Laurel exited the Lexington Avenue subway at Spring Street and heard the noise right away. All these people and all this commotion. What is going on? She made her way west through a thickening crowd.
It didn’t take her long to figure it out. People coming toward her carried large Gordon’s shopping bags filled to the top and were talking excitedly about the new store and the party going on inside.
“Damn!” I should have remembered about this, she thought. I read about it in the paper just a few days ago. You’re losing it, Imperiole.
“Excuse me. Pardon me. Can I get through, please?” She pushed through the throng and crept along toward the corner. Using all the willpower she possessed not to cut her eyes left and peer at Matt’s building, she crossed Crosby Street and pressed her way through the crowd to the restaurant’s entrance. She paused to catch her breath. The interior of the bistro was as much of a mob scene as the street outside. Groups of waiting men and women were squeezed up against crowded tables of diners who barely had room to lift their forks. Women in six-inch heels and designer dresses were jostled from every angle and held their drinks high to keep them from spilling. Waiters and waitresses slipped in and out with the skill of acrobats. Laurel was astonished by how many people could actually fit in the space.
She worked her way to the jam-packed reservation area and waved her arm until she got the attention of one of the frazzled young women manning the desk. “I’m Laurel Imperiole,” she shouted over the heads of three or four people. “I have an eight thirty reservation. I’ll be at the bar.” The woman nodded and made a note in the reservation book.
Laurel cast her eyes toward the long zinc bar and spotted a couple paying their check and about to vacate their seats. She slipped in front of several people waiting, sliding onto a barstool just as the previous occupant slid off, pretending not to hear the protests and curses uttered in her direction. She turned her back on the crowd, marveling at her unusual boldness and waved to the nearest bartender. When he acknowledged her with a tip of his head, she mouthed the words, “Vodka martini, straight up,” sat back from the bar, and looked up into the mirror that dominated the wall behind it. It was huge, ornate and no doubt came from a palace in France, like many of the bistro’s furnishings. The mirror offered a great view of the dining room beyond, which was an undulating sea of diners, waiters and busboys hefting trays loaded down with food, accompanied by a noise level reaching for the stratosphere.
The bartender delivered her martini with a nice, big smile. His bar was busy and he was making money. Laurel fished a twenty out of her bag and paid for her drink. No running a tab. Not tonight. She wanted to be ready to leave the bar at a moment’s notice.
She glanced up into the mirror again to survey the crowd and watch for Matt. As she scanned the room, a figure at its edge, partially hidden behind a large group, caught her eye. The image registered on her brain. The woman looked like Helen, head bent, walking quickly toward the doors marked toilettes. By the time Laurel turned around to gaze back at the spot, the woman was gone.
She turned back around, reached for her drink and brought it to her lips. As she did, she stared into the mirror one more time. Her heart nearly stopped and her breath caught in her chest. Matt stood just behind her. He had entered the restaurant and reached her side without her being aware of it. Seeing his reflection in those mirrors on Second Avenue a few days ago, she hadn’t been certain; this time she was. It was Matt. She bit back a startled cry as her eyes met his, and a few drops of her martini spilled onto her lips.
“Hello, babe.” He smiled coldly. Bending in close, he wiped the spilled drink from her mouth roughly with his thumb. “You know it’s not polite to start without me.”