Still groggy, I sought out a room filled with partygoers and sat on an armchair in the corner to rest. I resisted the desire to close my eyes for fear I’d fall asleep, and decided to keep moving. I needed a bathroom to throw water on my face. I must have turned around without knowing and found myself a few steps away from the bedroom I had run away from moments ago.
The door opened, and there was Robert in his bathrobe, smoking a cigarette and holding Morris. I stepped back in the shadows so he wouldn’t see me, and I watched as he took a girl, my age, just like me, gently by the elbow into his room. He paused for a moment, scanning the hallway until his eyes met mine.
He nodded, a slight smile on his lips, and dragged the door closed behind him.
45
I wanted a cup of coffee, but I settled for an espresso at the espresso station by one of the bars. The bitter shot of caffeine did the trick, and I felt awake and a tad wired.
I scanned the room for Tabitha. I texted her twice, without response. Walking quickly through the penthouse, I couldn’t find anyone I recognized. That was okay. I just wanted to go home anyway.
In the elevator, I tried to make sense of what had just happened when the doors opened one floor below. Incredibly there was Tabitha with this ubercute boy, and I mean boy. He might have been sixteen. Where on earth did she find him in this party of creepy old men?
“Lisbeth!” Tabitha screamed, squealing as usual. She dragged me out of the elevator before the doors closed.
“This is Liam,” she said. “He’s in one of those new boy bands.”
“We’re really famous on YouTube, actually,” he said, shaking his head and smiling. He had a nice, soft Irish accent.
“Maybe with eight-year-olds,” Tabitha said and kissed him. I was happy to see her having fun for a change. I didn’t understand what had happened with Robert Francis, but Tabitha seemed liberated. Totally smashed, too.
“Let’s go back to the party,” she said excitedly.
“I’m afraid I’ve had my fill of pink martinis,” I began, trying to regain some of my Hepburn poise. I wanted to crawl home to New Jersey, unless I could figure out how to crash at Jess’s house without Sarrah throwing a fit. But I realized Tabitha wasn’t listening. She and her boy toy were snogging right in front of me.
“Darling, I’m going home,” I said, turning to press the elevator again. Tabitha drunkenly pulled away from Liam long enough to register that I was leaving, and together they dragged me from the elevator. Linking their arms in mine, they marched me down the hallway.
“I’m not talking about the old-man party upstairs,” she said. “There’s a much better one down the hall.”
“Really, I’m exhausted.”
“It’ll be fun,” she said. “And ZK is here somewhere.”
We entered yet another gorgeous apartment with younger people, a completely different vibe from upstairs. A cluster of girls were chatting in the common room, samba music was playing throughout, the lights were low—overall a much cooler scene. There were couples coming in and out of a room in the back.
“Remember me?” ZK’s soft familiar voice asked from just behind me. I turned, and he offered me a glass of champagne. I nodded gratefully. Tabitha winked at me as she led Liam off somewhere.
“For someone so lovely, wearing such an exquisite dress, you seem oddly disturbed,” he said. “Everything okay?”
I didn’t know how I’d talk about it, where I would even begin. So I managed a small smile and a weary nod.
“Well, I’m grateful for another opportunity to entertain you. Come,” he said, reaching for my hand. “It’s time for me to dazzle you with my wit and good looks.” I followed him through the apartment. “Besides, I need a good-luck charm,” he added.
As we passed from room to room, I heard a shrill cackle, and I knew instantly that Dahlia was somewhere nearby. I glanced around and saw her in the den off the side of the main room. She was smoking a cigar and shooting pool with yet another brace of handsome men. She sunk her shot, and they all laughed, toasting whiskies. I had hoped she was sufficiently preoccupied to miss our crossing, but I was wrong.
Her head turned with laser precision, catching my glance. Her fierce gaze seemed utterly aware of what I was doing and where I was going and whose hand I was holding, mocking me as if saying, you won’t get away with it. Then she went back to her crowd, laughing and joking as though she had never left their company. It chilled me.
ZK led me into a room that was heavy with smoke and dark except for a bright light hovering over a poker table. We took our seats near the end of the table. There was a big haphazard pile of cash in the middle.
One by one, the gents all stood as I arrived, introducing themselves: Brad, Hugh, Ian, Baird, and names like that, one blue-eyed trust-fund type after the next, all incredibly handsome. They already had summer-in-the-Hamptons tans and were built like they were on the rowing team somewhere. I bet they had jackets in their closets with Harvard, Yale, and Princeton logos on them. They sat and resumed their high-stakes poker game.
“Okay, everybody show ’em,” the dealer said. Four of the five players turned over their hands, but the last guy, Brad, was teasing each card, turning them over one at a time, “slowrolling” they call it, while everyone sat and watched. I knew a little bit about poker from Nan, who taught me how to play when I was seven. Brad had a very good hand, an ace high flush, so he was rubbing it in and being a major jerk. “A gracious winner,” Nan used to say, “never slowrolls.”
“Flush!” Brad yelled, and took a big puff of his cigar as he scraped up the pile of money. The other players groaned and bowed their heads.
ZK anted up, and the next dealer dealt him in. I peeked over at his hand. He was on his way to a high straight, but not by much. He smiled when he noticed I was watching his cards and everyone else’s for that matter. He drew a two of spades and folded after a few minutes. The same guy, Brad, won again with a fist pump, and everyone mumbled under their breath.
Twenty minutes later, these boys were losing huge amounts of money to each other, mostly to Brad, who couldn’t resist declaring that he was on a roll every time he won a hand.
I wished Nan were there. “Nothing is more charming than an elegant lady who plays poker,” she would say, and she should know. Nan could always clean up on “casino night” at Montclair Manor if she wanted. She used to count the cards so that she didn’t win all of the time. I’ve sat with Nan and watched her fold a perfectly good hand to let some other old biddy get the pot.
The deal moved to the next player, who dealt ZK another hand, two down. The cards were lousy—a queen of diamonds and a ten of spades—“rags” Nan used to call them. But when they dealt ZK a card up, it was an ace of spades. Everyone else showed poor cards, except of course Brad. He had an ace of diamonds showing. I knew from playing with Nan that the chances of two aces up were slim and would probably unnerve the other players. But ZK was smart enough to know that he didn’t have much of a hand, so he was ready to fold. But I wanted to see what would happen if everyone thought he had a good hand, just to find out.
“Hold,” I whispered in his ear.
“What? But it’s…”
“Just ante and hold,” I whispered again. He gave me a sly questioning look, but turned to the guy dealing and said he’d hold and anted up. Everyone perked up, especially the big winner, Brad, who also had an ace. I knew he wouldn’t fold as long as he thought he was still on a winning streak.
After a few more cards, ZK’s hand appeared decent if you didn’t know that there wasn’t anything good in the down-turned cards. Because Brad and ZK kept anteing up, the pot grew steadily bigger. Brad was hanging in, even though his table cards were terrible. I couldn’t imagine he had any kind of hand.