“No.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “What do you mean?”
“If you’re hoping for another fuck—you know, one for the road—it won’t happen.”
“I wasn’t hoping—”
“For you,” she says, “this was always just about sex. I get it. I don’t blame you. Well, I do, but not for that.”
“You blame me for the way I treated you yesterday.”
“Yes, I do.”
“And so you should,” I say. “It was shabby, even for a loser like me.”
My self-characterization gives her a start. “You’re many things, not all of them palatable, but you’re hardly a loser.”
“My dear, you’re looking at the ultimate loser.”
She leans back and folds her arms over her chest. “OK, explain.”
And I do. Obviously, I redact the sensitive details, but I convey to her the gist of my big fail. I was after an antique key that I believed Giselle Fisher had in her possession. Getting my hands on it meant the world to me. It was the single most important mission of my entire life. But a rival collector broke into her museum last night and stole the key from under my nose.
As I relate my tale, an incomprehensible relief washes over me. I realize why I came here. It wasn’t for sex, or to see her face one last time. If those motives were present, they were secondary. I came here to talk to Margot, to confide my distress, to seek solace.
What a strange, novel urge!
But instead of a sympathetic pat, I get a narrow look. “Is that why you flirted with Giselle yesterday? To get to her key?”
“Yes.”
“Itiskind of low.”
“I’m not denying it.”
She looks me up and down. “Now I see why you described yourself as a loser.”
So much for solace…
“What was so special about that key?” she asks. “Precious stones? Gold? Unique craftsmanship?”
“None of the above. Its value lay in its story, in the history associated with it.”
But, mostly, in its potential to get us a step closer to opening that damn vault.
“History, huh?” Margot says. And then she bursts out laughing.
I watch her, mystified, until she wipes her eyes. “Fate can be so fucking ironic sometimes!”
“How do you mean?”
“If you’d stuck with me instead of banking on Giselle, you would’ve found a key exactly like that. No need to sell your soul or behave like a dick.”
I stare at her, confused.
“Now, it’s possible that Giselle’s key has a better story than mine,” Margot says. “But mine is pretty cool, too.”
Oh, I see.Margot owns an antique key with an interesting history. Seeing as I have an entire evening to kill, I’d rather spend it with Margot, listening to her.
