It's getting dark outside and no sign of my more malevolent half.
Where is he? Where am I? What have I done?
I've read through a few Elle Décors. Hollywood Regency was the coming thing for the cognoscenti in 2003. Nowadays, the hoi polloi like me make faux Dorothy Draper bureaus out of Ikea dressers.
Wonder where the Mrs. Jane of that era would come out on the "Hollywood Regency: trend or classic" question?
A buzzer. I look around. A little phone in a wall nook is ringing off its pre-war hook.
It's Alberto in the lobby.
Seems Bunny is on his way up to see me. Who?
Before I can answer, the elevator doors open and Bunny sweeps in.
"Teresa, oh, look at you. This is going to be easy. He let me think I had my work cut out for me, but you're going to be a dream."
Bunny is a tall beautiful red-haired man in a vintage cotton Pucci shirt, ankle-length kilt and Belgian loafers accompanied by a frazzled fat young woman, Teeny, and a silent goth-like man, Abraham.
They roll in racks of clothes and flip open tool cases of make-up and accessories.
I brace myself for what looks like an onslaught.
"Uh, Bunny, I don't know what he told you but—"
"He said you'd say that and that when you did, I should say, "Darling, can't we do things my way, just this once?"
I laugh at Bunny's imitation of Jane's plummy voice.
He called me "darling." Well he called me "darling" using Bunny as his proxy but it's better than the silent treatment I've been getting from the man himself.
I sigh. Why not let him have it his way? Just this once.
"Do your worst," I say.