It looks like I might be in for a bumpy wedding night.
I guess that's to be expected when the groom is furious with the bride.
I mean, I'm pissed at me for agreeing to marry Pike.
Jane doesn't say a word after the ceremony.
We emerge from the courthouse and I follow him at a silent trot, eighty-five blocks north to 1040 Fifth Avenue. His ankle doesn't seem to be slowing him down.
The doorman does a double take when Jane sweeps into the lobby with me bringing up the rear.
"Mr. Jane. How good to see you. It's been a long time, sir."
"Alberto, how've you been? Uh…this is Mrs. Jane."
Hulking Alberto takes my hand like I'm a teacup. An enchanted teacup.
"Ahh…Mrs. Jane. Welcome."
Wow. I'm Mrs. Jane.
Wish Jane looked that happy I was here.
Alberto escorts us to the waiting elevator where the elevator man, Jeremy, does everything but carry Jane into the car in a snuggly to express his pleasure at seeing him again.
Penthouse.
The elevator opens directly onto a cavernous apartment.
Where are we?
Jane strides along the window wall drawing what I estimate to be a city block of heavy linen curtains. One by one, they billow, then puddle obediently one and one-half inches deep on the chevron patterned old oak floors.
The city sunlight bounces off the façade of The Metropolitan Museum of Art and lights up the intricate mouldings of the room.
It's almost empty, except for an extra long, extra spindly, gilt-legged sofa heaped with a United Nations of throw pillows. A battered parchment trunk serves as a coffee table.
Jane points at the sofa.
"I'll be back."
He didn't carry me across the threshold but at least he spoke.
Conversation over, the elevator returns and whisks him away.
I sit.
I pick up an Elle Décor from the stack on the trunk.
The May 2003 issue still in its clear plastic wrapper.
The subscription tag reads, "Mrs. Patrick Jane, 1040 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10028."