CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I arrive at the office early on Monday morning and push through a pile of new paperwork to regain my grasp on reality.
Responsible me. Careful me. Dotting-I’s-and-crossing-T’s me.
That kind of Beryl wouldn’t be stupid enough to jump into a stranger’s car. I berate myself for the millionth time for letting the night with Peter unfold the way it did.
Then again, that Beryl also wouldn’t have dared to have cybersex with a rock star. Did that seriously happen? I must have replayed our sexting a million times over in my head yesterday.
I follow up on an email from new clients Phillip and Rebecca James. They’re both trial attorneys and away in different cities to try cases for a few weeks at least. Their address is a Trump property I’ve walked by several times with Jasper and I’m looking forward to scoping out what’s behind its smoked-glass doors.
Dan hasn’t arrived at the office yet but I decide to head out, leaving him a note about the new client.
I notice a peculiar thing about the sidewalk as I approach the Trump apartment tower’s doors—while most New York sidewalks are pockmarked with gum and debris, this sidewalk glows pale gray, as if it is pressure-washed every evening.
It probably is.
I do the ritual identification process with the doorman, which is complicated by the fact that Peter has my driver’s license. Instead, I show the guard my old student ID and the emergency credit card that wasn’t in my clutch Saturday night.
After inspecting these carefully, the guard finally nods and tucks my business card into a binder.
“I’ll keep this in case another resident needs a referral,” he says, and I thank him, making a mental note to get more cards in the hands of doormen. Referral genius! I hope Dan will be proud.
The lobby is ridiculously overdone with vast slabs of pink marble on floors and walls. The elevators are obsessively polished, not a fingerprint to be found on any brass or mirrored surface.
Which is practically everything.
I watch the buttons light in turn on my way to an upper floor—not the penthouse, but better than halfway to the top. The Jameses will have to climb another twenty stories to truly keep up with the Joneses.
I’d thought I was getting inured to flagrant displays of wealth, but the Jameses prove me wrong—their apartment is a treasure trove of gaudy ostentation.
Everything’s big—a larger-than-life dining room table that seats twelve, its surface polished to a mirror shine. A massive sectional in the living room could host a dozen of my friends for movie night. A folding oriental screen partially hides a television so big it probably required a special freight elevator to move it in.
The walls are covered with art and artifacts, modern and traditional. It seems like Phillip and Rebecca whip out their credit cards whenever the mood strikes.
I look at my list—collect mail, feed and water plants, swap out their DVR for a new one with the cable company, put away deliveries, and organize the baby’s room.
I wonder which of them is traveling with the baby and whether they have a nanny.
The plants are tucked throughout the house on virtually every flat surface, including rock gardens, succulent wreaths, African violets and trailing plants that hang down from the tops of high bookcases.
I get a footstool from the kitchen to reach the plants on the bookcase and glance at the James’s reading material.
Bestsellers. Crime thrillers. Legal reference books. And scads and scads of parenting manuals.
From What to Expect When You’re Expecting to Jenny McCarthy’s Belly Laughs, from hefty manuals on breastfeeding to The No-Cry Sleep Solution, it looks like they’ve got enough reading material to navigate every second of Junior’s first few years.
I’m no stranger to over-analyzing how to parent—my mom put me through the wringer with each counseling class she took. But at some point, I think you’ve just got to put down the instruction manual and try it.
At that thought, I snort. I’m the pot calling the kettle black.
Most of my life has been spent reading the instructions and the safety warnings and the fine print—all of it before I dared to do something.
Before I came to New York, I was stuck perpetually on ready, aim. Then I tried to pull the trigger, to be spontaneous with Peter, and look where I got with fire: burned.
I find the DVR in a cabinet and before I disconnect it for a trip to the cable company, I flip on the television and scroll through their shows.
Extra mile, as Dan says. I’ll figure out what they like to record and reprogram everything on their new DVR. I pull a notepad out of my purse and start jotting down titles.
Jersey Shore. Real Housewives. The Bachelor. Storage Wars.
What the heck?
It gets worse: Reruns from The Girls Next Door and Fear Factor. I’m appalled by their awful taste. Could reality TV get any more mindless? Suddenly, I feel a little bit superior to two highly educated attorneys.
I scroll through recorded shows and find some hilariously crappy porn. It was recorded free off Skinimax and features a silicone-enhanced Barbie and a dude in need of serious manscaping. Yuck.
I glance at the art on their walls, expecting it to morph into dogs playing poker. Maybe their fridge is stocked with Coors.
I check.
Close. Budweiser. And their pantry has pork rinds and every kind of processed food your Home Ec teacher warned you about. Even Easy Cheese.
Really.
OK, so these people aren’t the pillars of good taste and refinement. To each their own. I’ve still got to sort out the baby’s room, but I decide to leave that for another day and I head back to the office.
When I finally see Dan, his expression is stern.
“You’re in a heap of trouble, young lady.” Dan chides me. “I thought you were going to text me to say you made it home safely on Saturday?”
“I lost my phone.” The memory of Saturday night hits me again and my face crumples. Dan’s posture changes instantly, concern replacing rebuke.
“It’s not the end of the world,” Dan says. “I’ll bet you wanted an excuse to upgrade, right?”
His cheerfulness buoys my mood, but I can’t bring myself to tell him how I lost my phone.
“Thanks for taking me to the charity gala,” I say, working out how to ask Dan for details about Peter. “I gave out a ton of cards, but I didn’t collect that many. How do I follow up with people?”
“You don’t need to,” Dan says. “I told you, it’s a soft sell. When they need something, they’ll call us.”
His wait-and-see attitude might work for business, but I’m running around New York City with only my emergency credit card.
Then Dan drops a clue without realizing it. “You should check out the photos in the Post today, there’s a great one of you dancing.”
I find the picture online, Peter and I looking more than friendly as we dance. Unfortunately, the caption gives me nothing more than the name of the charity, venue and date.
I screen-capture the image but it’s not good enough. I want Peter’s last name so I can find that bastard and get my stuff back. Shelling out for a new phone and ID would be hell on my bank account.
Then I remember his mother, the statuesque redhead whom he said was on all the boards.
I open the Manhattan Children’s Literacy website and scroll through a tab that lists the board of directors—virtually all of them are women and every one looks astoundingly beautiful in her headshot. Peter’s mom is there: Veronica Fischer.
I Google Peter Fischer and get nothing. Then I remember dancing with his stepfather and retrace my steps, Googling Veronica Fischer and finding several entries for Veronica Todd Fischer. Pre-2002, she’s just Veronica Todd.
Guess what this Nancy Drew gets when she Googles Peter Todd? Oh, hell yes.
Got him.