Page 5

I could—and likely should—tell her that this time two weeks ago I was an administrative assistant at one of the nation’s biggest financial firms. It wasn’t much—just a step above being an unpaid intern. Lots of photocopying and coffee fetching and dodging the mood swings of the middle managers I worked for. But it paid the bills and provided me with health insurance. Until I was let go along with 10 percent of the office staff.Restructuring. I assume my boss thought that sounded nicer than large layoffs. Either way, the result was the same—unemployment for me, a likely raise for him.
“I’m currently between jobs,” I say.
Leslie reacts with the slightest of nods. I don’t know if that’s a good sign or a bad one. Yet the questions continue as we return to the main hall on our way to the other side of the apartment.
“Do you smoke?”
“No.”
“Drink?”
“An occasional glass of wine with dinner.”
Except for two weeks ago, when Chloe took me out to drown my sorrows in margaritas. I had five in alarmingly quick succession and ended the night puking in an alley. Another thing Leslie doesn’t need to know.
The hallway makes a sudden turn to the left. Rather than follow it, Leslie steers me to the right, into a formal dining room so lovely it makes me gasp. The hardwood floors have been polished to a mirror shine. A chandelier hangs over a long table that can easily seat twelve. This time the busy floral wallpaper is light yellow. The room is situated on the corner of the building, offering dueling views out the windows. Central Park on one side, the edge of the building next door on the other.
I circle the table, running a finger along the wood as Leslie says, “What’s your relationship status? While we don’t exactly frown on having couples or even families serve as apartment sitters, we prefer people who are unattached. It makes things easier from a legal standpoint.”
“I’m single,” I say, trying hard to keep bitterness from seeping into my voice.
Left out is how on the same day I lost my job, I returned home early to the apartment I shared with my boyfriend, Andrew. At night, he worked as a janitor in the building where my office was located. During the day, he was a part-time student at Pace University majoring in finance and, apparently, fucking one of his classmates while I was at work.
That’s what they were doing when I walked in with my sad little box of things hastily cleared from my cubicle. They hadn’t even made it to the bedroom. I found them on the secondhand sofa, Andrew with his jeans around his ankles and his side piece’s legs spread wide.
I’d be sad about the whole thing if I wasn’t still so angry. And hurt. And blaming myself for settling for someone like Andrew. Iknew he was unhappy with his job and that he wanted more out of life. What I didn’t know was that he also wanted more than just me.
Leslie Evelyn leads me into the kitchen, which is so huge it has two entrances—one from the dining room, one from the hall. I rotate slowly, dazzled by its pristine whiteness, its granite countertops, its breakfast nook by the window. It looks like something straight out of a cooking show. A kitchen designed to be as photogenic as possible.
“It’s massive,” I say, awed by its sheer size.
“It’s a throwback from when the Bartholomew first opened,” Leslie says. “While the building itself hasn’t changed much, the apartments themselves have been renovated quite a bit over the years. Some got bigger. Others smaller. This one used to be the kitchen and servants’ quarters for a much larger unit below. See?”
Leslie moves to a cupboard with a sliding door that’s tucked between the oven and the sink. When she lifts the door, I see a dark shaft and two tendrils of rope hanging from a pulley rig above.
“Is that a dumbwaiter?”
“It is.”
“Where does it go?”
“I have no idea, actually. It hasn’t been used for decades.” She lets the dumbwaiter door slam shut, suddenly back to interview mode. “Tell me about your family. Any next of kin?”
This one’s harder to answer, mainly because it’s worse than losing a job or being cheated on. Whatever I say could open the floodgates to more questions with even sadder responses. Especially if I hint at what happened.
And when.
And why.
“Orphan,” I say, hoping that single word will prevent any follow-ups from Leslie. It does, to an extent.
“No family at all?”
“No.”
It’s almost the truth. My parents were the only children of only children. There are no aunts, uncles, or cousins. There’s only Jane.
Also dead.