Cat felt like an idiot.
An awkward silence filled the car. Cat punctured it by opening the window and lighting a fresh cigarette without asking. Hutton, after a beat, motioned to indicate that she should hand him one, too. She lit one and passed it over, their fingers remaining chastely distant as he opened his window. He cut through SoHo and cruised straight over the Williamsburg Bridge onto Broadway, weaving through the heavy traffic easily, never swearing or seeming even remotely flustered. He briefly took a phone call, but the only things he said in reply were “Yes” and “That’s fine.”
“How long am I supposed to sit in my apartment?” she finally asked.
“Just a few hours.” He gave her a forced smile; though it was meant to be reassuring, she sneered in reply.
At eleven o’clock Bess was sitting in her cubicle, idly rubbing the bright-red-ink penis stamp off the top of her hand and clicking through the badge board for Judy and the Technicolor Housecoat, when Constance Onderveet’s face rose above the black plastic wall like a solar eclipse.
“Bess!” Constance barked. Bess jumped in her chair.
“How are you, Constance?” she replied steadily.
“Where’s Cat?”
“She’s at a personal appointment,” Lou explained, walking out of her office with perfect timing and a huge monogrammed Goyard weekend bag. “Approved by me. But! It’s a summer Friday, Coco. No one’s doing anything! I’m catching a seaplane with Bitsy and Margarita from the East River in half an hour.”
“No one but me.” Constance half scowled at her friend. “I’ve got proofs to approve and freelancers to whip. Even Stephen went up early to go fishing.”
Lou leaned in and left a big wet kiss on her cheek. “Well, I hope you make it tonight. Crumb and Cosmo got the whole Point and all the cabins across the lake, and they hired a gondolier collective from Gowanus to ferry us back and forth. It’ll be marvelous.”
Bess assumed they were talking about the weekend-long Adirondack nuptials of Cressida (Crumb) Popplewell and Cassiopeia (Cosmo) Groggin-Butz. Cosmo, a long-list potential heiress to the British monarchy who’d spent the last two years in New York giving away her first husband’s frozen orange juice fortune to every cultural institution with a checking account, was on the outskirts of a social circle that RAGE’s former and current senior staff members seemed to dominate—a circle that had once included Hillary—and she appeared to be buying her way in with no trouble at all. Bess, too junior for membership, was usually included in these discussions only when they needed something from her, like logistical help or gossip. Lou hoisted her bag to leave, but not before Constance turned her glare back to Bess.
“Is Ella going?” Constance demanded. Bess’s older sister Ella had been in the same class as Hillary at Miss Sawyer’s, and though she was a serious person with a serious job—she had a law degree, but worked as a film and television agent—Ella had a reputation for consuming champagne like a Ukrainian teenager. Bess suspected that Constance was concerned she’d find her husband, Stephen, in the bushes with Ella, an annual ritual since they’d clerked together for Ginsburg. Hopefully, this time he wouldn’t also be consuming Veuve Clicquot anally.
“I’m afraid so,” Bess warned her. “Keep all lighters and matches out of reach, and make sure someone puts a life jacket on her. Last time we talked, she said it’s been an extra-stressful summer, so I imagine she’s due for a real rager. Have the gondoliers sign something.”
Lou laughed. “This is going to be the best wedding of the whole year,” she announced. Constance’s face puckered.
“Is there another seat on your flight?” she asked Lou, who nodded. “I’ll just grab my purse.” Constance bolted back to her office.
“Thanks for all your help earlier,” Lou said to Bess. “Someday I’ll get this whole CoopDoc thing figured out! And the chat. I’m dying to understand the chat bit.”
“No problem,” Bess said, “but remember to change your password!”
Constance came running back with a matching prepacked Goyard duffel and a strained look on her face. Bess suspected that Stephen’s so-called fishing trip consisted of just him and Ella.
“I’m so glad you can make it, Coco,” Lou said to her nicely. “We’ll have the best time. And Boots,” she said to Bess, winking, “if you’re as trousered as your sister this weekend, I hope you have twice as much fun.”
“Not possible.” Bess laughed. Constance and Lou headed for the elevators. Five minutes later, Bess saved her documents, closed up her computer, dismissed Molly, grabbed her bike helmet, and headed for Brooklyn.
As he drove through Bushwick, Hutton watched Cat’s floaty purple dress ride up, exposing the full length of her bare legs. She didn’t tug it down but instead smoked nervously out the window, her orange-tipped fingers twirling her hair when they weren’t tapping the ash off her cigarette. When they got to her block, he pulled over and parked in front of the nearest hydrant, throwing a dog-eared NYPD parking pass onto the dashboard. Cat hopped out of the car the moment it stopped and marched toward her building, the dress hovering around her, the morning sun lighting up the veins in her otherworldly skin, her hair shaking in a glossy curtain across the bones of her back. Hutton locked the car and chased after her, but she ignored him completely, pulling open the building’s graffitied metal door and taking the stairs two at a time until she reached the hallway and unlocked her apartment door with two separate keys. Hutton caught up as it was closing, grabbed the top of the door and held it open before she could yank it shut. He felt his phone ring in his pocket and declined the call without looking at the screen.
“Can I come in?” he asked.
She shrugged, pulled herself up to sit on her kitchen countertop, a cold-looking polished concrete, and poured herself a glass of water from the sink. Hutton took this as a yes.
“It’s not that big a deal,” he assured her, closing the door, turning the dead bolts, and setting his keys and phone on the coffee table before taking a seat on her sofa. “You don’t have to freak out.”
Cat stared at him but didn’t speak. He watched the skin on her legs turn to goose bumps.
“You did the right thing,” he tried.