Chapter 42
PIP
The late afternoon sky stretches above me as I emerge from the Madison Avenue subway station.
After days of cruising in sleek limousines, it feels odd to find myself once again amidst the bustling, gritty reality of the subway.
“Look, Piglet,” I say, once we cross the street and see the sparkling gold entranceway of the iconic hotel. “It’s the Plaza.”
Hearing the excitement in my voice, Piglet lets forth a pleasant yip.
I walk a few feet closer.
“And look, here’s a display about Eloise’s life at the Plaza.”
I shift my covered wedding dress into my left arm.
Then I lift Piglet high enough so that his tiny pug nose nearly presses against the cool glass of the shop window.
Behind the display, a plush likeness of the hotel's most renowned young guest, Eloise, oozes playful charm. An old-fashioned Kodak camera dangles from her neck, ready to capture imaginary adventures. Skipperdee, her loyal stuffed turtle, rests at her feet.
“I bet you’d like to live at the Plaza Hotel, too,” I tell him.
Piglet yips again, as if he can understand my words.
I put him back on the gold flecked sidewalk and sigh.
Maybe one of the families who’ve responded to Keesha’s adoption advertising campaign lives at the Plaza Hotel.
Like Snickers lives at the Mandarin hotel.
Ah, Snickers.
I had hoped he might step up to the task of Piglet’s care. It’s clear he’s come to love the little guy. Why won’t he agree to take responsibility for him?
"Miss Fletcher!" a smartly uniformed doorman touches his gold-brimmed cap. "You’re here for your meeting with Ms. Sinclair's assistant?"
“How did you know me? Or about my appointment?”
"Your face has been in her column each day. And of course, I recognized this handsome gentleman here,” he says, his knees creaking a bit as he crouches low to ruffle Piglet’s gleaming fur. Keesha certainly did a good job grooming him.
“You’ll find ‘The Velvet Paw’ salon on our basement level. Give me his leash, I’ll take him down.”
“Wait! What’s a ‘Velvet Paw?’”
"The Plaza's dog grooming salon," he replies, his voice filled with pride. "It's a luxurious retreat for our four-legged guests. A place where they can enjoy top-notch pampering and grooming services.”
“Piglet’s already well-groomed enough. Who made the appointment?”
“Ms. Sinclair’s office. The grooming team's waiting. The office said something about wanting Piglet to be camera-ready for photographs."
“But he’s already brushed out…” I say, as the doorman takes hold of his leash.
I kneel to plant a gentle kiss on Piglet's wrinkled forehead, inhaling the comforting, familiar scent of his doggy aroma.
His soft whines fill the air as he hesitates, resisting the doorman's gentle tug on his leash.
"It's okay, boy. I'll see you soon," I assure him, trying to soothe his reluctance with my words.
Once I step inside, the Plaza’s vast lobby wraps around me in marble and gilt. Chandeliers cast rainbow prisms across the floor.
Aunt Vivian and I have seen the Plaza in old movies. Even as a kid, I dreamed of floating through these halls in a vintage 1940s Dior.
I saw myself dancing with a handsome man in white tie and tails, the kind of outfits you always saw rich men wearing in those films.
Even though I had this vision well before I met Snickers, my imaginary dancing partner had Snickers’ characteristic good looks. His tall, broad-shouldered physique, his smile, and his playfully teasing manner.
I try to replay the film in my mind’s eye, but suddenly can’t summon up the magic it once produced.
It’s as if the horrific events of the day have snuffed it out.
Why is it so easy to believe in the fantasy when life is good, when love is in the air.
But now, after that stalker’s destroyed my aunt’s tree and the symbolism etched upon it, it’s hard to summon up those enthusiastic feelings.
The Plaza suddenly looks fake. Everything feels wrong. Off.
I ask for directions to the ballroom.
“Which one? We have many?” says the front desk clerk.
I take the mirrored elevator to the third floor. The elevator’s curiously empty. But then again, it’s off-season for tourists.
Following the directions on the wall pointing to ‘Ballroom M’ I walk down the red carpet.
Clare must have snagged a deal on this ballroom. It's tucked away in an isolated corner, far from the bustling heart of the venue.
Though elegant, the rooms on this floor retain elements of the hotel's original 1905 architecture. Like the embellished open ventilation slats cut into the lower section of the walls.
I suspect the "A-List" ballrooms are perched on the upper levels. These higher floors would provide guests with a panoramic view of Central Park and the sprawling cityscape.
I find Ballroom M, and fling open the double doors. The room is beautiful, already set up for the rehearsal dinner just three hours away. I'm dazzled by the gorgeous chandelier shining down on tables draped in starched white tablecloths, set with gold plates and sparkling wine glasses.
I laugh a little to myself, amused that soon they’ll be filled with fake guests.
Fake people here to celebrate a fake marriage, with Snickers and myself being the fake couple in question.
I gaze toward the dais, where two chairs stand on the elevated platform. Likely reserved for Snickers and me.
Each chair is adorned with a luxuriously soft, fluffy white material, reminiscent of lamb's wool. Yet they appear to be crafted from an even lighter fabric that seems to float in the air.
Below, the dais floor is covered in the same ethereal white fabric, creating an illusion of weightlessness. It transforms the entire setup into a scene that resembles a talk show set suspended on a cloud.
Kit’s idea? A final sendoff to shoot us off to heaven. Who knows?
Then I spot a gorgeous wedding cake resting on a white, floor-length tablecloth. I eye the silver and white decorations, imagining how delicious they would taste.
“Miss Fletcher,” a crisp voice rings out.
Startled, I turn. “Yes, that’s me.”
A pale, slim girl walks toward me, wearing an austere black suit. “Hi,” she says, “I’m Vanessa Sinclair’s assistant. Why don’t we have a seat and get comfortable?”
I follow her to one of the tables that has yet to be set for the evening’s dinner.
She has a thermos and two paper cups at the ready. Surprising. Can’t she just ring for room service? But I say nothing.
“Would you like some herbal tea?”
I’m not much of a tea drinker, but it smells heavenly.
I nod, watching as she pours.
Then I lift the paper cup to my lips and take a sip. I hadn’t realized how parched I was.
“Tell me a little bit about yourself.”
“Well, like I told your boss before, I grew up on the Lower East Side…”
“With your aunt, is it?” she says, taking notes on an old-fashioned pad instead of a computer, like most journalists.
“Yes, my parents were… not very responsible,” I say, stopping short of saying it’s none of her business. I’m also feeling creeped out she’s gone to such trouble to research my life.
“And how did you come to meet Snickers?”
“The Chelsea Market. We told Vanessa Sinclair that during the interview,” I say, slightly confused why the gossip columnist’s assistant is asking us information already published.
“When did you know that you and Snickers were destined for each other?”
I remember Clare’s media training, but ignore it. She’s not here to edit me. I can say whatever I want.
I lift the cup to my lips, taking another sip to buy time as I formulate my thoughts.
“I fell in love with him the moment we met,” I say, no longer acting. “There’s something about him—masculine, so in charge, that attracts me. Yet he also has this boyish quality I find endearing.”
“Tell me,” she says, leaning toward me in a conspiratorial fashion. “Is he a good kisser?”
I blush despite myself. “Oh, the very best.”
Maybe I wasn’t supposed to say that. Clare isn’t here to censor me. But maybe I should make an effort to censor myself.
“Do you like him to touch you when he kisses you?”
“Well, I…”
What a strange thing for a journalist to ask. If Clare was here, I’m certain she would object.
“Of course,” I say, deflecting the question. “Snickers is a very good kisser. And I’m looking forward to our honeymoon. We’ll be traveling to Italy,” I say, trying to get off the topic of kissing and touching. “I’ve never been there. Have you?”
“I’ll ask the questions,” she says sharply.
I take a deep breath and look at my watch. The interview should be over in the next twenty minutes.
“Of course. What else do you want to know?"
“Do you realize that you’re taking the place of another in his heart?” she asks, suddenly, out of the blue.
Vanessa Sinclair’s assistant’s voice suddenly sounds distorted.
Then I feel suddenly dizzy. Lightheaded, Drowsy.
Why? I thought I got a lot of sleep last night.
“Another? In his heart? What do you mean?” I say, her voice echoing in my head.
She speaks again. But now she sounds so distant. So far away.
I feel faint, unsteady. Even though I’m sitting in a chair.
She speaks again, her voice rising, but I have no idea what she’s saying.
“I’m… I’m sorry,” I say, feeling like I’m going to collapse. I try to rise, but my upper body slams down on the table.
Then the world goes black.