there were moments, early on, when he was bowled over by her. She was beautiful, she was smart. You open a door, and your arms, and she’s there. What was it she’d said when she came in? Something surprising. Anyway yes, early on, blown away, overglowed, he would look at her and consider the possibility. Love? he’d think, as they caught their breath on various beds, in various rooms. When she let loose with her raucous laugh at something he said, or launched into one of her rambling stories. Could I? Could we? Could this?
He searches the outside pocket of his suitcase. He didn’t leave the baby oil on the bathroom vanity, did he? Because Jesus that’s going to be a whole conversation with Caroline when he gets home.
She inhales audibly. He sees her shoulders rise with the effort.
Hey, he says. McGruff the Crime Dog. There’s no smoke.
Could we? Could this? No, he decided, every time. It’s the glow. Lust plus like. Plenty of like. Even now, when she’s acting like a nutjob. She’s great company. She’s charming and funny. It’s been immense fun to watch her transformation from harried homemaker into successful author. Massively successful. Who would have thought? Young adult novels, of the paranormal romance variety. Two so far. Sold millions of copies.
So, no. Love has never been on the table. But so much else is. The table is groaning, it’s a feast of delights. He has so much. This night, this room, this woman.
Who’s feeling the door again, trying to gauge the heat of the imaginary inferno raging on the other side.
Enough.
He abandons his search for the baby oil—please Christ don’t let him have left it on the vanity!—and joins her at the door, which he unlocks and flings open.
The hallway is empty.
Stretching into the distance in both directions, the carpet spotless, the lighting expensively dim. No dazed and panicked guests. No shouts or running footsteps. No smoke.
All this he displays to her, throwing an arm wide, the way he does in front of juries. See? Do you see, people? Do you see ?
She nods. She sees. Outstanding.
He closes the door. Now they can get back to the serious business of their mutual—
I still think we should go, she says.
She scoops up their clothes and walks back into the room. She drops everything on the bed and starts sorting throughit.
He leans against the door. Lowers his head.
And laughs to himself.
Because it’s all very comical, when you think aboutit.
This exorbitant room, a whole night, which required so much planning, created so much anticipation. Of course the universe would test them with something as small-bore and stupid as a fire alarm on the fritz. Test them, and try to thwart them.
But fail.
Because there’s no way, okay? There’s no way they’re going to get dressed, trudge down the hall, into the elevator, through the lobby and out into the mercilessly cold dark and joyless winter night to stand around on an icy sidewalk scuffing their feet and waiting for some mythical all clear, carving precious time out of this, their first and only full night together.
Sorry, universe! Ain’t gonna happen.
He pushes off from the door with his shoulders and wanders toward the bed. She’s plucking up garments, examining them like a washerwoman. He should bend her over right there, kick her feet apart, and—
Down, boy.
He passes her, heading for the window.
We’ll just run downstairs, she says, turning her blouse right side out. Make sure everything’s all right, then come back. Okay?
He doesn’t respond. It really is a hell of a view. People will never give up on this city, no matter how impossible it becomes. Not as long as you can stand at a window over all of Manhattan like this, like a—like a what?
Don’t get fancy, golden boy.
Or we could get a drink, she says. So we don’t use the extortionate minibar.
He can hear the smile in her voice. He knows she’s watching him, trying to placate him.
We could even stop by Herve’s party, she says.
Herve’s party, he thinks. Herve’s party.
Said so offhandedly, as if he should know what it means.
He turns from the window. Herve?
My hairstylist. She’s buttoning her blouse.
Herve, your hairstylist, he says.
Yep. She buttons the last button, only to find an extra buttonhole at the bottom. Defeat. She starts unbuttoning. He’s having a going-away party. Didn’t I mentionit?
Herve, your hairstylist, having a going-away party? No, I don’t recall you mentioning that. Where’s he going?
To medical school, she says.
He is silent. She looks up from her buttons. What’s wrong?
What’s wrong? Where should he start? There’s her sudden and irrational need to flee the room. Her suggestion that they attend a party for a hairstylist-slash-medical student.
Whose name, Herve, she pronounces Hurv.
She’s making it allup.
She mustbe.
But why? What’s her plan, what’s her angle?
He takes a seat on the sofa, throws an arm across the back. His penis flops down against his balls.
Patience, men.
Your hairstylist is having a going-away party, he says. And you want us to attend.
Blouse successfully buttoned, she spots her bra at the foot of the bed. Her shoulders sag. She begins unbuttoning again.
Jenny?
I don’t want us to, I’m just saying we could. Stop by. Why not, if we’re going out anyway? He’s cut my hair for fifteen years. We’ve been through a lot together.
He nods. Thinks:
Bullshit.
This is such bullshit!
Why did the fake orgasm throw him? This is what she does. Tells little lies. To avoid conflict, to smooth over hurt feelings. He props his feet on the coffee table, ready to suss out her game. She’ll never admit that she’s lying. He’ll have to force her to spin out her absurdities until they collapse. Then she’ll shrug, and start laughing, and they’ll finally go back to bed.
You’ve been through a lot together? he says. You and Hurv?
We have. She shakes out her balled-up tights.
That’s interesting. You know, I’ve been going to the same barber since I moved here after law school. In all that time, all that togetherness, I’ve learned one thing about him: his name. It’s Raul. And I only know that because it’s stitched on his shirt.
Why is he harping on her about this? And what on earth happened to these tights? Are you sure that’s his name? she says. Are you sure it’s even his shirt?
Good point. Maybe his name is Aloysius and he stole Raul’s workwear in order to fulfill a lifetime dream of being a barber in Midtown. But tell me this. Why must women become intimately familiar with every single person they interact with? Why must you always go through a lot together ? Why must you share, and relate, and confide?
We, she says. We women. Because here I am! She waves to him. All women. Ready to explain us to you.
I wish you would. Why can’t you have a simple, impersonal exchange of services for money?
Abandoning her hopelessly tangled tights, she steps into her skirt and wiggles it up over her hips. Whether Herve and I can or can’t enjoy one of your little, whatever, sterile capitalist transactions, she says, we don’t. We like each other. He cuts my hair, we chat about our families, our problems. He’s read both my books.
Something you’ve never bothered to do, she thinks. Snob.
We’re friends, she concludes, reaching for a boot that somehow ended up under the bed.
Are you sure about that? What if he’s not really going to medical school? What if he’s just switching salons and wants to shed some clients?
This is a ridiculous conversation, she says.
You’re tellingme.
She hears the skepticism in his voice. She looks up from the boot she’s struggling to zip. Does he think she’s lying about Herve?
He showed me his acceptance letter, she says.
So you’ve been through a lot of mail together as well?
She bites back a smile. He’s going to school in Topeka.
Topeka! he cries. Of course. Our boy is heading to Kansas, that wellspring of excellence in medical training, to become anMD.
Yes! she says. Actually, no. He’s going to be aDO.
His story is changing already.
It’s the same thing! She’s trying so hard not to laugh. He’s going to whatchamacallit. Osteopathy school. He’ll be able to do everything an MD cando.
Plus cut and color, he says.
Why are you making fun of Herve?
Hurv again. He can’t let it pass. That’s not how you pronounce that name.
That’s how Herve pronounces it.
It’s French. You pronounce it Airv.
Yeah, well, I’ll be sure to let Airv know he’s been saying his own name wrong for thirty-five years.
You’re making this up, he says.
I am not!
You are lying! He jumps up from the sofa, pointing at her. There’s no party! There’s probably not even an Hurv ! Admit it—you’re using random and ridiculous inventions to lure me out of this room.
She’s laughing now, helplessly. Why would I lie about that?
Sweetheart? he says. That is the mystery of all fucking mysteries.
She’s fully dressed. She strides to the bathroom and returns with her phone. She taps and scrolls and holds it out to him, magnificent in her anticipatory vindication.
You’re going to feel very bad that you doubted me, she says.
Get over here, Jenny.
Read the email, Nick.
Take off your clothes, he says, and climb onto my cock. Right now.
Read the fricking email!
He takes her phone. Reads.
Well well. It looks like Herve McIntyre ( O my America! ) is in fact having a going-away party at a wine bar a few blocks away. He’d love to see you before he leaves for Kansas, so please stop by between six and nine.
He hands the phone back to her.
Apology accepted, she says.
He grabs her wrist and yanks her onto the sofa. She is laughing, slapping at him.
You asshole! Leave me alone!
Impossible. Not being able to leave her alone—one of the prevailing conditions of his life for the past six years. He gathers her and stands up, staggering a little (oh the old bones!), lurches over to the bed and throws her onit.
He’s got her now, caught her whole. He crouches on top of her, pinning her arms down, kissing her neck, biting and sucking. He’s naked, she’s fully dressed. This is unusual. She’s almost always naked before he is, the removal of her clothing being his utmost priority. But he likes this reversal. The feeling of her fabrics on his bare skin. He is lesser. An animal. Savage.
And yet, away you must go, Jenny’s clothes. Off and away, you, you what? Gown and girdle. You spangled breastplate. Amazing how the lines come back to him.
He called her sweetheart. That made her melt a little, even though he was teasing when he said it. Has he ever called her sweetheart before? Honey, a few times, offhand. Lady mine, when he’s in his mock-heroic mode. Also sweet queen, which is a quote, she doesn’t remember from what. He’s not big on endearments. Not with her, anyway. Though sometimes, the way he says her name, whispers it right in her ear when he’s on top of her, like he is now—
Jennyjennyjennyjennyjennymyjenny
Well, that’s plenty. If not too much. But pet names, any sort of lovey-dovey cuddly smoochykins business? That’s not Nick. He has affection for her, she knows, but his mode of expressing it is rougher. He banters. He mocks. God, does it make her wet. Submission to his harangues. Domination by his merciless wit. She shouldn’t love it so much.
Oh well. It is what itis.
He does occasionally call her by her married name, just to annoy her. Tom’s awful name. She’s never used it—professionally she’s Jennifer Parrish, the name she was born with. Because what insane Polish person ever thought that made sense as a fricking last name ? It’s pure poetry, Nick says. Poetry on the tongue. He can be so irritating sometimes.
Not now. He’s holding her wrists over her head with one hand, undoing her buttons with the other. Good luck, Nicky boy—those are some slippery little bitches. She twists under him like she wants to escape. Tries to bite the unbuttoning hand. He holds her face, his thumb deep in her mouth. Presses himself down on her and bites her ear.
No faking this time, he says.
No faking, she agrees.
None of your thrashing and yodeling. Unless you meanit.
I don’t think that’s going to be a problem, she says.
He busies himself with the buttons. She wishes, not for the first time, that she hadn’t told him she’d faked it earlier.
Because that was a lie.
She came—of course she came! He’d obliterated her, swept her away as he always does. The lie was spontaneous. I didn’t come. Such a mistake! What did she think, he was going to shrug it off? This is Nick we’re dealing with. Analytical Man. The Great Interrogator. She reaches between his legs and strokes him.
Oh yes please, he says, pushing himself into her hand. Yes, that’s—ow, too much! Jesus, woman, you’re not milking a cow!
It was seeing her rings, on the table beside the bed. Coming out of the bathroom, about to rejoin him, and there they were, wedding on top of engagement band, reminding her of what happened earlier, when she took them off.
They’d made it to the bed from the door, they were naked, kissing, she was straddling him, he was biting at her hand, catching a finger, sucking on it. Her left hand. He’d held it up, the gold glinting.
I need you to take these off, he’d said.
And she’d obliged, twisting them loose, leaning over and placing them on the nightstand. He’d watched it all with a peculiar gleam in his eye.
She smiled down at him. Better?
Yes and no, he said. Part of me wants you to put them back on so I can watch you take them off again.
Oh, she said. So, you…didn’t want them off. You wanted to watch me take them off?
Desperately, he said, kissing her palm. I alwaysdo.
And she was mortified. Because she’d misunderstood. For a flash, an instant during the twisting and tugging, she thought the sight of her rings bothered him. Reminded him that she was married to someone else, maybe kicked up, who knows, some possessive instinct.
She thought he wanted them off because he didn’t like seeing them on her. Wrong. He wanted them off because he did like them. Her being married to someone else arouses him. He’s turned on by the transgression, the—to him—delicious violation of morals and manners that brought them here.
Where they would never be together otherwise.
And, look—she knows this about him, okay, almost from the very beginning she’s known it. But when he said it, his voice gone low and a little hoarse, when he caught her hand and said, I need you to take these off, her mind tilted sideways and that knowledge slipped out. She misread him, and—this is the worst part, the absolute worst!—she liked it. She thought he was jealous, and that pleased her.
So when she realized she was wrong, he was the opposite of jealous? She was mortified. How could she think that? She knows, knows that’s not what this is about.
She’d gotten over it, obviously, she’d forgotten all about it, but when she came out of the bathroom and saw him sipping his champagne, propped up like a smug king, her rings stacked beside him, taunting her—silly Jenny, you were wrong wrong wrong, oh and by the way, you’re married, so you’re also doing wrong wrong wrong!—she hated herself all over again. Stupid! This thing you have is ideal, it works so well, you want to risk it, spoil it with greed for more?
You have a great life. Such good fortune. Be satisfied.
And so she toppled into a pit of shame and recrimination, all over a misunderstanding that nobody in the world would ever know about but her. Still, she had to blot it out, stop thinking about it. Which is why she lied and said she hadn’t come, prompting a whole big…
I didn’t even see you put this on, he says now, tugging at her camisole. Why so many layers?
It’s freezing out, in case you hadn’t noticed.
Right, he says. Thus the need for an additional tissue-thin top.
She bats his hand away. They tussle. The camisole rips.
Stop thinking about it. You’re both over it. He is, anyway. Easy. Everything rolls right off him. He doesn’t seem to feel a shred of guilt about what they do. Still, she wishes he wasn’t so obvious about his pervy little cheating kink. He loves that she’s Catholic, too. She’s sinning, cardinally, mortally, breaking commandments, risking hellfire, for him and his atheist cock.
She arches her back so he can reach under and get at her bra.
Happy busk, he murmurs.
What?
He unhooks the clasp. Never mind.
Never mind. Which mind? She has so many. She’s scattered, pieces of her everywhere. Many Jennys. He only knows this one, the partner in crime, side piece, suburban seductress. He doesn’t know how she goofs with Natey and Ben. Her singing and dancing in the kitchen, her silliness. How she takes care of—cares for—Tom. How serious she is about her writing, what it means to her. How could he? He won’t even read her books! They are a key part of her charmed life, a life she has to marvel at. Because she’s never lost. Not anything she truly wanted, not anyone she loved. Parents still alive, boys thriving. She does what she loves, and she’s made buckets of money. She has wonderful friends, she’s in her prime ( these years are the years of my prime, girls, you must always recognize the years of your prime ). She has suffered so little.
Which means it’s coming for her. That alarm. They should have gone down. Or called. He wouldn’t even call! But why didn’t she call, instead of asking him to do it? Why is she always so passive?
I want to be on top, she says.
She pushes him off and climbs onto him, hiking her skirt up. He thrusts up against her, but she rises, evading him until he grabs her and pulls her down.
Oh yes, he says. Can you move back and forth, like—yes, like that. You still have your panties on? We’re going to need to remedy that. Good God, Jenny, you have the most fantastic breasts I ever—slow down, you’re moving too fast.
She thrusts against him faster. Since when do you get to tell me what todo?
Since…oh God, do that again. Kiss me. I swear your mouth is…oh goddammit, Jenny.
A charmed life. Only one truly awful thing has ever happened to her. The Tom thing. Which really was miserable. Though she has a hard time accessing the pain now. It’s like the agony of labor—once it passes, you can never fully recall what made you scream so loud and hate the world. Thus does a species survive. And a marriage.
Though speaking of labor. She still can’t get over that he did it when she was pregnant. Could he be more of a cliché? She’d quit her job, she had a maniac toddler, a belly like a fricking whale…there were scenes. Tears. How could yous. Though even amid the worst of it, while she was ranting and raving, she had the oddest feeling. That none of it was real. Or rather it was, but the Jenny participating in it—Betrayed Wife Jenny, sobbing and reaching for throwables—wasn’t her. She was playing a part, performing horror and heartbreak while some other Jenny was lodged deep inside, arms wrapped around her knees, waiting for the drama to subside.
What does that mean? Is she a fraud, a sociopath, does she not really feel? Impossible. Her love is immense. For her family, her work, the world. But she’s felt that strange dislocation a few times since. Mostly with Tom, big arguments where she’s lost it, she’s just going nuts, but part of her stands aside, head cocked, like, Yeah, I’m not buying this. Are you buying this?
She’s on her back again somehow, he’s gotten her skirt off, he’s kneeling over her.
Where’s that thing you had on? He feels around on the bed and finds her camisole. I want you to wrap it around my cock. I want you to stroke me withit.
Like this?
Oh God yes, don’t stop.
So okay, she’s a schizo and a cuckoobird, fine. This relates to lying to Nick how? Unclear. But now she’s faked a fake orgasm, and he’s going to be intent on making her come. She might not be able to pull it off a second time so soon. Meaning that she might have to fake it for real.
Faking It for Real: The Jenny Parrish Story.
Funny how he believed the lie about the fake orgasm, but didn’t believe the truth about Herve’s party. Not that she blames him. She does lie to him from time to time. Whether she’s eaten at a particular restaurant, read a particular book. She’s knocked a couple of years off her age, too. Stupid stuff, but crucial. Because she realized, around year two, that he couldn’t be the only person she tells the truth to. If she’s going to betray everyone she loves, shecan’t not betray him. That would be fatal. ’Twould be fatal, as Nick would say, in his mock-heroic mode. Or Julian, her main character.
He enters her at last. God, that’s…maybe she will be able to come again. Poor Herve. She promised him she’d stop by, but then the thing with Nick came up, and it had been so long. Yet another person she’s letting down. Line forms to the left. Single file, please. No cutting.
Stop. Be here. Where he’s thrusting away, growling in her ear. The sweetness of it, the perfect fit. The absurdity. Sex is so ridiculous, so easy to mock from the outside, but when you’re in it, when you’re doing it? It’s…God, it’s life. It’s the whole world. The only thing worth doing. How could she have thought of giving this up, the time she almost gave it up? Her secret. The thing in her life that’s all hers. Even if it’s completely wrong.
I want you from behind, he whispers, close to her ear. Jenny. Can I have you from behind?
I’ll think about it, she says.
Completely wrong. Here it comes—guilt, her constant companion. The affair adds plenty to the running total— you’re a cheater, you’re a liar, selfish, so selfish —but even without it she’d be full up. Do the boys get enough of her attention, what about Tom, are her parents okay, why is she surfing cat adoption sites when she should be reviewing copyedits? She is faulty, inadequate, a personal project in constant disarray.
Will you focus? Be here, with him, in this room. Where your luck may have run out. Did that alarm ring three times? Four? They should have called down. She knows too much about fires. She did a lot of research when she was writing the fire that destroys Wilderkill at the end of the trilogy. (Suck it, weirdo production designer!) Immersed herself in it, in fact, ending up with far more knowledge than she needed to torch a crumbling mansion.
Ten Famous Buildings Destroyed by Fire.
Notable Infernos Through the Ages.
The Twenty Deadliest Building Fires. Click to view slideshow!
Now she remembers something. You aren’t supposed to evacuate a high-rise during a fire. Not if it’s a new building. Hey, there’s a useful tidbit plucked from the rabbit hole! Fire codes are so strict now, buildings so well-made, you’re safer sheltering in place.
Okay! So they’re right where they should be. That’s reassuring.
Unless she’s wrong, and they should have left. The alarm a warning, part of a grand plan. Her bill’s come due, and it’s time, at long last, for her to know what it means to suffer.
The Lord does love a fire.
Hey. He’s stopped moving. Where are you?
What?
He brushes her hair back from her face. Where are you, Jenny? Where’d yougo?
Said so gently. So kindly! She can’t help it—her eyes fill with tears.
Oh, honey! he says. What’s wrong?
Honey. She can’t bear it. She wipes away the tears. I’m okay. I’m fine.
He doesn’t believe her. He waits. Face so close to hers she can’t look away.
I’m sorry, she says. It’s just…I’m afraid of fire. Really afraid.
He nods. He kisses her.
Then let’s get the hell out of here.
She feels him leave her. He sits up, starts looking around for his clothes. Not aggrieved, not reluctant in the least. Willing to set aside what he wants in order to soothe her fears instead.
Who is this generous, easy man?
You don’t mind? she says.
He shrugs. I’d rather stay, but so what? It’s early. We can get something to eat, then come back and resume normal operations.
She feels a rush of gratitude. She wants to take it all back—we can stay, it’s no big deal, I’m being a ninny. She’s been given what she wants, so of course now she has to try to thrust it back to the giver with both hands.
What about sushi? he says. I could go for sushi.
Let him do this for you. You’ll feel better if you know, if you run down and check.
We’ll eat, then we’ll stop by the party. He’s pulling on his pants. You can introduce me to Herve. We’ll tell him I’m your cousin. Or your close personal manicurist.
She searches for her bra among the bedding. They’ll check with the front desk, be reassured that it’s a system test, a glitch in the wiring, and she’ll stop thinking about God and guilt and Jewish children in Brooklyn.
Even better, he says. You go into the bar on your own, start hanging with the Herve coterie, talking about, whatever, split ends, the Hippocratic oath, and I’ll slink in later, in my trench coat, and leer at you from the bar.
She reaches for her blouse. You sure know how to make a girl feel sexy.
What can I say? It’s a gift. So I leer, you join me—drawn by my oily charm—I buy you a drink and put a hand up your skirt, we sidle out to the alley, where I rip off your clothes—
He is interrupted by a short, piercing chirp.
They lookup.
The smoke detector above the bed chirps again.
They hear a faint, buzzing static.
Then:
May I have your attention, please. May I have your attention.
A statement, not a request.
The voice is a man’s. Bronx-accented. Calm, yet firm.
This is your fire safety director speaking. An alarm has been triggered on the fifth floor of the building. The New York City Fire Department is currently en route to investigate the incident.
Oh no, she whispers. No nono.
It’s fine, Jenny, it’s—
There is no need to evacuate at this time. We ask that guests remain in their rooms to facilitate access of fire personnel to stairwells and hallways. We apologize for any inconvenience. Further announcements will be made shortly.
Another chirp.
Then silence.