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.Forced to stop briefly at Canal for the rush of traffic coming in from New Jersey through the Holland Tunnel, she laughed out loud.There’d been a blind item on Page Six of the Post this morning: Some network anchorman had been caught screwing his kid’s nanny on (what else?) the nanny cam.How ironic is that? Charlotte hooted to herself.The guy doesn’t even know the system’s up and running.And there he is, caught with his pants down by his own wife.Serves ’em both right, Charlotte giggled.She wondered if this was the same guy her friend Tom worked for.Every night, the guy had a sixty-minute head massage before going on the air.“For what?” Charlotte had asked Tom, “So he can read better?”When the light changed, she was already halfway across Canal and marching past the Soho Grand Hotel.Twice a week, Tom also worked on the anchorman’s wife and their two teenage kids.The wife, like Vicky, was thinking about becoming a Buddhist.Charlotte had seen photographs of her private mediation room in New York Magazine’s Tranquility Issue.It was a vast 1,000-square-foot space with a magnificent view of Central Park, complete with a $40,000 head of Buddha.Charlotte was no expert in Buddhism, but she did know that the religion came into being for people who had nothing.Not the other way around.Did this woman actually aspire to having nothing? No.She wanted it all.Being a Buddhist was just another way of having more.Of having peace of mind plus the Jimmy Choos, the Gulfstream, Christmas in Parrot Cay and the ranch in Wyoming.Deafened by the sound of horns, Charlotte caught a glimpse of a cab driver shaking his fist at her and shrieking.“You crazy! You crazy bitch!” She’d been walking so fast, she’d stepped right into the middle of traffic on 23rd Street.Sweat was trickling down her neck.Damn! Glancing at her wristwatch, she realized that she was going to be late for the dealer who’d called about the Murano.She’d have to jump on the subway.Charlotte despised the subway.It wasn’t just the fear of being trapped in a tunnel.It was all those people crushed up against her.Touching her.Charlotte didn’t like being touched by strangers.And some of them stank.Spritzing herself with a dose of Caleche (“Every girl needs a signature scent,” was one of her mother’s style mottos), Charlotte ran down the stairs of the station, bought a single trip Metro Card and hurried through the turnstile.Gingerly pushing her way into a car on the number 6 train, she sat down, closed her eyes and began to hum, softly, to herself.When Charlotte had been frightened or uncomfortable as a child, she’d developed this trick of singing.One of her teachers at Chapin had told her that there were these Aborigines in Australia who believed the whole world, everything in it, from stones and lakes to the seas, mountains, and even man, had been literally sung into existence.It was the most romantic thing Charlotte had ever heard.But when she started singing herself to sleep at night—the only thing that helped console her in those tortuous, lonely, sleepless hours after she went to bed—she had been told to stop.“Shh! Your father’s working.Keep quiet, Charlotte,” her mother had ordered.“Or I’ll punish you.”Insisting that Charlotte eat her dinner with two silver napkin rings clenched between her upper arms and torso was one of her mother’s favorite forms of punishment.“It’s to help your posture, dear,” she’d say.“You’ll thank me for your straight back when you’re older.” What kind of parent punishes their own child for sounding happy or for finding a way of fighting off the demons in the dark? That was the thing, you see? By making noise, Charlotte was telling the demons that she was still awake.Not until later did she discover that some demons don’t wait until you’re asleep.Some attack and hurt you, even when you’re wide awake.Her phone vibrated just as the train was pulling into the 68th Street station.Taking the stairs two at a time, she raced up Lexington, over to Madison, and flipped open her screen.The doctor had left a voice mail.“Charlotte.I just got your results.And there’s really nothing to worry about.But I’d like you to schedule an appointment.Please call my secretary and she’ll set it up.”Her hands were shaking as she punched in his digits.The word “really”… It sounded like he was minimizing something.It wasn’t quite casual enough.“Good morning.This is Dr.Thorpe’s office.”“Hi! I’m Charlotte Wolfe.The doctor …”“Yes, he spoke to me, Ms.Wolfe.We have a cancellation next Thursday at 11:15.Will that work for you?”Charlotte gulped.“There’s nothing sooner? I’m—”“Anxious? I’m sure you are, dear.But the doctor’s out of town.May I pencil you in?”“Forget the pencil,” Charlotte retorted.“Use a pen.I’ll be there.”“Very good, Ms.Wolfe.See you then.”Scanning Madison, she zeroed in on her destination.Lamiere was the name of the shop [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]