My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [81]
Stacey was appalled. “Blech! Did you send it back?”
“Hell, no, I didn’t send it back; it was the most delicious thing I ever tasted! I drank as much as I could, and then I took what was left in the pitcher and poured it into this water bottle so I could pour it over ice later! Plus, it was fifteen dollars and I was not about to let that go to waste.” I waved the bottle at her. “You want some?”
Stacey tried hard to hide her smirk. “I’ll pass, thanks.”
“Your loss,” I replied, making a mental note to order the same thing for breakfast tomorrow.
After cheese and ice-cream lattes, we had an amazing Italian dinner 161 and ended the evening with cucumber martinis in the bar at the Four Seasons, possibly the greatest place on earth to people-watch, as everyone looks quasifamous. I wanted to go up to each table and ask, “Are you someone I know?” but mustered enough self-control not to.
We noticed one particularly handsome man at the bar, drinking coffee and reading a book. There was a pair of flashily dressed, completely cosmetically enhanced, ridiculously blond gold-digger-type girls making rounds in four-inch heels. They’d been sitting with a table of foreign businessmen, laughing uproariously at everything they said. “Those Japanese guys must be really funny,” I said, to which Stacey replied, “Oh, honey, no.”
Then Stacey and I were the ones to laugh uproariously when the Japanese businessmen left without them. We watched as the girls regrouped and then homed in on the man at the bar, circling him in a cloud of perfume and expectations. They flirted and cajoled and tossed their magnificent manes of hair. They carried on, subtly shoving their silicone in his face until he finally scowled and pointed at his wedding ring, scattering the skanks like scalded apes.
We may or may not have cheered . . . hip-hip-hooray for the handsome man who loves his wife!
Stacey went back to her place a while ago, and I’m up in my room, reading in bed. I tried to watch television, but after thumbing through something like six hundred channels, I turned if off. I don’t do well when I’m presented with too many choices.
I begin to monkey with the curtains. If both sets of drapes are closed, the room’s too dark, and if they’re both open it’s too exposed. I settle on shutting the sheers but I’m still not comfortable.
It’s odd how much more at ease I am in my own skin on this trip than I was at the Colony Club last year. The same kind of crowd frequents both places, but now I don’t feel like I’m from a different universe. I’m not—and will likely never be—one of them, whoever the faceless, hatbox-purchasing patrons are, but the little voice that kept telling me I didn’t belong here last year seems to be silent. As I survey where I’ve landed, I can’t help but be pleased.
And yet, happy as I am with my progress, my million-dollar problem remains. This room’s too big to be cozy. Although this is the perfect spot to share cheese with my bestie, I need an ambient glow to fall asleep. Last night this wasn’t an issue because my desire for an ambient glow had taken a backseat to nine tickled pinks—a blend of pineapple juice, coconut rum, and sparkling wine. But tonight I took it easy, sipping one cocktail for hours, and because of my pot o’ latte, sleeping might be a challenge.
I try flipping on the television again, but even turned all the way down, it’s distracting. I click it off and flip on the little banker’s light on the desk, but I can see its pinprick of white in my peripheral vision, and it annoys me.
Then I spot the answer. In the corner, between the windows, is a large framed lithograph. Above it is a picture light. If I turn that on, it should provide the ideal amount of ambience. I scan the wall for a cord and a switch, but the light is hardwired into the wall.
I turn my attention to the bronze hood over the two tiny halogen bulbs. There’s no switch, so maybe this is just one of those things