As predicted, it took the longest to razor out the charcoal image. Anna carefully sliced the paper so that a few of the coral and mint petals would appear to overlap the drawing. The simple black-and-white addition was the last puzzle piece. No more than a few hundred strokes of charcoal, the eyes rendered, in between lush rose petals. This, the chorus of the piece, the ones who observed. It was complete.
So high on having finished, Anna took herself to the bar at the Peninsula atop the city, ordered a forty-dollar martini on the Von Bizmark tab, and enjoyed twenty seconds of unmitigated contentment before her thoughts turned to Adrian. It was as if now that the painting was done, her mind had automatically brought its attention to the next-most pressing agenda item. She missed him.
The spa, her sanctuary, called for her. Since it was late and the middle of the week, Anna had the place entirely to herself. It was almost creepy, except for the omnipresent, professionally disinterested staff who appeared every twenty minutes to offer her ice-cold lemon water. Somewhere on her third round between steam bath and sauna, she decided she could—no, should—call Adrian, just to see how things would go.
She told herself she had nothing to lose and no reason to feel so nervous, but butterflies fluttered in her stomach. Anna wrapped herself in a cushy robe and tied her head up in a towel in the grotto-esque whirlpool room. As soon as it looked like she might want something, a young woman with a blonde ponytail and a Peninsula polo shirt appeared with a glass of lemon water on a silver tray.
“Actually, is it possible to have a white wine?”
“Certainly.” Moments later, she reappeared with a large crystal goblet full of wine so cold the side misted with condensation the moment she set it down. Anna drank half of it before it could get another degree warmer. She took a deep breath, threw her shoulders back, and called. He answered on the second ring.
“Hey!” Adrian said, the voice so comforting, more familiar in her ear than even her own. “It’s you.”
“Hey,” Anna said, the future before her like a blank page. In fact, her whole mind was like a blank page. The silent seconds ticked by.
“How are you?” he asked.
“OK.”
“I miss you.” Silence. She realized that what she really wanted from Adrian in that moment was not language. And maybe he realized it too. “You never liked having real conversations on the phone. Why don’t I come to where you are?” In Anna’s state, half in the bag, fully warmed up, all relaxed, the only thing this conjured was languorous makeup sex in her palatial suite upstairs, postsex room service, post–room service sex . . .
“Meet at the Peninsula bar?”
“See you in twenty.”
Anna downed the rest of her wine and raced upstairs, ignoring the curious looks of other hotel guests when she stepped onto the elevator in the spa robe, toweled head and terry cloth slippers embroidered with a floral P, at 10:30 p.m. Way more pressing was that she had only eighteen minutes to go from wilted, damp, and basically naked to attractive enough to want to get naked with. She fumbled the key in the lock, excited as hell.
So excited that it took her a beat to figure out why something felt off in her room. A suit jacket hung from the knob of the bathroom. The lights were all on. Anna’s eyes flew to the side table, where inexplicably a replica of the large key she held in her hand sat innocently enough on the table.
“Hello?” a drunken Mr. Von Bizmark called from the bedroom. “Is that the masseuse?” Anna’s heart leaped into her throat, like an antelope who realized too late that she was far from the herd and the nearby bushes were rustling against the crouched back of a stalking predator. Her rational brain reminded her: You’re no antelope! Just announce yourself! Say, “Hello, Mr. Von Bizmark, it’s Anna. Remember? I’m staying here?”
But something she couldn’t ignore told her to just leave and sort it all out later. These were the sorts of situations—being alone in a hotel room with your employer’s drunk husband—that could easily become some sort of terrible misunderstanding or worse. Anna quickly, silently slipped out the door as quietly as possible, figuring this was the best way to neatly avoid any and all complications.
She strode through the marble lobby, past the grand staircase and the gawking Japanese tourists, and straight onto the street, all the while telling herself, You are a rock star. This is fine. Just keep it moving.
“Cab, please,” she said to the porter, who hesitated. “I’ll bring everything back!” she whispered urgently. “I promise!” And then she was safely in the back seat, the top of her head towel pressed against the ceiling of the cab, her cell phone in the pocket of her robe.
She texted Adrian: I need a raincheck.
He texted back immediately: ?
But she said nothing.
He wrote: When?
After the ball.
Ding-dong.
Anna heard the bell echo off the walls of her sister’s spacious apartment. She could feel the plush carpet through the Peninsula slippers; even Lindsay’s hallway boasted crown molding and inset lighting. Anna took the towel out of her hair and ran her fingers through it.
When Lindsay opened the door, Anna tried to stay sanguine. “Hi,” she said, giving her sister a few seconds to take in the strange visual.
“Come in, come in,” Lindsay said, eyes flying from the slippers to Anna’s hand protectively clasped at the top of the robe. “What happened? Are you OK? Come sit . . .”
Anna spied Lindsay’s husband, Jack, in his pajama pants, scurrying away down the hallway. Lindsay ushered her into the living room, where she invited Anna to choose from a swath of seating options: leather-padded barstools, a couch, two easy chairs pushed together by the window. Anna chose the couch. They sat knee to knee. In Lindsay’s beautiful apartment. Her hand lingered protectively near her soon-to-be-round belly. “What is going on?” Lindsay said.
“I . . . am sort of taking some space from Adrian.”
Lindsay tried and failed to conceal her shock. When Anna said nothing more, she asked, “And you moved to the Peninsula?”
“No, I . . . it has to do with work. Mr. Von Bizmark was staying in the corporate apartment for weeks, and I think he forgot that last week he told me I could stay there.”
“And?”
“Well, he showed up, by mistake, because I think he was pretty drunk. I just left . . .” She knew how strange it sounded—how bizarre everything about her job always came off—but this time it seemed even worse. Like part of her employment involved scurrying off in the night with nothing but a bathrobe and her phone. “I know you think I’m pathetic!” Anna blurted and burst into tears.
“Oh no!” Lindsay said, instantly embracing Anna, who allowed her sister to squeeze her, jamming her shoulder into her sternum. It felt like she was pressing the tears and snot out of her. “No, no! No!” Lindsay exclaimed, not knowing what else to say. Anna reached past her for the tissues on the table and blew her nose over her shoulder. Finally, Lindsay let her go. “A, is this because of Adrian’s new job?”
Anna drew back, expressions flying across her face like clouds on a windy day: rejection, consideration, acceptance. “Maybe a little,” Anna admitted. “I just—I know you think I blew it. Like, blew it all. Everything. My life.”