Page 69 of Lucky Night

Then it’s bad out there, she says. It’s really bad.

Only the smoke, Jenny. He said the operation is going well, despite initial holdups caused by some mechanical problems and what sounds like criminally inexperienced hotel staff. But the FDNY is in control of the situation, and they foresee no additional problems in extinguishing the fire. Though the process is going to take a while. What the news said they were doing—going room by room—is taking a long time because all the doors are locked, and the software that allows them to open them all at once in an emergency is—surprise, surprise—not working. Bottom line, the fire department is being meticulous, and they think it will take most of the night. They said 911 is overloaded right now, and gave me a separate number to call if we want updates. When it’s time, someone will come up to get us. Probably closer to morning.

She says nothing. She’s thinking about meticulous processes. Firefighters following a plan. That’s all she wanted—to know there was a plan.

This is good news. Really good news.

I’m sorry about the name thing, he says. But this is an exorbitant hotel. People are probably hoping that celebrities and evil billionaires are stuck in here, to raise the drama quotient. If the guest list leaks, and surely it will…it’s bad enough they’ve got my name, but you’re a big deal. You’d be noticed.

Excuses, excuses. She should give him a hard time—first she’s Norman, now she’s Grace?—but her irritation is already dissipating. She’s so relieved about the plan, the meticulousness. She wants to enjoy that feeling, not keep sniping away.

I’m not that big of a deal, she says. But whatever. They know there are two of us in here. That’s what matters.

He nods and squeezes her hand. Then he goes to the foyer and looks through the peephole. He opens the door and pokes his headout.

Still no smoke, he announces.

He shuts the door and walks to the window. He looks down at the city, rubbing the back of his neck. Then he takes a seat on the side of the bed, facing her.

We’re going to get caught, he says. I don’t know how public it’s going to be, I hope not very, but I don’t see how we get out of here without Caroline and Tom finding out.

This is still your concern, she says, marveling at him. Your sole concern.

The FDNY just called, Jenny. They know we’re here, they’re in charge, and as the whole world knows, they’re good at this sort of thing. So while this is messy as hell, we’re not in physical danger. What happens after tonight, though, in our real lives? I know you hate when I bring it up, but I feel compelled to point out that we are well and truly fucked.

He looks defeated. For the first time! Not in the stairwell, not when they opened the door expecting a firefighter and finding a babbling maniac. He was tense then, but composed. Man in Charge. Well, not in charge, because he has no free will, duh. Still. He’s extraordinary. Master of the universe, undone by the fear of losing the wife he’s been deceiving for years.

Fearing Caroline more than the fire.

That’s interesting. Very interesting.

He’s bent over, elbows on his knees, studying the floor. She moves from the sofa to the desk chair, turning it to face him.

Interrogation time!

Why are you so scared of getting caught?

He gives her a weary look. Because I don’t want my wife to leave me, Jenny.

I didn’t leave Tom when he cheated onme.

Tom’s a lucky man. But if I recall, he didn’t cheat on you for over half a decade with a woman you both know.

Caroline never remembers my name, she says. I’ve introduced myself to her about twenty times.

I don’t think that’s going to make her feel any better about this. Also, don’t take it personally. She’s awful with names.

She glances at his phone. The battery is low. She goes to the bathroom, gets her adapter out of her bag, plugs it in and sets it on the nightstand.

Tom slept with someone from work, she says. Twice. I was pregnant. I didn’t leave.

She’s told him this before. They do talk. It’s not as if they meet up, undress silently, hump frantically and part without a word. They chat about work, neighborhood gossip, their kids. And they trade some limited confidences. More so in the early days. He spoke of midlife depression, what he called his malaise. She spoke of restlessness. But that was back when they had to explain how they’d ended up sneaking into rooms like this together, had to tell themselves a story about why they were breaking promises that made the breaking, not okay, but explicable. They had to identify their prior causes.

So yes, they know a few things. But not much.

I couldn’t leave, she says. Then I got over it, and I didn’t wantto.

He reaches for his wine. His pointed silence means drop it, Mrs. Gryzb. Moveon.

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