After about ten minutes of staring at the bedroom door, I make a face and then open it. I can hear people. I peek into the kitchen. Thank god it’s empty. I pad across the room, grab a cup and make a beeline for the coffeemaker.

“Can I help you, Miss?”

I whirl and the coffee sloshes from the pot and cup all over the floor. Shit! I anxiously put both on the counter and bend to wipe up my mess.

The woman crosses the room. “I’ll do that, Miss. Was there something you needed? Breakfast perhaps?”

I stop my stupid movements with the towel and drop the soaked cloth into her outstretched hand. Her expression is neither kind nor critical, she is not surprised to find me, and for a domestic she is far too young and beautiful.

“Would you care for breakfast?” she asks, rising slowly until she is towering above me.

I shake my head. “Where’s Alan?”

She raises a brow above an intense stare. She walks over to the counter, and in aggravation flips open a day planner. She skims the pages with a long, red manicured nail. “Manny has been gone since seven. He has fourteen interviews, a photo shoot and a meeting at the label.”

I take a sip of coffee. He left without a goodbye and he’ll be gone all day. I look up to see the girl staring expectantly.

“Breakfast, or would you like me just to ring for a car?”

Ring for a car? Why did she ask me that? Has everything changed without me knowing it?

I flush. “I’ll just take the coffee.”

The cup is only half full because half went onto the tile, but I don’t refill it, I don’t add the cream and sugar, and I quickly leave the kitchen. I go back to the bedroom and shut the door. I sink on the floor. Would Alan really sick that dreadful girl on me to get rid of me without bothering with a goodbye? I stare at the phone.

I haven’t spoken to Rene in days and she would know the right move here.

I pull from my bag Mr. Thompson’s DC number and punch it into the phone.

I hardly get a word in before Rene says, “Chrissie, what the hell is going on? I’ve been calling you for four days. You haven’t called back. I’ve been worried sick. Where the fuck are you?”

That does it. The tears start. I’ve been fighting the tears since the kitchen, Alan is intense, and Rene is yelling and I never handle that well.

A long pause. A frustrated groan from Rene. “Why are you crying, Chrissie?”

“Would you please stop yelling at me?”

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. You worried me. OK. What’s going on? Are you OK?”

I run the back of my hand up my dripping nose. “What question do you want me to answer first?”

“Where are you?”

I take a gulp of air. “I’ve been in Alan’s apartment for three days.”

“Oh my god. You finally did it. And you are telling me your first time was with Alan Manzone and its lasted three days.”

She starts to laugh.

“I’m glad you find this funny,” I say quietly.

Her laughter stops at once. “Why are you crying, Chrissie? Was it awful?”

“I don’t have anything to compare it with, but it wasn’t awful.” My lower lip quivers. “He’s just really intense and I’m feeling a little overwhelmed, so if you could be a good friend it would be a good thing.”

“Why overwhelmed?”

For some reason, that question unleashes a blow by blow news update of everything that has happened in the past four days, from CBGBs to being offered a car to leave in by that dreadful woman in the kitchen. Now that I’ve finally told someone, I feel calmer inside, less frantic, and it is all less scary.

“Oh shit! I forgot about Jimmy Stallworth,” Rene says cavalierly. “Completely forgot about him. Is he still pissed about the weed?”

“God, Rene. Who cares?”

“Jeez, you don’t have to be a bitch.”

“I need you to help me figure out what I should do. Do I leave? Do you think that’s how he gets rid of the girls when he’s tired of them?”

“Fuck no. You don’t leave. If he is going to be a bastard you make him be a bastard to your face.”

I point my feet until my big toes touch. “OK, I won’t leave.”

“Did you come?”

“Why do you have to be so personally invasive?” I can’t hide my exasperation. She’s just being Rene, but it’s irritating me today. “How are things in DC?”

Rene sighs in exasperation. “Less exciting than with you in New York. Who would have thought that?”

That gibe pricks me. “Definitely not you,” I say a touch more prickly than I want to.

“Chrissie, what did he say when he saw your body?” she continues. “What did he say when he saw the burns?”

I tense head to toe, now hugging my legs until I’m in a tight ball. I never let her see me nude and we’ve never talked about my burns. Until now I’ve never been really sure she knew.

“He kissed every scar,” I say quietly, trying to keep the emotion from my voice.

“Do you think he knew what they were? Guys are stupid. They don’t always get everything.”

“Yes.” My voice hitches up several octaves. “He knew. Besides I told him the truth.”

“You did?” Rene sounds astonished. “I’m glad you lost it to a guy who was kind. I would have never expected that to be Alan Manzone. When are you going back to the apartment?”

“I’m not. He wants me to stay with him while I’m in New York.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?”

I feel the tears and I fight them.

“Chrissie? What is it?”

“I feel different. There is something going on with me.”

“It’s the sex, Chrissie. It fucks up all your emotions. It passes. It’s just the sex.”

“No. It’s something else.”

“I can be in New York in two hours. Fuck the wedding, Chrissie. Do you need me there?”

The offer stuns me. It’s not like Rene to be generous and willing to drop everything for me.

“No. Don’t bother. I’m OK.”

“You sure?”

It’s strange, but I don’t want Rene. Whatever this is with Alan and me, I need to see it through on my own. “I’ll call you in a couple days,” I say quickly and hang up.

I climb into Alan’s bed and curl around his pillow. I stare at the door. A day alone. I don’t want to be alone, but at least in Alan’s apartment the air still feels of him. But the time alone is a very good thing. A few moments to be calm and think.

* * *

By 11 p.m. I am angry and climbing the walls of Alan’s bedroom. The noise from the apartment hasn’t ceased, and I am trapped here without even a phone call to tell me what’s up. Wouldn’t a phone call be a reasonable expectation? He left without a word, but at least he could let me know if he plans to return anytime soon.

I flick on the TV. There’s never anything worth watching, even though Alan has everything from BBC to some really awful porn stations. I stare at the cabinet where Alan said there were Polaroids of other girls if I want to burn them. I don’t know why I remember that, except it reminds me how little I really know about him.

The cabinet is a magnificent eighteenth or maybe nineteenth century armoire, deep, with a mirrored front, and graceful lines. It’s full of highly personal stuff and this is just plain wrong. Messed up.

There are letters from Linda, whoever Linda is, and family photos from when he was young. Such a cute little boy, but why does he look so sad? So very sad, even as a child. And older. Like a harsh, stressed forty-year-old and he can’t be more than ten.

Jeez, this must be a photo of Lillian, the terrible mother and magnificent agent. OK, not such a mystery why he’s sad. She intimidates the shit out of me pressed only on photo paper. Severe. No other word for her. Severe.

I rummage through the type of keepsakes that everyone keeps, little bits of this and that which only have significance to the person who retains them.

I pick up a small ceramic bowl that looks handmade by a child. It is lopsided and the colors don’t match and it makes me smile. What do they do to children? Teach them deliberately how to make awful pottery? I gave Jack a small bowl that looks almost exactly like this. I turn it over. Molly. I wonder who Molly is. Maybe Alan has a sister.