If You Only Knew

He also left me three voice mails, which I’d only listened to after the texts.

He’s contrite in every one.

You have to believe me, Rachel, she just threw herself at me. She doesn’t want it to be over, but it is. I know how bad it looked, but that was a kiss goodbye.

Rachel, God, I’m so sorry for what I said. I love you, I love you so much, please call me.

And the one that got me the most:

Rachel—a long silence, and then his voice is husky. I’ll do anything to make this better.

Well. I can think about that later.

I open my closet and take out a couple of dresses. Jenny will be sending me some restaurant recommendations later on. My nicest pajamas, the pink-and-white-striped silk pair that Adam gave me for Mother’s Day last year. Black trousers and a white blouse, because Jenny says you can’t go wrong if you have the right white blouse, and this one is a gift from her—crisp and sleek and something I’ve only worn once. The red suede booties with metallic heels.

I shower and blow my hair dry and put on makeup with more care than usual. Instead of my usual “just a little blush and mascara” mommy look, I go all out. Cat’s eyes. Foundation. Lipstick.

When I get dressed and look at myself in the mirror, I look like another person, almost.

How strange that feels. Strange, and a little exciting.

An hour and a half later, the concierge of the Tribeca Grand, Sylvia, practically leaps when I give my name at the check-in counter.

“Ms. Carver! We’ve been so looking forward to having you!”

Sylvia is the woman who’s taken so many calls from me in the past. And yes, she is Swiss, believe it or not.

She gestures to a bellboy, who takes my suitcase. I’ve also brought my laptop and three books. “I hope your stay here will be everything you hoped,” she says. “Please don’t hesitate to contact me personally if there’s anything at all you need.”

“I appreciate that,” I say. My voice is low and pleasant. I wonder who she thinks I am. An actress, maybe, someone she can’t quite place? Yeah, right. Maybe a screenwriter or producer. An important novelist who needs to be alone with her craft. An executive. A famous lawyer who does guest stints on CNN.

Probably not a housewife with a cheating husband, pretending to be someone else.

We ride up in the elevator, and my heart is pounding. And yet my reflection shows a calm, attractive woman who is slim and tall—thanks to the booties—whose bag is expensive but understated.

No one would guess that I found a clot of dried hamburger in my bra when I got undressed this morning.

“And here we are,” Sylvia says, waving her key at the keypad. She opens the door.

It’s so... It’s beautiful. The word doesn’t do it justice. Even though I’ve seen it a dozen times in pictures, the penthouse is breathtaking. It’s sophisticated and warm and quietly cheerful. Unusual lamps, interesting coffee tables and huge windows overlooking the jewel of lower Manhattan.

“Allow me to show you the amenities,” Sylvia says, and proceeds to do just that. There are fresh flowers—last night at 3:43 a.m., the person who took my call had asked what my favorite flowers were. I said peonies, and there are no fewer than five flower arrangements throughout the suite, all featuring peonies with twigs of curling cherry branch. The curving brown leather couch would seat ten. There’s an entire bar. Another sitting area. The bedroom is immaculate, the bed so perfectly made that I don’t want to even set my purse on it.

And then there’s the staircase to the rooftop deck. Up we go, and it’s all I can do not to giggle. The deck features lounge chairs and couches and potted palms and the view, that heartbreaking vista of lower Manhattan, Liberty Tower gleaming in the sunshine. Just across the way is a town house, and I can see into the windows of the top-floor apartment. Are they looking back at me? Wondering who that lucky, fabulous woman is? Is that the woman who won the Academy Award last year? No? Are you sure?

Sylvia encourages me once again not to hesitate to contact her if there’s anything I need, then leaves.

When I worked for Celery Stalk, I traveled a bit. Our company always booked with the Westin, hotels that were perfectly nice and extremely comfortable. Once a year, we’d all go to an educational software conference, and Adele would book a suite for herself (she founded the company, after all). She’d invite us all up for drinks, and lordy, it was fun! I loved those hotels, loved watching TV in bed, which was a luxury I never had unless I was on a business trip. I remember thinking about how amazing Adele’s suite was, how much she deserved it and how I’d probably never stay in such a nice place.

But this... This is amazing.

I reach for my phone to call Adam to tell him about the hotel, the flowers, the bar, and then remember.

So, not Adam.

Well, Jenny, then.

“Hey!” she says. “So?”

“It’s amazing. I love it. Jenny, I wish you could come down!”

“No, no. You need the time alone. Just forget your troubles. The girls are being angels—” I hear a crash and a scream “—except Rose, but don’t worry, I can handle her. I’m having so much fun! I love them so much! God, I should’ve sent you away years ago so I could pretend they were mine. You don’t mind if I tell people they are, right?”

I smile. My sister knows just what to say.

I promise her I won’t hide in the hotel, and yes, I will stay until checkout on Tuesday. I promise to indulge myself. “You can call Donna if things get hairy,” I tell her. “Or if you need to go into the shop. You have her number, right?”