The entrance is cordoned off and two hugesecurity guards are standing behind the red velvet ropes. We showour invitations to the guards, and one of them unhooks the rope tolet us pass, and says, “You have to check in at reception whenyou’re inside.”
Reception is a huge curved indigo-veinedwhite marble desk. The woman behind the desk is a work of art allby herself. Deborah Harry-esque white-blonde hair in a classicblunt cut, her bright blue eyes are rimmed in thick kohl. That’sit. No other makeup. Not that she needs it. She has a narrow facewith a high forehead, sharp cheekbones, and full wide lips coveredin nude lipstick. She’s wearing a one-piece body-clinging whitejumpsuit, with a thick silver zipper that goes from her crotch toher chin.
We hand her our invitations, and in a deep,silky voice she says, “Names please.” We oblige and she taps heriPad, scrolling through a long list. “Which one of you isTheresa?”
“Me,” I say.
She hands an envelope to me, then, like aballerina, her arm drifts out to her side to indicate we can go in.“Enjoy the show,” she purrs.
As we walk around the black matte false wallI’m guessing is there to keep the paps’ flashes from interruptingthe show, Baz says, “That alone was worth the trip.”
Laura looks up at him and grins. Then sheturns to me. “What’s with the envelope?”
“I have no idea, but after we hand over ourcoats,” I tilt my head toward the cloakroom on the left, “I’ll letyou know.”
As the incredibly beautiful young man in allblack takes our coats, and as we wait to get our little tags, Iturn to face the gallery. The hum of hundreds of conversationswarms an otherwise stark white room with forty-foot ceilings. Whatwould be a cavernous space is filled with people standing aroundtwenty-five larger than life-size sculptures of couples, alwayscouples, that’s Andie’s thing and signature. Each couple, some twomales, some two females, some male and female, are in variousstates of undressing, and all are kissing, but not necessarily onthe mouth. Somehow, she’s able to capture the beauty of emotion instone, and that’s where her talent lies – the sculptures look likereal people frozen in time.
Barely visible through the crush is a longwhite linen-covered table filled with food flanked by bars oneither side. Baz says, “I’m headed that way.” He indicates a bar,then slips the young man some money as he hands over our tags.
I ask him, “Where’s the ladies’ room?” and hepoints to a small hallway around the corner from the cloakroom. Isay, “Thanks,” then tell Laura and Baz, “Go. Drink. Mingle. I’llfind you.”
They nod and head into the fray as I make myway to a quiet space to see what’s in the mysterious envelope.
The bathroom is all cement except the stalldoors, the toilets, and the faucets over the trough-like sink thatruns under the sink-to-ceiling wall-to-wall mirror.
There are a couple of stunning women who looklike models standing by the padded cement bench, but this is NewYork, so who knows if they’re models or stockbrokers. I don’t wantto intrude on their conversation, and stand next to the sink withmy clutch tucked under my arm. The envelope feels like it has acredit card in it and a piece of paper. I tear open the side of theenvelope and a hotel room cardkey drops into my hand. On its faceis a picture of a sofa and seating arrangement in what looks like ahotel lobby, and the name of the hotel is written across the top,and the address and phone number is written across the bottom.
Way weird, and this is giving me theheebie-jeebies. I don’t know this hotel, but I know where it is:off Central Park on the Upper West Side. I drop the cardkey back inthe envelope and pull out the piece of paper that is folded inhalf. I open it and the hotel’s name is embedded in the top of thepaper. Strong, masculine writing:
Hey babe. I’m waiting. Room 623.
Ross
I gasp and clutch the lip of the sink to holdmyself up.
He’s here.
In New York City.
Waiting for me at a hotel.
I can’t seem to take enough air into my lungsand I’m almost panting.
One of the two women who were by the benchand are now leaning over me says, “Are you all right?”
I nod but tap my chest.
“Do you have asthma? Is there an inhaler inyour bag?”
“I’m…I’m…fine. Really. Had a bit of a shock,that’s all.”
They look down to the envelope and the otherwoman asks, “Do you want us to call someone for you?”
My breathing is evening out and I say, “It’sa good shock. Honestly.” I can’t help the smile that I feelspreading across my face. “Total surprise, though. Never expectedit.”
The smile must give away the gist of myreaction. They smile back, and one says, “Happy for you.”
The other nods and says, “Sounds like you’regoing to have a good evening.”
