CHAPTER TEN
It’s late when I take Jasper downstairs for a quick pee. Charles trades him a bite of cheese for a hand-to-paw high five.
I realize that I’ve got to figure out where I’m sleeping and if any of the bathrooms are sanitary enough for a shower tomorrow morning. I don’t want a repeat of the frigid, dripping shower from this morning’s hotel room.
Back in the apartment, I explore beyond the living room and Jasper follows me, his toenails clicking on the hardwood. A massive granite island lit by pendant lights strung from the ceiling divides the living room and kitchen.
Under the grime, the kitchen is beautiful—it has a huge, glass-door Subzero fridge, a deep double sink facing the terrace and view, and a six-burner stove with a grill top.
But the abundance of takeout cartons, which I still haven’t eliminated entirely from the apartment, suggests that not much cooking is done here.
I turn a corner and discover an office dominated by an old wooden desk with papers strewn everywhere, so thick I can’t see the floor. I leave the glass French doors to that room closed and move on.
I find a small powder room next, with some kind of sludge filling part of the sink bowl. I’m getting good at suppressing my gag reflex, so I hit the drain lever and as it glug-glug-glugs down the sink I note that the toilet paper roll has just a scrap clinging to it. Mental note to buy more.
Jasper runs ahead of me as we climb a steep, spiral metal staircase to the upper loft of the apartment, which is open to the living room below. Through floor-to-ceiling windows, the city lights are breathtaking—New York shimmers like a jewel with a million facets.
I catch my breath and stare, feeling for the first time like I’m really part of New York. I’m doing this!
But my sense of elation is extinguished when I turn my back on the lights and focus on Gavin’s master suite, which is worse than the living room was. Here’s where much of the stink starts, and I get wafts of mildew and sweaty laundry and I really don’t want to know what that yellowish-brown stain is on the rug next to his bed.
Now I’m doubly thankful I booked the carpet- and upholstery-cleaning package.
Jasper, on the other hand, is unperturbed by the mess and settles into his familiar bagel shape in the middle of Gavin’s gray striped comforter. I right one bedside lamp that’s tipped over and leave the other broken one on the floor.
I take a peek in the master bathroom—beautiful and filthy, as expected—and walk to the opposite end of the loft and down the other spiral staircase.
I work my way through the rest of the apartment, finding a dining room, two more bedrooms with their own bathrooms, a room covered in acoustic foam with instruments and some sound equipment, and a dark theater room. I marvel at how one person can live so large, yet with so little regard for all of it. Either that, or Gavin Slater went on a serious bender.
I choose the cleaner of the two bedrooms; it’s tucked on the opposite side of the loft from Gavin’s bedroom, away from the worst of his destruction. I haul That Bitch into the room, hesitate, and then decide to unpack. I’m house sitting, after all—I should make myself comfortable.
Jasper perches on my bed, undeterred by my disapproving look, and watches me unpack. I yank open a mahogany dresser’s drawer and my brows lift with surprise: it’s full of clothes.
I pull open the rest of the drawers and every one is filled with women’s clothes, some of them dusty with disuse. I find beautiful cashmere, custom-cut denim and frilly lingerie. I feel envy stab my gut; the only time I could afford cashmere and designer jeans was when my mom and I found them on our frequent scavenger hunts at Goodwill.
Don’t get me wrong. I’d much rather pay seven bucks than three hundred for a sweater, but when I see price tags on a good chunk of the clothing, it feels like that much more of a waste.
Why is Gavin Slater wasting his life?
I pile the mystery woman’s clothes on the bed in the other bedroom, then fill the drawers in my room with my stuff.
The wine and last night’s fitful sleep finally hit me and I dump myself into the bed. Jasper curls his little dog-bagel body behind my knees and we sleep.
***
My phone chirps me awake the next morning and I’m thoroughly disoriented—never have I slept better, sinking deep into a plush mattress, wrapped in silky sheets and a lighter-than-air down comforter. I may never leave this bed.
I put it off a few minutes by scrolling through my phone’s alerts.
Shit. I forgot to call Stella. She sent me two more messages last night after I fell asleep—more apologies, and she begged for a chance to see me tonight. I text her back and tell her to name the place.
On Facebook, I feel a stab of envy—Jeff hasn’t bothered to de-friend me since our breakup, and one of his roommates tagged him in a picture from their weekend at the lake, hot girls in tow.
I’d like to post a comment that I am currently sleeping in a sexy rock star’s bed, but I take the high road and resist. Instead, I change my profile picture to a shot of Jasper, curled up and sleeping.
My heart beats faster when I see an email from [email protected]
Photos weren’t necessary. I knew the place was a shit pile when I left. Do me a favor and delete the pix. I don’t need more negative press right now.
Not sure when I’ll be back in New York. Is Jasper OK? He’s a good dog. Neurotic, but good. It was a mistake to get him. I thought it would help.
Heading to Nairobi. Internet service is spotty. Have Barry get rid of all of the clothes in the guest room and don’t let the cleaners touch my office. I’ll send more instructions to him later.
—Gav
I harrumph, annoyed Gavin thinks I’m a dude. Jasper perks up his ears. Gavin’s letter is full of little short sentences but it doesn’t appease me. If anything, it makes what’s going on even more of a mystery.
Why would he trash his own place? And why would he tell me (or at least my male alter-ego, Barry) to get rid of all of the beautiful clothes? They must be worth thousands.
I pull on yoga pants, a jog bra, and a T-shirt, then grab Jasper’s leash. We descend the elevator and cross Central Park West to lose ourselves inside the park.
After seeing practically every other dog off-leash, I let Jasper go, too. I alternately walk and jog while Jasper trots beside me, occasionally veering off the gravelly bridle trail to inspect the bushes. We cross under arched stone tunnels and then turn at the northwestern tip of the lake into a lumpy, verdant spiderweb of pathways called The Ramble.
Even though I can still hear the traffic from Seventy-Second and Central Park West, and even though I can hear a traffic helicopter circle overhead, I still feel like I’ve slipped out of New York City for a slice of life back home.
The greenest thing on Seventy-Second is Gavin’s building’s awning—there’s not a tree in sight. I can’t imagine how barren New York would be without Central Park.
My hometown is insanely green—trees everywhere you look. When I tell people I’m from Oregon, they immediately think of rain, but that’s what makes it lush almost year-round. Trees in my neighborhood are a lot taller than The Ramble and tend to be evergreens, but I breathe in the fragrance of earth and leaves anyway.
Do your worst, Gavin Slater. You can dish it out and I can take it.
If I can just harden up my gag reflex.
Then it hits me—this could actually be a great gig! I was skeptical at first, but Dan’s idea to expand his business makes sense. I can take care of short-term vacationers while Dan handles long-term folks who only live in New York seasonally.
There’s no way every rich person in New York City is as gross as Gavin.
I can walk dogs, do errands, take deliveries and get owners organized. I can be the ghost, the house-elf, the helper who makes everything just so, welcoming the very wealthy back to homes in perfect order.
I round the southeast corner of the lake, accelerating my pace to jog Jasper back to the west side of the park. I hitch him to his leash before we cross Central Park West that’s swelling with cars in the morning rush.
I shower, change and let in the cleaning crew, right on time at 9 a.m. I show the three uniformed women around and feel like a jerk as I point and nod—I should have taken Spanish as my language elective, not German.
Satisfied that they get the gist of what I need, I make a move to leave and the eldest woman comes at me, gesturing wildly.
“No se puede dejar al perro aquí mientras limpiamos! Dará más trabajo! Más lío!” The leader of the cleaning crew is pointing to Jasper.
“I’m sorry. Yo no habla Español,” I confess, feeling stupid.
“You can’t have dog here,” the woman repeats. “No dog. Or no clean.”
Jasper looks and me and yodels. “Baroo!”
I sigh. “I guess it’s take-your-puppy-to-work day, Jas. Just don’t get me in trouble.” I hitch him back up and throw my heels in my purse; even in flats, the twenty-block walk to Midtown is going to take quite a while. I didn’t need a jog this morning after all.
I text Dan that I’m on my way and jump on the elevator.