Текст книги "The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty"

Автор книги: Amanda Filipacchi

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

PART

THREE

Chapter Seventeen

To my relief, Peter does show up at the party the following day. A couple of pretty young interns from the Paris Review lose no time gushing over him, trying to chat him up. Smiling, he nods at them without interest.

After a few minutes I ask him if I can talk to him in private. I lead him to the bathroom, the only private place.

I mutter, “I was wondering if you might reconsider your decision not to be friends with me.”

“No.” He rests his hand against the towel rod behind me. “It’s too hard. I want more from you,” he says.

I look away. I want more, too, of course, but it’s impossible.

He leaves the bathroom. I compose myself and exit a minute later. The party is lively, though not yet at its peak. Many more people are still expected.

Neither Peter nor I are in the mood to mingle, so we go to my bedroom-office where Penelope, Jack, and Georgia are gathered. They don’t seem to be in much of a mood to socialize either.

Georgia is sitting on the couch, looking bored and grumpy, her cheek in her hand. Her mien clashes with her festive, bright red lipstick that she only wears on rare and important occasions. Clearly, she expected to have a better time this evening, which is often the case with her and parties.

Earlier, we told her how much we loved her novel. Our praise made her happy for about an hour, and then the effect faded.

The only one of us not here in my bedroom-office is Lily, who’s playing the piano in the living room, which may be another reason we’re here instead of there. Her grief is audible in her music. You’d think we were at a funeral. The guests don’t seem to mind or even notice, but we who are her closest friends can’t help being affected by it.

Georgia’s cell phone rings. As usual, she answers it on speaker, so we can all hear.

A man’s voice says, “Hey, Georgia, is the party still going?”

“Er . . . yeah,” she says, like it’s a dumb question.

“Great! Is there an alternate entrance into your building?”

“Er . . . no,” she says, like it’s a weird question. “The entrance is on Fifteenth Street between Union Square East and Irving Place.”

“They’re not letting me in.”

“Who isn’t?”

“The cops.”

“Cops?”

“Er . . . yeah,” he says, like it’s a dumb question.

“Why?”

“Er . . . because of what’s going on in your lobby, maybe?”

“What’s going on?”

“You don’t know? One of your doormen is going postal. He has a gun.”

We all look at one another, eyes wide.

“The doorman made everyone vacate the lobby, except for the other doormen and staff. So that’s why I’m asking if there’s like . . . maybe a service entrance in the back or something?”

“Are you crazy? Why would you want to enter a building containing a doorman with a gun?”

With icy indignation, he says, “Because you know very well that I have dreamed of meeting your agent Melodie Jackman for years, if not decades. I’ve just finished writing my third unpublished novel, and I might be able to pitch it better in person. All I care about is making it past the doorman and to the party.”

“Listen to what you’re saying,” Georgia barks.

“It’s easy for you to get on your high horse. You’ve got it made. This is my chance. I’m not going to let some psycho doorman get in my way.”

“My agent isn’t coming. She never goes to author parties.”

“Ah damn,” the guy says and hangs up.

I grab the remote. “I bet it’s Adam. Let me put on the doorman channel.”

In my building, there’s a live security video that is viewable twenty-four hours a day on channel seventy-seven of all residents’ TV sets so we can see who enters the building, who leaves, who’s at the front desk, etc.

My friends and I stare in horror as the black-and-white image of the lobby appears on my TV screen. At this very moment, the doorman has lined up the other doormen and staff members against the wall. They’re standing side by side, facing him. His back is to the camera. He paces in front of his colleagues, holding a young woman in a choke hold and alternately pointing his gun at his colleagues and at her head. Judging from his body language, he seems to be ranting about something.

Just then, he turns his head enough for me to recognize him. “Shit, it is Adam,” I say.

“How did you know it would be him?” Jack asks.

“Because he’s crazy. He insults me all the time.”

My friends look at me.

Jack says, “He really insults you? Or are you just being hypersensitive?”

“Why would you ask a question like that, Jack?” Georgia says. “You know very well Barb is hypo-sensitive when it comes to herself. I’m sure he really insults her.”

“What does he say?” Jack asks me.

“You name it, he’s said it,” I reply.

“Hardcore insults?” Penelope asks.

“Sometimes.”

“Like what?” Jack asks.

I shrug. “Things like ‘Marinade of shit and piss’ and ‘Cocksucking bitch.’”

My friends look shocked. I remain silent, realizing how weird this sounds.

Georgia says, “It’s really crazy that you never reported him to the super or anyone.”

“Why do you assume I never reported him?” I ask, annoyed.

“Because he wouldn’t be in the lobby pointing a gun at people if you had.”

“I felt sorry for him. He assured me he insulted only me, no one else.”

Georgia frowns. “Oh, that must have been so reassuring.”

“I thought he was unwell, troubled—not dangerous,” I plead. “I was afraid he might get fired if I said anything.”

“Oh, yes, and that would have been so bad,” Georgia says, merciless.

“Thanks for making me feel better,” I murmur.

“Well you certainly do feel better than they do,” she snaps, pointing to the lined-up hostages and arm-choked woman on the screen.

Hardly able to contain my panic, I get up, wiping my moist palms on my pants. “I can’t stand to watch this.” I begin walking out of the room, feeling horribly guilty for not tattle-taling on the doorman.

“Barb,” Peter says, close behind me, softly.

The sound of his voice is comforting. I turn to him.

“Can we talk in private again?” he asks.

“Again?” Georgia says. “Oh, come on, we’ve got a crisis on our hands.”

“We have to warn the guests not to leave the apartment,” Jack says.

“Peter, you’re the anchor. Can you anchor this?” Georgia asks.

“Wait,” Jack says, “let me first see if I can get any information from my buddies at the precinct.”

After his brief call, he tells Peter what he learned and gives him the go-ahead to inform the guests.

The guests are chatting. Clearly, they haven’t yet heard about the lobby situation.

Peter addresses the assembly: “Good evening.”

He gets most people’s attention.

In his TV anchor voice—authoritative, concerned but calm—he says: “I’m sorry to interrupt this party to bring you some breaking news from elsewhere in the building. Reliable sources have indicated that there is a lone gunman on the loose in the lobby and that a siege situation is ongoing. He’s a doorman, and has locked the exit doors and shut down the elevators. Law enforcement officers have surrounded the building. We have been told by authorities that no one should attempt to leave the premises until we receive the all-clear. They assure us there is no need to panic. There are no reports of any injuries. We will keep you abreast of any further developments as they unfold.”

A few guests nod their heads politely, and then most of them return to their quiet conversations and aggressive networking. Only a couple of them take out their phones to make calls.

“Wow, you really kept them calm,” Georgia remarks.

We retreat to my bedroom-office.

A guest follows us in and asks Georgia, “Do you think that if the crisis gets resolved soon, more guests will be allowed to come up?”

Georgia’s face hardens. “Who are you waiting for?”

“You told me your editor, Jen Bloominosky, would be here and that I could show her my manuscript.”

“Look here,” Georgia says, walking to the TV screen on which the scene downstairs is the same as before. She points to it and says, “Hmm . . . here’s a space behind the doorman who’s holding his gun against that woman’s head. I don’t see why the police might not allow a few guests, one at a time, to slink along the wall opposite where the doorman has lined up the other doormen to kill them one by one. I mean, technically there’s plenty of room behind him. So I think a few new guests might still show. While you wait, go back to your networking and have a good time.”

“Like they did on the Titanic as it was sinking?”

“Uh . . . right, except we’re not sinking. Notwithstanding that analogy, I’m sure your novel’s terrific.”

Instead of following Georgia’s advice to go into the other room, he sits on the couch and watches the lobby scene on the TV.

He is not aware that Jen Bloominosky actually is at the party already. He probably didn’t see her because she’s always hidden by several people trying to talk to her. Georgia is clearly in no mood to set him straight, which I find amusing yet cruel.

Not all of Georgia’s guests are shameless networking self-promoters, but a depressingly large number of them are. Jen Bloominosky is one of the few who are good, kind souls. She is beloved by everyone. And unlike many of the other guests at this party, she doesn’t strike me as superficial, but rather as quite genuine—in fact, unnervingly so. Earlier, she came up to me and raved about my living room decor and “breathtaking costumes on the animals.” As I was thanking her, I noticed her looking at my face carefully, which caused me to ask, “What?” thinking perhaps I had some dip smeared across my cheek.

She said, “For some reason you don’t want people to think you’re very pretty, do you?”

Flustered, I tried to respond naturally. “It’s very nice of you to say that. You look great too.”

“Your hairdo,” she said. “Not many women in their twenties would willingly sport short gray frizzy hair.”

“I know,” I said, smiling. “I like it.” I tugged on one of my gray curls fondly.

“You don’t fool me. Do you fool a lot of people?”

Rattled, I blinked. I didn’t know what to say. Jen Bloominosky is not only an editor but a respected author—clearly an alarmingly observant one. I hoped she wasn’t going to scrutinize me more closely and notice how my hands were a bit slender compared to the rest of my arms. I hid my hands behind my back. I closed my mouth, in case she realized that my ugly teeth were fake. I shrunk my head further down into my turtleneck so she wouldn’t spot my thin neck.

Making sure to keep my teeth covered by my lips, I replied, “Thank you for the compliments. I really like your shirt. Where did you get it?”

She laughed and said she was going to get a refill (three people swarmed her on her way there).

That was earlier in the evening.

Now my friends and I switch my TV set from the doorman channel to regular channels where there is breaking news coverage of the event. Live aerial footage of the building, surrounding crowds, and police cars are brought to us by helicopters we can see and hear outside my windows. We switch back to the closed-circuit surveillance channel.

Peter again tells me he’d like to talk in private. He whisks me into the same bathroom as before and locks the door.

“Barb, doesn’t this put everything in perspective?” he says to me earnestly. “Doesn’t the issue of beauty seem trivial when you compare it to what’s happening in the lobby? I mean, physical appearance is not a life-and-death problem, right? Can’t we get past it?”

The situation with the doorman does make me more vulnerable than ever to Peter. At this moment, there is nothing I’d like more than to sink into his arms and be comforted and loved.

But instead, I say, “If life doesn’t feel worth living, that’s a sort of death, right? No one has ever genuinely loved Lily romantically. And do you think she seems happy? Some days, like today, she seems so sad I’m afraid she’ll kill herself. Yesterday she and Strad broke up because he couldn’t love her the way he did when she was beautiful. So when you ask me if the situation in the lobby puts things in perspective, my answer is things were already in perspective. Take a good look at Lily as she sits at her piano and tell me if beauty isn’t an issue of life and death.”

“Okay, now, let me give you my perspective of what’s going on. Hearing about this psycho doorman insulting you every day terrifies me and makes me realize even more than before how much you mean to me. My feelings for you are not about your looks. You’re the one hung up on your looks.”

“Only because everyone else is.”

He nods. “Barb, life is short. Disasters can happen. It’s true that you could still meet someone who would fall in love with you before finding out about your beauty. But what if he turns out to be an insufferable ass?”

I realize Peter has a point. I’ve thought of that possibility myself. But giving in would be against all my principles. If only that didn’t matter. There’s nothing I would love more than to give in to him right now.

“Would that be better?” he asks.

“No,” I say.

“So let me ask you one more time,” he says. “Can we have more?”

“I wish we could, but I can’t. I’m blocked.”

He nods, looking resigned. I doubt he understood that my last comment was a cry for help. But I say nothing more because I can’t imagine how anyone could help me.

I leave the bathroom. He stays in there a while longer.

I go to my office, wishing there were some solution, some way out of this cage of principles I’ve built for myself.

I see that Mike, the guy who was desperate to meet Jen Bloominosky, has now met Jen Bloominosky. He has trapped her in a corner of my office and is slowly pulling his big manuscript out of his bag while she is nodding to him kindly.

My friends are glued to the doorman channel. They tell me that nothing has changed, no one in the lobby’s been hurt yet. I’m relieved, but I still don’t have the stomach to watch the channel with them, so I look down at the floor.

Georgia comes over to me. “You don’t look well. Are you okay?” she asks.

I don’t feel like telling her that the horror going on in the lobby is not the only reason I’m not feeling well. So I say, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

She strokes my arm. “I’m sorry I made you feel bad before about not reporting the doorman to the super. It’s not your fault this siege is happening. Are things okay with Peter?”

Just as I’m trying to formulate an answer, Molly, Georgia’s freelance publicist, bursts into the room, hollering at us, “I’ve got Page Six on the phone! Barb, they want to know if you’re involved in any movies right now.”

“Uh . . .” I stammer, off guard.

“Molly, will you be sane?” Georgia says.

Molly covers the mouthpiece with her finger and whispers to Georgia, “You be sane. Three of my authors, including you, are trapped at this party. And yes, I know that your new novel is great, but that doesn’t mean you don’t need publicity. You are only an author. Your profession will probably be extinct within your lifetime. So stop bustin’ my chops. I’m just doing my job, which I do as superbly as you do yours. You should congratulate me on having had the presence of mind to pitch the doorman drama to Page Six while it’s still hot. What’s more, they’re eating it up, which hasn’t been the case in a long time.”

Georgia grimaces.

Molly goes on: “So when they ask me if our hostess, Barb Colby, who’s a member of the Knights of Creation—and remember, I came up with that name for you guys—”

“Yes, I could kill you for that, by the way,” Georgia says.

Before Molly has a chance to finish talking, Peter bursts in and rushes up to me. He grabs my wig from my head and flings it aside.

Georgia takes a step back, in shock. Jack, Penelope, Molly, Jen Bloominosky, and the guy with the manuscript no longer in his bag, are all staring at Peter and me in amazement.

Before I can react, Peter rips open my extra-large man’s shirt. The buttons fly off. He yanks apart my fake-fat jacket underneath. The snap fasteners pop like machine-gun fire. My long blond hair is swarming around my shoulders.

This passionate act of Peter’s takes me by surprise. And so does my response to it. I am overcome by a strange sense of relief. My principles—instead of bucking at his disobedience—are paralyzed in the face of such irreverence. I can’t muster the will nor the desire to fight him. I remain completely passive.

Jack knocks Peter away from me violently enough that he almost falls. “What the hell are you doing?” he roars at Peter.

Peter hisses an urgent whisper to Jack: “He’s here! The doorman! In the living room, looking for her. He wants to kill her. The only way to hide her is to change her into what she really is, which is what she never is. If you stop me she’ll die!”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. We were watching Adam on the video just a minute ago. I look at the screen. The lobby is now empty. And that’s when I remember there’s a slight tape delay on the doorman channel.

As for how the doorman ended up inside my apartment, that’s harder to fathom. Probably a guest let him in, hoping he was some literary agent or editor.

Georgia scream-whispers at Jack, “Help him, Jack!” And she dives into my closet and grabs some items, crying desperately, “Conceal by revealing!”

My friends are upon me now, like a pack of wolves tearing at me, destroying my painstakingly artificial self—all in an effort to save my real one.

Jack strips me of my fake-fat jacket. Penelope seizes my glasses and chucks them in a corner. Peter unbuttons my pants and begins wrenching them down, both pairs at once—not the most effective method.

Behind me, Jack hooks his arms under my armpits to hold me up while Peter, changing tactics, peels off my huge jeans and then my gel pants. Penelope hides them in two filing cabinets along with my shirt and fat jacket.

I’m in my panties now and Georgia loses no time threading my legs through a black miniskirt—the one I always wear under my disguise when I go to bars for my ritual. She slips my feet into high-heeled pumps I’ve worn only once, on Halloween.

Georgia sticks her fingers in my mouth, and says, “Spit them out!” She extricates my ugly fake teeth and slams them in my desk drawer.

At Jack, she barks, “Help me with her eyes!”

Jack holds my left eye open while Georgia plucks out my brown contact and flicks it over her shoulder. They do the same with my other eye.

Georgia then grabs my face and rubs her lips against mine, spreading her lipstick onto me and wiping off what smeared around my mouth.

I’m now in my white undershirt, which can pass as a sexy top, so my friends leave it alone.

They are done with me.

Teetering in my pumps, I feel like a decorticated fruit, ready for consumption.

Peter is gazing at me, looking mesmerized, lost in some incapacitating fog of useless admiration. Georgia’s publicist, her editor, and the guy with the manuscript no longer in his bag still have not moved, transfixed.

The door flies open. The doorman looms at the threshold, staring at all of us. “What a bunch of assholes in there!” he says, pointing to the living room. “I mean, is my gun invisible? They are so blasé. Don’t they care about life?”

“Not as much as they care about their careers,” Georgia says.

He sneers. “Why does it not surprise me that these are Barb’s friends? See, that’s why I’m here—to kill the Queen of Jade, presiding over her jaded subjects. Where is she?”

He stays in the doorway keeping an eye on the guests in the living room.

“They’re not her friends. They’re mine,” Georgia says. “They’re not even my friends. They’re my enemies.”

“Why would you have them over if they’re your enemies?”

“Grim fascination. Unwholesome addiction.”

He scoffs. “Typical.”

“With the present state of the book publishing world, you can’t blame them for being desperate.”

“Where’s Barb? I was told she’s in here.”

He studies us, and his gaze stops on me. “You. Come here.”

I don’t move.

“You!” he yells, pointing his gun at me and waving me over with his free hand. “Come! Here!”

I am terrified. I walk toward Adam.

There’s a slight smile on his face as he ogles me. “Wow. You’re spectacular. I would have remembered a knockout like you coming into the building.”

I stare back at him, as expressionless as I can manage. My heart is racing.

“That would be naughty, if you snuck past me.” He smiles broadly and winks. “Should I spank you?”

I wouldn’t want him to recognize my voice, so I say nothing.

“Are you always this stupid or are you just having a blonde moment?” he asks. Then, slowly and loudly, he says, “Do you speak English?”

I shake my head.

“Dumb bimbo,” he mutters, looks at the living room, and then at us. “Okay, people, where’s Barb?”

No one says anything.

Sticking to his post in the doorway, he scans the room for places where I could be hiding.

“You,” he says to me, “open the closet. I’m sure Barb is hiding in there.”

I do nothing, at the risk of annoying him—which is still better than infuriating him by revealing I lied about not understanding English.

He repeats his order in mime.

Obeying, I walk to the closet and open it. The inside is visible from where he stands. Thank God my friends didn’t throw my fake fat in there.

“Push the clothes out of the way,” he says, miming again.

I do as he says. He can see there is no one hiding in the closet.

Then he says to everyone, “I’m going to ask you guys one more time, and if I get no answer I’ll shoot one of you randomly. Where is Barb?”

“She went to get some apples,” Peter says. Not bad for someone with no imagination.

“I don’t like liars,” the doorman tells him. “I didn’t see her leave the building. And though I did miss this spectacular bimbo when she entered the building, I would never miss Barb. I don’t miss her when she comes, I don’t miss her when she goes, I won’t miss her when I’ll shoot her, and I won’t miss her when she’s dead.”

“She’s getting the apples from a neighbor in the building,” Peter says.

“What neighbor?”

“She just said a neighbor upstairs.”

The doorman flashes another look at the living room. “Come here,” he says to Peter.

Peter approaches him.

The doorman tells him, “I only wanted to kill one person: Barb. But if you are lying to me I will kill you, too. Come closer.”

Peter obeys.

The doorman presses the barrel of his gun against Peter’s heart. “I’m giving you one last chance to tell me the truth. Where is Barb?”

A second passes, and Peter says, “I have told you the truth.”

The doorman looks at the rest of us. We nod, except for me, careful not to contradict the impression he has of me as a foreign bimbo.

“Fine, I’ll wait for her, then. Hands up, everyone. I want you all in the living room. No touching of cell phones.”

We raise our hands and file past him into the living room. The guests are chatting quietly among themselves. They watch us as we join them.

The doorman addresses the whole crowd: “I want everyone’s hands up, even the jaded people’s.”

Everyone’s hands go up. At least somewhat up. Some hands don’t go up past waist level. A few people are finishing their conversations. I happen to hear the tail end of an exchange between two men standing close to me.

“His last novel sold very well. I’ll send you his manuscript.”

“No need. I only acquire literary fiction now.”

“Ah. Well, I’ve got some literary authors, too. Here’s my card. Could we have lunch some time?”

The doorman stares incredulously at the few people who are still talking. “I have a gun, folks!” he wails. “Are you blind?”

Finally, everyone falls silent with hands at least up to chest level.

While the doorman waits for me to return from getting the imaginary apples, he cuts himself a piece of goat cheese. “Mmm,” he says.

To my astonishment, Penelope takes a few steps toward him and says gently, “Excuse me.”

“What?” he growls.

“Why do you want to kill Barb?”

“Ah,” he says, sounding pleasantly surprised as he puts down the cheese knife. “Thanks for caring. Come a little closer.”

Penelope takes another step toward the doorman. They’re no more than two feet apart.

Looking deep into Penelope’s eyes, he says, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear him clearly: “Barb is a cold inhuman bitch, the most arrogant person I’ve ever met. The most convinced of her own superiority.”

“What makes you think that?”

“You’d never understand,” he says, losing interest and turning back to the cheese.

“Yes I would!”

He chuckles, seeming surprised and even charmed by her earnestness. “I insult her all the time. And she never gets offended. It’s rude and offensive.”

“Sounds like you get easily offended.”

He shakes his head. “Not especially. She’s just odious. She gets the medal for being least annoyable. And her medal is in this gun. And I can’t wait to give it to her.”

“But why do you insult her?”

The doorman sits on one of my counter stools. He looks tired. “Because she wasn’t offended by my subtle signs of disrespect.”

“Why did you give her signs of disrespect?”

“Because she wasn’t bothered when I was in a bad mood or slightly rude.”

“Wow. So it began small and really escalated.”

“Exactly,” he says, nodding. “Her ego was incapable of getting miffed by me because she considers people like me so unimportant. That’s why I pushed it. She infuriated me.”

Penelope is nodding.

Encouraged, he goes on: “Thinking about it makes me very angry. That’s why I’m here. To put an end to her. For me, it’s a win-win situation. If she’s miffed before dying, I’ll finally have gotten what I want. If she’s still not miffed, that will prove that she’s a psychopath and that I shouldn’t have taken her behavior personally, which will make me feel better about the whole thing. I’ll kill her either way, of course, but right before doing it, I will hold the barrel of my gun against her forehead and I will ask her one simple question: ‘Does this bum you out?’”

Penelope says, “I understand. You want to feel that you exist, that you matter, like we all do, but—”

“Exactly! I always have the courtesy of being offended when people are not nice to me. I mean, look at me now!” he roars, standing up.

Penelope nods. “Of course. But there’s something you should know. The reason Barb wasn’t miffed is not because she has a huge ego, but rather, no ego. It’s not you she considered unimportant but herself.”

“Oh, spare me the bullshit!”

“It’s true. You were right, you shouldn’t have taken it personally, not because she’s a psychopath, but because she was traumatized by a terrible event two and a half years ago that left her numb.”

The doorman looks like he’s about to explode with sarcastic comments, so without a pause, Penelope quickly explains. “Her best friend killed himself out of love for her, and since then she’s obliterated herself. Her main concern is to avoid hurting anyone ever again, even indirectly, even accidentally, which is why when you mistreated her, she was concerned about you, not about herself. Didn’t she express concern for you, for your well-being?”

“Yeah, it was so condescending.”

“She never complained to the management about you, did she?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, she didn’t, otherwise you’d be fired and you know it. Most people would have reported you. And do you know why she didn’t?”

“Because she knew I’d retaliate. That’s obvious.”

Penelope shakes her head. “No. It’s because she didn’t want you to lose your job. Understand that I’m not objecting to your desire to kill, per se. What troubles me is that your murderous impulse is based on a misinterpretation of everything she’s done. The person you’re hunting down doesn’t exist. She’s an illusion, your delusion. You took the few pieces of her that were visible to you and you put them together into this little grotesque being that you assume is Barb. But I’ve now handed you the missing pieces, so you can rebuild her into what she really is: a person who has been altered by grief. If you knew the real Barb, you would love her and want to protect her, not kill her.”

To my surprise, he looks momentarily moved. But, recovering quickly, he says, “Clever twist, and a very poetic story you’ve made up, but I know you’re lying because you’d be stupid not to, and you don’t look stupid.”

“I couldn’t have made that up to save my life. I’m not very creative. I just like to fix things. Like your misconception of Barb.”

“It doesn’t matter. I have my heart set on killing her, and plus I think you’re lying.”

“No, she’s telling the truth,” Georgia jumps in. “Ever since her best friend killed himself out of love for her, Barb has developed a shell. She’s still very caring about the welfare of others, such as yourself or her friends, but not her own. She no longer cares what people think of her. In fact, she now prefers being disliked to being loved too much. This can come off as cold indifference. And someone could, as you have, misinterpret her as being a hard bitch.”

I know Georgia means what she says because she’s actually said this to me before.

“I don’t care what lies you all make up. I’m not going to change my mind,” the doorman says.

My stress level is skyrocketing. By now, lots of cell phones are ringing, and so is my landline. No one is allowed to answer their phones, so the room is filled with clashing ring tones accompanied by a gentle tinkling sound as Lily starts unobtrusively playing the piano.

“What’s taking her so long?” The doorman turns to Peter. “And why is she getting apples in the first place?”

“They go well with cheese,” Peter says.

The doorman cuts himself another piece of goat cheese and says to Lily, “That’s very pretty, what you’re playing.”

“It’s called ‘Need,’” Lily answers.

“Of all the times I’ve seen you come in and out of the building, I never imagined you played the piano, and so well,” he says.

Penelope continues trying to reason with him. “We think we know people. We think that what we see is all there is. We rarely ask ourselves what goes on behind the curtain. We jump to conclusions. And we take everything very personally.”

The doorman suddenly cocks his ear, as though he hears a faint sound. “Do you hear that?” he asks Penelope. “That’s the sound of no one caring. You’re making me cringe now. If you keep this up, my finger might cringe on the trigger. And, plus, I just realized I have a real problem.”

“What problem?” Penelope asks, as Lily keeps playing.

“Well, I know I’m going to prison, I knew that from the start, so that’s not the problem. The problem is I forgot to arrange things for when I get out of prison. I mean, in case I ever get out, which of course will depend on whether or not I’ll be able to kill Barb.”