Chapter Four
Four
She holds up her phone. Just want to check on the boys.
He heads for the bathroom, leaving her to it. She drifts toward the window, tapping and swiping.
But as soon as she hears the door slide shut, she walks back across the plush carpeting. She doesn’t tiptoe, she’s not absurd, but she does walk…carefully.
To the door of the room.
Where she leans in, close to the doorjamb, and sniffs.
Very quietly.
No smoke. Good. That’s excellent.
But let’s just confirm…
She sniffs again. A big old inhale, low and slow.
Nothing. Great!
That’s what she expected, of course, but great.
She sneaks past the bathroom again, eyes on her—whoops, she loses her balance, wobbles a little. What’s that about? Too much champagne. Maybe slow it down with the drinking? She skirts the bed and takes a seat on the sofa.
Her first search— nyc fire tonight? — yields no results. How about:
fire midtown nyc now?
Nothing. Good. Now she’ll just skim Twitter. And Facebook. And a few of the firebug subreddits where she’s lurked in the past, for research purposes.
r/wildfire
r/arson
r/nationalfirenews
Some of those weirdos have police scanners. If there’s a problem downstairs, a sexy Manhattan high-rise fire, someone will be talking aboutit.
That’s all she needs—news, or preferably, the absence of news. Then she’ll be able to continue mistressing the universe, beating back the flickers of unease that kept popping up while they chatted and sipped their champagne. It wasn’t constant, she forgot about the alarms and stern instructions for long stretches, thanks to Nick and his barrage of hoo-ha. Reluctant fellator. How does he come up with this stuff? She sits at the desk and grinds it out sometimes, it can be excruciating to write one line that isn’t total garbage. Meanwhile it just pours out of him.
Oh, good—this is good: according to @nycfirewire, the FDNY is battling active fires at an office building in Staten Island, a townhouse in Brooklyn and a small warehouse in Queens. Good? None of that is good, but there’s nothing burning in Manhattan. That’s a relief. Though still cool it with the drinking. And no sex, obviously. Sex would be wrong right now. Unlike sex all the other times you have sex with him, which is fine, totally moral and aboveboard and stop.
She walks to the window. She still can’t see any flashing lights, not even reflected on the building opposite. But maybe they aren’t on the street-facing side? Which way is north?
She’s all turned around.
Nick doesn’t believe in the self? Or free will? He certainly has a free willy. The way he keeps eyeing her, playing with the tassel on her belt. And he doesn’t think people can change? She should have pushed back at his smooth certainties. She tried—she always tries—but he’s too quick for her. He’s like a speed skater, gliding effortlessly through points and counterpoints, while she feels like a duck who woke up to find its legs frozen into the ice of the pond.
Weird comparison, but okay.
The point is she feels dumb next to him, which she hates. But also kind of loves. He makes her think. Challenges her opinions, prods and teases. It’s maddening. And so hot. God, she wants him again. Maybe they could no. You have to wait. It won’t be long now.
She hears the roar of the toilet, the blast of the tap. A muffled exclamation. His head appears around the corner.
Can you believe there’s no soap in this dump?
There is, she says. I mean, there was. I took it for Natey. He loves hotel toiletries. The little bottles and sewing kits and whatnot?
So you swiped them? You’ve sold millions of those vampire books of yours—you can’t afford to buy the kid a few trial-size bottles?
Ghosts. My books are about ghosts. She smiles at him. And you’re right. I’ve sold millions.
Congratulations. He nods at the phone in her hand. Everything okay?
What?
You were checking on the boys.
Oh. Yeah, they’re fine. The soap is in my bag.
He disappears again. Checking on the boys, right…she opens her messages. She’s gotten nothing from Tom since a text that morning: what did you do with the good spatula? She hasn’t responded. She doesn’t care for his accusatory tone. She also doesn’t want to admit that she used the good spatula to scrape ice off her windshield, which is why it’s currently in the back seat of her car. In pieces. So she types: I sold it to a passing Eskimo . That’s what her father always said when she was a kid and couldn’t find something. The stapler? Oh, an Eskimo came to the door looking for one and I gave it to him. Your tennis shoes? Sold ’em to an Eskimo!
Why an Eskimo? She never asked. Her dad is a good, kind man, a wonderful man, but the Eskimo thing…is it racist? Singling them out, mocking their, what? Nomadic lifestyle? Historical deprivations?
Can you even use the word Eskimo anymore?
She deletes her text without sending.
She checks Twitter, checks Google, checks Reddit. Checks into a mental hospital. Because honestly—what is she afraid of? Well, that’s easy. She’s afraid to die. More accurately, she finds it unfathomable. Nonexistence? Sorry—can’t picture it! And she doubts there’s anything waiting for her afterward, despite her half-hearted faith, which isn’t founded on a belief in some higher power so much as on a gut skepticism that this excessively complicated world could have sprung into being from atoms and chaos. Bat sonar, and babies’ perfect ears, and the convoluted reproductive systems of kangaroos—these things just kind of happened? She knows evolution is more sophisticated than that, it occurred over a span of time greater than her puny brain can grasp, there’s hard evidence, something about geologic strata…still.
Kangaroos have two uteruses. And three vaginas.
They must be exhausted.
In short, it’s all improbable. But if the alternative is true, she’s facing eternal torment for her flagrant sins. Either way, she’s screwed.
Thus the fear.
Flagrant sins. Does Nick feel guilty? She’s never asked. The question falls squarely within the realm of That Which They Do Not Discuss. They scrupulously avoid talking about their marriages, their spouses. Caroline seems to adore him. The way she smiles at him at parties. Touches his hair. Jenny feels awful when she sees them together. Stabs of guilt, which she welcomes. Because if she won’t stop doing what she’s doing with Caroline’s husband—and while she did consider stopping once, she hasn’t—it’s only right that she feel like a monster from time to time.
But she’s curious, too. Do they still sleep together? Do they have nicknames? In-jokes? What do they fight about? Laugh about? She knows he’s a good father. He dotes on Jill.
But what else is he? What kind of husband?
She moves to the window, then back to the sofa. Circling, circling. The way Nick talks circles around her. People don’t change? What a cynic, what a…of course people change! She changed. She had an epiphany, decided to correct course, and it was daunting, agonizing even, but she did it. She—hey, she executed! God, it felt like an execution at the time. She can’t tell him about it, absolutely not, but it happened. She changed.
So ha ha, Nick—you’re wrong! You’re completely—
There itis.
In the midst of berating herself she refreshed Twitter, and with a clutch at her heart now reads @nycfirewire’s latest post:
MANHATTAN 10-41 code1
Park & 50. Alarm reported 6.19 pm
Park and Fiftieth. That’s them. What’s a 10-41 code 1? She googles it and finds a site listing FDNY radio codes. She scrolls, scrolls, there are so many fricking codes…
10-41 SUSPICIOUS FIRE
Fire Marshall investigation is required.
CODE 1 Occupied Structure or Vehicle. A structure (commercial, residential, public), or vehicle (car, bus or train) that is occupied at the time of the fire.
So there is a fire. A suspicious one. Or does the code just mean an alarm has been triggered? Fire Marshall investigation is required . How could they know there’s a suspicious fire if it still requires investigation?
Shouldn’t a radio code be a little bit less ambiguous?
She checks a few other sites. Nothing. Good. She won’t let this rattle her. She’ll just—
What are you doing on the sofa? he demands.
He’s standing in the bathroom doorway, watching her.
What’s wrong with the sofa?
It’s not the bed. Get over here, woman!
She rolls her eyes but she rises, smiling. Jenny’s coming! She’s on her way. His heart soars, as does his cock. Can a cock soar? It can certainly perk the fuck up, as his always does for her, this woman who quickens his blood. Who pushes him to lyricism, to think in ludicrous phrases like quickens his blood. Idiot thoughts. But so what? She’s returning to bed.
Come, madam, come. Phone in one hand, glancing down at it, other hand plucking at her belt. That’s right, my lady, loosen that encumbrance, that vexing…he could tie her up. Lash her wrists to those sleek and handy bedposts and lavish all his attention on her, for as long as it takes. Drive her mad, multiple times. Be driven mad by her in turn. Is she ready? Futzing with her phone—she’s bored. He can cure that. He can—
It’s been a while, she says. Should we call down?
The desk clerk said they’d make an announcement. Let’s give them a few more minutes.
She slides into bed, and he adjusts his robe over his tormented genitalia. She’s not ready. Which is fine. Though, to have her inches away, semirecumbent yet unattainable—it’s torture. When they’re apart he manages, barely. He has his rules, his bulkheads. His own hand, when necessary.
It’s frequently necessary.
He crosses his ankles, tucks his cock under the belt of his robe so it doesn’t whang out into the open. He settles back into the pillows.
So, he says. We were talking about your books.
Werewe?
We were. Your millions of ghost books. I understand they’re quite sexy.
They’re romantic, she says. It’s YA. I can’t, you know, write pornography.
But there is boning, correct?
There is boning, she concedes. Very vague, and very hazily described.
He empties the last of the champagne into their glasses. So how does that work? he says. How do ghosts and humans screw?
Oh my God, Nick. Are you seriously asking me about this again?
You’ve never given me a clear answer! As a purveyor of this kind of literature, this spectral smut—
Smut! she cries. That’s me. A big old smut slinger!
I just think you should be able to explain the mechanics.
She whaps him with the end of her belt. If you’re so curious, why don’t you read one of them?
He wrinkles his nose. I’m not really your target audience, amI?
Oh no, she says. You’re too exalted. Too busy reading your, whatever. Dead Russians. Translations of obscure Austrian novelists.
Whoa, hey. Why the vicious attack on obscure Austrian novelists? What have obscure Austrians ever done to you?
They’ve bored me. She flops back against the pillows. They’re so fricking boring! Reading is supposed to be fun.
Yes, it is. And her books are fun. Unquestionably. He knows because he has read them. She thinks he hasn’t because, well, that’s what he tells her. Or strongly implies, whenever he teases her about them, pretending he wouldn’t lower himself to that kind of trash, et cetera. And normally he wouldn’t. He bought the first one for Jill when it came out. Caroline gave him such hell— Our daughter is twelve, Nick! This is for teenagers! —so he never gave it to her. One night he flipped it open, to check out her author photo, glance at the acknowledgments—of course he wasn’t in there, why would he be?—and he skimmed the first page, to see what all the fuss was about.
He stayed up until dawn readingit.
He keeps her second book at the office. A paralegal came across it one day. Bought that for my daughter, he said. Which didn’t explain the cracked spine, but the paralegal was too intimidated by him to inquire further. They’re well written, her books. Moderately engrossing, if you like that sort of thing. Millions do, as noted. They’re a phenomenon. The second book ended with a twist that was truly breathtaking. Usually he sees that sort of thing coming. He was impressed. It must have been hard to pull off.
So yes, her books are fine. Probably good, given the genre. Again, he doesn’t have much of a point of reference.
Is there penetration? he asks. Phantom jizz?
My characters are teenagers, Nick. I can’t exactly douse them with jizz.
Well, one of them is four hundred years old or something, right?
She sets her glass on the nightstand. I’m going to explain this to you one more time. Then we’re never going to talk about it again. My ghosts, my main ghost, really, the protagonist—
JoJo, he says.
Julian, she says, making a visible effort not to slap him, can assume a form, become, you know, a body, thanks to having studied certain…oh God. She covers her face. This is awful.
What?
When I have to explain it like this I feel so dumb! Of course, it’s all dumb, it’s—
It’s not dumb, he says. Now he feels bad. JoJo. He knows her hero’s name is Julian. He also knows how ghost-human banging works, since it’s described in detail in the second book. Which he’s read twice.
Yet here he is, giving her a hard time.
Keep going, he says.
Okay, let me just…she glances at her phone, then sets it face down on the nightstand. Right. So, Julian discovered an ancient book in the library of the estate he haunts. He was alone there for decades while the house was vacant, so he studied, and practiced, and when the moon is in a certain phase, and he feels a lot of desire…
He’s motivated, he says.
Exactly. Meaning that when Sophie shows up—that’s my human heroine—and they fall in love, this overwhelming and passionate love, he can become corporeal and, you know, do the deed. Though I focus on the kissing, the touching. The feelings. I kind of blur over the act itself.
The slipping of the ghostly p into the corporeal v, he says.
Nicely put. The film version will be a lot more explicit. And sensual. Juan Pablo wants to create a whole atmosphere of decadence and—
Juan Pablo?
The director, she says. Juan Pablo Torres.
She gets out of bed, picking up her phone on the way. He watches her move to the window, typing.
Juan Pablo? You can’t just call him Juan?
That’s his whole first name, so…
You met this guy last week?
But she’s gone, lost in her screen. She twirls a lock of hair while she scrolls, twisting it into a little knot. Then she releases it and starts twisting it again.
Jenny?
Hmm? Oh. Yeah. She’s still scrolling. We’ve been on a bunch of Zooms throughout the whole development process, but this was the first time I met him in person. He seems…nice. Friendly. He’s smart, and—
He hit on you, he says.
She looks up, startled. What?No!
Holy shit, you’re blushing! He came on to you, didn’the?
Of course not!
He waits.
Maybe a little, she confesses.
Ha! She’s so easy to read sometimes.
I don’t know! she cries. Maybe he’s just really affectionate. I’m terrible at reading romantic signals.
I’m not. Tell me how he acted, and I’ll tell you whether he wants to fuck you.
Fine, she says. All week he kept coming up tome—
He definitely wants to fuck you, he says.
You’re so funny.
I need to see what this guy looks like. He reaches across the nightstand for his own phone. He’s picturing a bear of a man, in one of those cargo vests directors seem to love. He types the title of her first book, and Juan Pablo…
What’s his last name?
Nick, don’t.
I just want to see him!
She sighs. Torres.
Torres , he murmurs as he types. Grizzled, probably. Always squinting into the distance, framing things with his thumbs and forefingers. Not without a certain amount of Latin machismo, which can be compelling, but between the salt-and-pepper stubble and the big gut, there’s no way Jenny would—
His search returns photos of a sultry young god.
He turns the phone to show her. Is that him?
She comes back to the bed, leans in. Yep.
This guy’s a director? How old ishe?
He turned thirty last week. We had a party for him on set.
She helped throw a party for the birthday boy. How jolly. He swipes to enlarge a photo of Juan Pablo on a red carpet. This looks retouched, he says.
She leans closer. No, it’s pretty accurate.
Those shining teeth. Those cheekbones. There’s no way the guy actually looks like this. Where’s he from, he says, Mexico?
Spain.
Barely speaks English, I suppose.
No, he’s fluent. He studied at Oxford.
Oxford. The bastard! Did she sleep with him?
Don’t ask. None of your business.
He taps on another image. Juan Pablo is so young. No hair on his chest. Low testosterone, probably. Honestly, what serious director allows shirtless photos of himself to show up on the internet? Frolicking in the surf!
It’s unprofessional.
He tosses his phone and stretches out, hands behind his head.
Well well well, he says. Looks like our Mrs. Gryzb snagged herself a hottie.
She’s twirling her hair again. She looks up from her phone and frowns. Don’t call me that.
Did she sleep with him?
Do.
Not.
Ask.
Yes, he says, Mrs. Gryzb is doing very well for herself out in Hollywood.
She grabs a pillow from the bed and whacks him with it. That’s Tom’s name, not mine!
It’s poetry, he says. Such poetry.
She whacks him again, and he catches the pillow, pulling her with it onto the bed. Film sets are very sexy. Rampant coitus, if you believe the gossip sites, which he doesn’t because he doesn’t read them.
He tickles her. She squeals and squirms out of reach. No, he’s not jealous. He’s curious.
She can do what she wants.
I hate my name too, he says.
Why? Holloway is a great name.
Holloway is fine. It’s Nick I hate. Nick is a crook. A shyster. He’s the guy who stands on a street corner with slicked-back hair, ready to show you some nice watches he’s got on special.
You might be overthinking this, she says.
Who,me?
They both laugh. She picks up her phone and looks at it again. Sets it down.
Shouldn’t they have made an announcement by now?
It hasn’t been that long, he says. I’ll call in ten minutes if we haven’t heard.
She said it was ambiguous whether Juan Pablo hit on her. But she could be lying. Did she suck Juan Pablo’s cock—not for her own sake of course, ha ha we know that wouldn’t happen, meaning if she did, it would have been to please him, some jerkoff Iberian? Short, no doubt. Small-dicked. He could google how tall heis.
No, he could not, because that’s pathetic.
You’re not drinking your champagne, he says.
Trying to get me drunk? But she takes a sip.
Did Juan Pablo come to her room late at night, needing some rewrites? Did he engineer a tryst, with wine, perhaps some chorizo? Did he take her in a four-poster bed, part of the set dressing, of his atmosphere of decadence, surrounded by candelabra and—
This is killing him. It’s also turning him on a little. Why should he care? She can do what she wants.
You don’t think people can change? she says.
What’s that?
What you said earlier. That we can’t free ourselves from the norms and the brainwashing and so forth.
Oh. Yeah, no. Maybe a little around the margins, but major transformation? That’s rare.
She nods, thinking that over. Then:
Has this changed you?
This? he says.
You know. She waves a hand at the space between them. This. Our…thing.
Ah. He nods. Right. This.