Etiquette for the End of the World

chapter Five





When Peter had asked her to meet him at the Waldorf, where he said he was staying, Tess had done a sort of telephonic double take. “You mean the Waldorf Waldorf?” she asked stupidly.

“No, the Howard Johnson Waldorf,” said Peter. “Of course the Waldorf Waldorf. I’m hoping you’ll join me for dinner.”

As she slogged through the pouring rain from Grand Central Station to 49th and Park, Tess prayed that the bottoms of her nice green silk pants were not going to be totally ruined by the time she got there. No doubt they would be clinging unattractively to her legs. Fortunately it was not very cold, even though it was November. If she was more familiar with the Waldorf, she might have been able to locate a ladies’ room that had a hair dryer before meeting Peter. But she had only been inside the place once, in 2006, when Samson-Gold’s Private Wealth Management division had had its holiday party there.

That fateful holiday party. She has been on top of the world that night, having just gotten a big bonus—as well as a much sought-after invite to the party. (As a rule, the writers were not asked to attend.) She had worn a rose-petal-soft, dark red velvet dress that fit her like a glove. It had a boat neck in the front, and a daring V-back. She felt as if she owned New York City, walking past the doormen in tails into the sumptuous art deco lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, past the famous bronze clock. But the real attraction of the night was that Matt Carlson was going to be there.

She had just met Matt the week before at work. He was a new web designer. Writing for Firmwide Marketing at Samson-Gold was incredibly high-stress, and she never felt she knew exactly what the rules were the way she had in book publishing, where everyone had felt like her immediate family. But with Matt she had been instantly sure of her footing. He was definitely interested in her. Earlier that day he had made sure she was coming to the party. “Let’s hang out there together,” he had said. It wasn’t exactly poetic, but it was clear.

The event was held in the spectacular Grand Ballroom, which had been decorated in red velvet ribbons and dozens of huge gold wreaths. There were already a couple of hundred people milling around when Tess arrived. She spotted her boss, Joe, near one of the bars. He greeted her warmly with a “Good work on that piece for SGToday, Tess! You handled that whole MAM hedge fund issue perfectly.”

Joe turned away to greet other people, and just as she was plucking a huge shrimp from the plate of a passing waiter, Tess felt a tentative hand on her arm. There he was, Matt Carlson, fresh-faced and tall, with his perfect short brown hair and his trendy Japanese designer glasses. “Holy wow, you are pretty tonight,” he breathed in her ear. It took him only two more minutes to ask her to come to dinner with him after the party. He had taken her to Tao on 58 Street. In the four and a half years of their ensuing relationship, this would end up being the most expensive and romantic meal they would ever have.

I wonder how is Peter able to afford the Waldorf-Astoria? Tess thought, trudging along Park Avenue in the rain, trying to keep her umbrella right-side out. Was WOOSH paying for it? Maybe she should have asked for an even bigger fee from these people.

The Bull and Bear Restaurant was all dark wood and tan leather, a place where rich tourists came to consume aged beef and single malt scotch and feel privileged. Peter was seated at a corner table, wearing his tuxedo. Tess waved to him and handed her dripping umbrella to the coat-check girl, who was at the ready with a long tube-like plastic bag, with which she immediately sheathed the offending article. Then, feeling a fluttering in her stomach, Tess went over to join Peter.

“Hello, contessa,” he greeted her, getting up from the table. She was taken aback for a split second—her father used to call her that when she was little.

“Hail, maestro,” she said, trying to tease him in return. (But then she thought to herself, maestro? Just because he’s in a tuxedo? How lame is that?) He pulled out her chair and reached an arm around her. His fingers pressed lightly but firmly on the exact mid-point of her spine. Then he bent down and before she even knew what was happening, he kissed her lightly on the side of her neck, sending chills down her. (Uh-oh, she thought.) He gently propelled her into her chair. As always, Tess was amazed by his never-ending smoothness. Peter signaled a waiter, and they ordered two glasses of wine.

Since the premiere, she and Peter had been sending playful emails and texts back and forth (“Dear Tess-Knows-Best, can you help me? I keep thinking about a beautiful new colleague and it is distracting me from my work. Signed PB.” “To PB: I would answer your question but it would distract me from my work. TKB”). But at the moment Tess felt she needed a serious conversation. Harriet had made her more nervous than ever about WOOSH, and when she had told Ginny about what Harriet had said, Ginny insisted Tess ask Peter about it.

“Peter, how long have you worked for Wayne Orbus’s group?” Tess said carefully, while studying the menu.

“Ah … about a year and a half. Why?”

“Do you know a person called Chilam Balam?”

“‘Chilam Balam’?” Peter laughed. “Sounds like an incantation of some kind. Is he a magician?”

Tess giggled in spite of herself. “He’s an artist. But I’m pretty sure it’s not his real name. When I tried to Google him I found out there are some famous Mayan books written by a priest in the seventeenth century with the same name.” She explained to Peter about Mexico and the missing Marge Adams.

Peter assured her he knew nothing about it. “Tess, Wayne Orbus may be eccentric—even deluded—but he’s not dangerous. He’s certainly a control freak, maybe a little power-hungry. But most of the people in WOOSH genuinely believe they are doing humanitarian work. Like building levees when you know a flood is coming, or shelters when tornadoes are predicted. It’s only, in this case, the storm they are preparing for is apocalyptic—and totally imaginary. Now I have a question for you,” said Peter, his smile Cheshire-like.

“What?”

“How is a great woman like you single?” He placed an elbow on the table and rested his exquisite chin on one hand.

Tess laughed and met his gaze. “That’s supposed to be my line to you, isn’t it?”

“Oh, no! Don’t tell me you think I’m a great woman. Darn it, I’ve been getting that all week,” said Peter in mock consternation.

They ordered the porterhouse-for-two and Waldorf salads, and Peter ordered a bottle of wine. She found herself talking to Peter about her relationship with Matt. Maybe it was being back at the Waldorf, where Matt had first asked her out, but Tess felt she had come full circle—had put a punctuation mark onto that sentence of her life. Peter was the exact opposite of Matt, for one thing. Matt was always understated, even-tempered, practical. Peter was electric, entertaining, and had a larger-than-life energy, a little edge of danger.

When the steak came, it was pure ambrosia. It filled Tess’s whole head with pleasure. It tasted like sin. If this evening was a seduction, she had to give Peter an A plus. She could feel herself sliding down a delicious slope toward this man. But she could not get Harriet’s story about Margie’s disappearance out of her mind. Maybe Peter was only pretending to be this rational WOOSH outsider. Ginny was right: Tess should be a little more wary.

“Peter, I was wondering,” Tess ventured. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, but, I mean … I’m finding there really do seem to be a lot of people who believe in 2012. Don’t you think it’s possible? When you Google it, there are, like, one million web sites.”

Peter gave a delighted shout of laughter. “Tess, you should go out fund-raising with me—you would be an enormous help. I am always trying to get people on board with WOOSH by telling them everyone else they know is already on board!” Then he leaned forward and wiggled his eyebrows at her, theatrically. “You’re right, Tess,” he said in a stage whisper, “the world is going to end soon and therefore I think we need to make the most of our remaining time on Earth.” Of course Tess laughed at his inference—but she felt herself blushing.

“Don’t forget, Dakota has put you entirely in my hands,” he went on devilishly, pouring more wine into her glass.

“I believe this could qualify as sexual harassment, sir.” Tess quipped. “Are you not afraid I’ll sue?”

“Sue?” Peter laughed. “Sue?! There won’t be any time to sue! Any lawsuit worth its salt takes at least two years. Just like a divorce.”

Tess was glad he had given her an opening to ask him about his marriage. Peter told her that he had been divorced for three years. But when she pressed him about his ex-wife, his only response was “Not while we’re eating.” (Hmm, Tess thought. Certainly no love lost there. But he had indicated she had “fleeced” him, so who knows? Maybe she deserves it.)

When they were finishing dessert, Peter mentioned oh-so-casually that he had Tess’s contract (not yet signed, just for her to look over) up in his room, and suggested, with a mischievous gleam in his eye, that she come up to retrieve it.

“And I suppose you have etchings, also?” This was admittedly a weak comeback but Tess was nervous. Nervous, but not undecided. Her going up to his room had been a fait accompli since the first course.



Alone with Peter in the gilt and mirrored elevator—the car too brightly lit, even for the tipsy—she started having second thoughts, as she watched the floors flash by. There’s still time to call this off, she said to herself, Just press the down button, say you’ve changed your mind … . But he was nibbling on her ear in a way that Matt never had, and Tess, spellbound by the sight of the back of Peter’s lovely and perfectly coiffed head in the mirror, found herself thinking, uncharacteristically, What the hell? When will I have another chance to have sex with a completely gorgeous man at the Waldorf?

The suite on the eighth floor was opulent, all blue satin and mahogany. It even had a baby grand piano in it. Tess was flabbergasted, but Peter explained that he was getting a “deal” at the hotel because of a WOOSH follower’s being on staff. He took her purse off her shoulder and set it on the desk. There was that amazing hand at the small of her back again, moving her farther into the room.

The king-size bed felt soft and luxurious, and Peter was as charming with his clothes off as he was with them on. He had a lovely jungle of salt and pepper hair on his chest. He unwrapped her as carefully as a ticking bomb, and complimented her regularly during their lovemaking; he whispered things so silly he made her laugh. He told her that her nipples were the doorknobs to a magic castle. He said that her bottom was the eighth wonder of the world. He was so amusing she forgot to feel self-conscious about her body, the way she usually did the first time she had sex with someone. She could not remember the last time she had had so much unadulterated fun. But even while she was laughing, Tess knew somewhere in the back of her mind that this might not be her smartest move ever, romance-wise.

But he was so beautiful, and he made her feel so beautiful … . What was that line from that song she liked from the movie Funny Girl? she thought hazily, as she was drifting off to sleep in the silky sheets, her arm resting across Peter’s hairy chest: “The groom was prettier, than the bride!” Well, if it worked for Barbra Streisand … But just before she dropped off, she remembered that actually it hadn’t worked: Omar Sharif goes to jail at the end.



***



Tess told herself there was no such thing as a “walk of shame” when it was a walk done beneath the glorious crystal chandelier hanging in the lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria. Sure, she had had to put on yesterday’s underwear, and her hair wasn’t washed and she felt a little rocky from too much wine. But she also felt like she had successfully jump-started her life. She stopped in the lobby to send a text to her poker group: Just spent the night with man at the Waldorf. Full details next game. They had always had a strict rule in their game: Must show no “tells,” but must tell all. She received an almost instantaneous reply back from Katie: Can’t wait to hear! You go girl!

It wasn’t until she was out on the chilly gray street (it was much colder than the day before) that the glow faded a little and she started having uneasy thoughts, like the fact that she did not really know much about Peter. Was she acting like a crazy twenty-five-year-old? She couldn’t help wondering if her therapist—who had gone the way of her gym membership, her masseuse, and her housekeeper into the lost land of Things She Could No Longer Afford—would have approved. She was pretty sure Dr. Ellen would not have been crazy about the informal pact Tess had made with Peter this morning, while they were rolling around in the proverbial afterglow, eating chocolate croissants.

Peter had turned his high-beam eyes on her and said, with his hand on her thigh, “Tess, I need you to do something for me.” Tess felt her alert system go on. “I need you to do something for me” was almost as bad as “We need to talk.”

“You got me thinking last night when you mentioned those million web sites. How about you do a little research for me on the side?” He told her he wasn’t getting enough donations from his Hollywood connections, which was why he had been hired. “I have a few dedicated mega-donors, who really believe the Mayan calendar thing, even though I have been told by others that the theory doesn’t really stand up under scrutiny. What I need is more evidence, another kind of proof, to show people that the rainy day they have been saving for is going to be a lot rainier than they thought and is coming a year from now—and I think you are just the one to produce this for me. All you need is to find something spookily real-sounding, and then just exaggerate it a bit. You’re smart, you’re obviously interested in the subject, and you’re motivated.” He bent over, kissing her on the side of her knee. “You kiss my knee, I’ll kiss yours.” He grinned a boyish grin. Peter went on to assure her that no one else at WOOSH would ever know where he got the information. And of course, to show his gratitude, he would be happy to approve her fifty pages, and speed the payment along. “I would have anyhow,” he said, giving her foot a fond squeeze. “I’m sure what you are writing for the guide is great. But you would really be helping me out with this. I don’t have those kind of creative skills myself. And I can’t use anyone at WOOSH. They would think it was sacrilege.”

After a little hesitation, and a little more persuading by Peter (which did include some tickling), Tess had agreed to help him.

As she turned down Vanderbilt Avenue, Tess told herself that even though it would take a little extra time, she would enjoy the research; she had actually become intrigued with the whole subject. And who would it hurt? Not anyone at WOOSH. It was not as if she was out to prove 2012 wasn’t happening (which admittedly would be a lot easier). And any rich Hollywood people who were dumb enough to fall for such insanity were not her lookout. It really wasn’t a big deal to give Peter some background material, punched up a bit. People did not have to believe it, after all. What made her vaguely uncomfortable was that this was not entirely unlike the kind of justification she had used when she used to write PR puff pieces for Samson-Gold.

As she was pulling open the heavy door to Grand Central, Tess suddenly remembered something else that bothered her, something she had stored away in her brain and then forgotten. Early this morning when Peter was in the shower, Tess had noticed the sun streaming into the room, spotlighting his jacket, revealing a row of tiny little stitches on the left lapel. On close inspection they were very neat stitches; the mended area was about an inch long. That struck her as weird, for such a well-dressed man. Everything else about him was so impeccable. Now she waved the thought away from her mind. Talk about nit-picking.

Especially when the thing that was really starting to haunt her was a feeling that she was not sure she would be able to shake: the feeling that she was—albeit with great charm, subtlety, and finesse—being blackmailed.