Page 44 of Brooklynaire
This head injury thing reallysucks.
Across the space an empty barstool beckons, and I slide onto it, then wait for the bartender’s attention. But he’s a busy man, and I have allnight.
So I’m completely surprised when Nate’s friend Alex plops down next to me. “Hi, Becca,” she says in a friendly tone. “Party going allright?”
For a moment I just blink at her. “Of course. You planned a beautiful event.” If she’s going to pretend like she wasn’t Bitch Number One to me a couple of hours ago, then I’m happy to play along. Though I do sneak a glance at the bartender, hoping he’ll notice me eventually. He’s still working his tail off on an order of five margaritas, and I watch him shake them up, wishing I could haveone.
“Let me ask you a question,” Alex says. “Why do you suppose Nate moved you to Brooklyn from his Manhattan office two yearsago?”
This question startles me, and my head whips around to find Alex smirking at me. “I have no idea,” I blurt out. But then I catch myself. “Well, what I mean is…”Gulp. “There were several reasons. Nate wanted someone he trusted to look after the new office in Brooklyn. And I’m not as…Manhattan asLauren.”
“Lauren is from Long Island, isn’t she?” Alex asks, waving down the busy bartender. “Not Manhattan atall.”
Dear lord, what is the woman’s point? I’mthisclose to grabbing a straw off the bar and stabbing her with it. Before tonight, I never took Alex for the mean-girl type. But here she goes, identifying my sore spot and poking me init!
“What’s your point?” I ask her, and I’m not cautious with my tone. “If you’re trying to point out that Nate upgraded to a smarter, more fashionable, more ambitious assistant than I’ll ever be, believe me, I alreadyknow.”
Alex’s only reply to this little rant of mine is, “Chardonnay.” And she’s not even talking to me. The bartender has leapt at the chance to help her, even though I’ve been waiting a nice longtime.
“My point, hon,” she says eventually, “is only that maybe you shouldaskNate. Make him tell you why he moved you toBrooklyn.”
“Uh…” That makes no sense at all. “Okay?”
Alex takes her wine glass from the bartender and departs without sparing me another glance. Her parting shot is to shove a twenty in the tip jar. No wonder she gets excellentservice.
“May I help you?” the bartender finally asks. He’s helped about ten people ahead of me. Bartenders are like cash beagles—they can sniff out who’s used to quick service, and who willwait.
“Could I please have two glasses ofchampagne?”
“Of course,miss.”
I watch him pour them down the sidewall of the glass, so the bubbly doesn’t foam up. I wasn’t intending to order a glass for myself. I’m still not supposed to drink alcohol. But Alex made me crazy and it’soneglass.
“Thank you,” I tell him. Then I put two singles into the tip jar, like a normalperson.
I take a sip of champagne—my first drink in weeks. And it’swonderful. Like sunshine and butter. I fucking love Florida, and Alex can go tohell.
Besides, I’ve always had the tolerance of a heavyweight, for which I tend to thank my Irish ancestors. A single glass of champagne won’t even make a dent inme.
* * *
Crap,it does make a smalldent.
All right. A medium-sizedone.
Only ten minutes later I feel as though my eyes aren’t tracking in the normal way. The world around me seems to be zigging when it’s supposed to bezagging.
I have the goddamn spins. From a single glass of champagne! Howhumiliating.
Extracting myself from a conversation with two hockey players and a cute point guard, I move away carefully. I hand my empty champagne flute to a waiter and walk very slowly toward the hotel lobby. My equilibrium is totally off, and I find myself gripping a potted palm tree in order to climb the two steps up to thelobby.
Not cool. Anyone watching me will think I’mwasted.
Also, I’m standing barefoot on the marble floor because hours ago I abandoned my shoes under a barstool. But I can’t worry about that now. I’m dizzy and more than a little worried that I might puke. Luckily there’s a ladies’ room just a few yards away. I toddle towardit.
Inside it’s very posh. I tiptoe past a couple of expensive-looking women freshening up their makeup and make my way into a stall, where I sink down onto the toilet and exhale with relief. I can just hide here for a few minutes until my nausea passes, then make my wayupstairs.
I wait. People come and go in the ladies’ room. My heart stops pounding after a while, so I decide I’ve improved. I standup…
