“Man,” she muttered, “I must be tired.”
Straightening with an aggravated snort, she
reached blindly for the shampoo, finding it where she’d left it who knew how
long ago. She wondered idly as she soaped her body and washed her hair if the
cleaning people replaced the products on a regular basis. She suspected they
did. One of those little things she rarely gave any thought to. She was so used
to living in hotels that her own home felt like one and was maintained in the same
way as all the other elegant places she frequented. The Dakota, for all its
history and charm, exuded the same careful attention to detail as a five-star
hotel, and with the exception of the few employees like Ralph, was nearly as
impersonal. Somehow she had stripped her life of all personal
connections—valets delivered her car, bellmen picked up her laundry, porters
and other attendants carried her luggage and delivered her food. Women almost
as impersonal—charming and momentarily entertaining, but all the same, near
strangers—satisfied her need for human contact where sex was a by-product, but
not the goal. She was never one to foist responsibility for her situation onto
others. She’d made her life what she wanted it to be, one of no attachments, no
duties, and no obligations beyond the financial, the easiest of all for her to
manage. She had no reason to complain in these odd moments when she found
herself alone and the awareness registered, the isolation so intense the pain
was palpable.
Vehemently, she twisted off the taps and
stepped from the shower into the steamy room. She saw herself as only a wavy
outline in the cloudy mirror. Even when the mirrors were crystal clear, she
rarely glanced at herself. Maybe she was hoping to avoid seeing her reflection
disappear along with the substance of her life.
“And aren’t we just getting existential,” she
muttered, vigorously toweling her hair in an effort to restore a little sanity
to the brain beneath. Wallowing in self-pity was not her style, and truthfully,
she rarely even thought about herself or where she was headed. The only ones
offended by her nomadic lifestyle were Martin and possibly Aud, although she’d
never said so outright. Henrietta’s sudden life-threatening illness had dragged
her out of her complacency and shattered the lethal ennui, reminding her that
life could still kick her in the gut, no matter how carefully she distanced
herself from anything that might touch her. She hadn’t counted on Henrietta
disturbing the touchstone of her life by almost dying. Henrietta was just HW,
like the Atlantic was always the Atlantic. Wherever Derian roamed, she knew
where her center rested. Henrietta was the force that kept her connected to the
world in any real way. Now she felt like a balloon on a fraying tether, in
danger of floating off completely.