"She had their word," Chester was saying. "No, that's unacceptable… Her Ladyship – I beg your pardon?"
I sat up and swung my legs out of the bed, and Chester noticed me moving. She shot me a quick and apologetic smile before turning her chair to avoid my near-nakedness. I'd slept in my undershorts, and while she continued her conversation I pulled on my pants from the previous night and got my shirt on and half buttoned. The conversation had turned, was growing heated, and now, with me awake, Chester no longer felt a need to maintain restraint.
"They bloody well did promise," she snapped into the phone. "Now… no, listen to me, please. I am not threatening you. But you would be well advised to tell Orin and his brother that I'm not the woman they have to worry about."
She slammed down the phone as if squashing a very large, very ugly bug.
"Who are Orin and his brother?" I asked.
"Musicians. Rock stars. Imbeciles."
"Is this something I should worry about?"
"I don't think so." Chester rose and smoothed her skirt, which was navy blue, then headed for Lady Ainsley-Hunter's room. As she passed me, she said, "Very sorry I disturbed you."
"I had to get up in another hour or two," I said.
She might've smirked, but I didn't see it, because by then she was tapping on Ainsley-Hunter's door. She waited a moment, then slipped inside, so I set about stowing the bed back into the sofa and replacing the cushions, then searched around for the room-service menu. I ordered up two pots of coffee, two of hot water for tea, and some orange juice. Then I took my overnight bag into the bathroom and got myself sorted for the day.
When I emerged again, Chester was back at the desk, working at the laptop, and Lady Ainsley-Hunter was standing beside her, speaking on the telephone. Unlike her personal assistant, Her Ladyship apparently hadn't been awake for very long; her hair was still mussed from her sleep, and she was wearing one of the terrycloth hotel robes. The emblem of the Edmonton was stitched in gold thread over her heart. She glanced over at me as I dropped my bag by the sofa, and her expression was different from any of the others I'd seen her wear.
She was pissed.
There was a knock at the door, and I answered it and wheeled in the room-service cart, then threw all the locks once more and fixed myself a cup of coffee. Lady Ainsley-Hunter got off the phone. Chester and I both looked at her, me for an explanation of what had them in a dither, Chester most likely awaiting orders.
Her Ladyship ignored both of us for most of a minute, staring at the edge of the desk, apparently deep in thought.
"What was scheduled for this evening?" she finally asked Chester. She sounded only mildly curious.
"You're lecturing at Sarah Lawrence," I said. Both of the women looked at me with mild surprise. "It's Natalie's alma mater, that's why I remember."
"Cancel," Lady Ainsley-Hunter told Chester. "Then find out where the party is and make damn sure we're invited."
Chester nodded and picked up the phone. Her Ladyship started back to her room.
"Wait a second," I said. "What's going on? Why the change in plans?"
She stopped and gave me a look that was as surprising as her earlier anger had been. For a moment I thought she was going to demand who I thought I was, asking her such questions. Then she seemed to remember that was what I'd been hired to do.
"You know Rorschach Test?" she asked. "The band, not the psychological exam."
"I've heard of them," I said. Erika had played me one of their albums, a synthesis of acoustic rock with electronic music, before moving out for school. She'd thought it was good. I'd thought it sounded confused and self-important.
"We're going to the launch party for their new album."
"You're canceling a lecture at a liberal arts college to attend a launch party?"
"They're one of Robert's favorite bands. He'll enjoy it."
I frowned and started to ask the logical next question, but she cut me off.
"You'll excuse me, I'm going to get dressed."
She returned to her room.
At the desk, Chester shot me a look that I couldn't begin to interpret.
The party was held at a club called Lot 61, in the meatpacking district, and not more than a stone's throw from the bondage club I'd bounced at a couple years back. Lot 61 is the kind of club I make a point of avoiding, and usually that's not a problem, because it's also the kind of club that never lets people like me inside. Whatever fame I and my colleagues have, it doesn't even begin to register on the management's radar.
Lady Ainsley-Hunter was another matter entirely.
The party started at eight, but we didn't arrive until almost eleven, because Her Ladyship said she wanted to wait until the press was all present. It made me wonder why she'd canceled the Sarah Lawrence expedition, but I didn't ask her, and the only explanation I could come up with was that she had, indeed, been pissed, and consequently not thinking very clearly. But whatever that anger was, it had passed early in the day; there'd been no sign of it since I'd caught her on the phone that morning.
Dale dropped us off in front of the club where a gaggle of poseurs and poseurs-in-fraining stood waiting behind the velvet ropes. Because he was driving the Benz, which wasn't a limo, nobody paid us much attention, at least not when Moore got out of the car, taking the lead. When Lady Ainsley-Hunter emerged a buzz started, and it continued as I followed her and Moore to the front door. The bouncer – who was probably more of a male model than a security guard – didn't even bother to check his clipboard before ushering us inside, and I barely had time to tell him that there were four more in our party before we got swamped by the wave of music that sprayed from the open doors.
Moore led us through the crush to a bar area, decorated with seventies furniture and an enormous fireplace. People were writhing against one another on the dance floor, and the noise was tremendous, and I spotted security – both plainclothes and uniformed – scattered around the main room.
Lady Ainsley-Hunter got herself a flute of champagne from a passing fray and turned on a radiant smile, scanning the crowd. I glanced at Moore and he just shrugged; if he had a better idea why we were there than I, he'd been doing a fine job hiding it. Certainly, he didn't seem displeased at the chance to meet the members of Rorschach Test.
It took less than a minute for the first reporter to find us, a young black man with dreadlocks who wrote for Spin. Her Ladyship greeted him like an old friend, made introductions, and then the two of them bent their heads together and shared a shouted conversation at the bar. While they were talking, I saw Natalie enter with Chester, Corry, and Dale following.
"Where the hell are you?" she radioed.
I tabbed the button resting in my palm. "At the bar."
She and Chester were stopped twice before they reached us, each time by men wearing the latest styles, and though I couldn't hear a thing, it was clear they were being invited to dance. Nobody paid Corry and Dale any mind, except to sneer at their fashion sense as they went past.
Her Ladyship and the reporter from Spin talked for several minutes longer, and when they were finished she gave him a kiss on the cheek. He shot a couple grins back her way as he returned to his table closer to the fireplace.
"Lovely man." She was shouting in my ear, and it was still difficult to hear her. "James Rich, he did a piece on Together Now last year. The week after it came out, our membership in the U.S. bumped almost eight percent."