My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [82]
I cross the room and climb back into bed. As soon as I reposition myself with my book, I realize that Lefty’s letting off a blinding beam of light. I shift around to the right side of the bed. No luck. The glare is slight, albeit bothersome. I shift again.
Frustrated, I slam shut my book and cross the room. With my index finger, I jab at the offending light and immediately recoil because JESUS CHRIST, THAT’S HOT! I shove my finger in my mouth to cool off the singed flesh.
And then I poke at the bulb again because I am not nearly as smart as I’d assumed I’d become.
BURNING!
Well, now I have two problems. Not only have I seared off my fingertip, but now the fixture smells vaguely hot. Or of hot dogs. Which may just be the aroma of my flesh roasting on the bulb. I don’t really want to call down to the front desk and give them the impression I’m a dumb ass, and yet I also don’t want tomorrow’s headline in the Post to read “Big-Ass Author Burns Down Luxury Midtown Hotel.”162
Think, self, think.
Okay, I’ve got this. All I need to do is pull out the halogen bulb. Yes. Genius!
But wait, self, wait.
I’ve already burned my finger twice. What I need is a tiny oven mitt to place between my tender flesh and this searing-hot bulb. So I grab what’s closest, wrap it around my hand, and go for it.
The second my wrapped finger hits the heat, the fabric, my flesh, and the bulb fuse into one entity.
And this is how I set the curtain on fire.
Apparently these are not hot-lightbulb-and-dumb-ass-retardant curtains. Instead, they’re the flame-briefly-melt-and-leave-two-silver-dollar-sized-holes-in-them kind.
I do manage to turn off the light, though.
So there’s that.
We’re having breakfast in my room as I tell Stacey my tale of woe.
“I’m sure it’s not nearly as bad as you think,” Stacey cajoles. “This must happen all the time.”
I purse my lips and glower at Stacey, saying nothing.
She backpedals. “Fine. Maybe it doesn’t happen all the time, but perhaps they won’t notice?”
“Oh, yeah? You don’t find this a little obvious?” I pull out the sheer and demonstrate the holes’ girth by thrusting my thumbs through both of them.
Stacey sizes them up, turning her head first to the left and then to the right, before declaring, “Yeah . . . you’re screwed.”
Stacey carefully selects a piece of honeydew from the fruit plate while I say, “My only hope is they won’t cost so much. I mean, the sheers in my house were only about five bucks each.”
“Are yours fourteen feet high? And twenty feet long? And custom-made?” she prompts.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, spearing a giant piece of pineapple. “You’ve been to my house a hundred times and you’ve seen my windows and . . . Oh. I get it.”
“What are you going to do?”
I mull over her question before replying, “I plan on being a complete coward. I’m going to leave them as they are, and I’m not going to have a mortifying conversation when I check out, and when they send me the bill, I’m going to pay it.”
Stacey moves the piece of melon around on her plate. “They’ll probably just put it on your credit card.”
“Even better.”
“This could only happen to you.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Are you still glad you came?”
“Absolutely!” I exclaim. “But I’ve learned something on this trip.”
“What’s that?”
I sigh. “I may not be wearing a rope belt, but somehow I’m still channeling Jethro Bodine.”
To: melissacmorris_at_home
From: jen_at_home
Subject: Daisy Buchanan
Hey, Melissa,
I’ve been meaning to drop you a note to tell you how much I enjoyed spending the afternoon with you. Later that day I found myself trying to describe what you were like to my friend Stacey. I wanted to get across that you had perfect manners but there was something just a little bit, I don’t know, precocious or naughty beneath the surface, in the most delightful, let’s-go-swim-in-the-fountain-in-our-formal-wear