When she opened the bathroom door again, the neighbor was gone. Cleo dressed quickly in vintage high-waisted jeans and one of the silk wrap jackets she’d painted earlier that year, splashing giant peacocks and shining black crows across the backs. She’d brought a few in her suitcase when she left Frank’s; she’d packed anything with long sleeves. She checked the sleeves of the jacket now. They were slightly loose, sliding up and down her arm freely. She whipped it off and pulled on a mesh long-sleeved shirt underneath, then retied the jacket. She was grateful the spring had not yet turned warm.
Audrey was lounging on the sofa, with her new boyfriend Marshall rubbing her feet, when Cleo entered the living room. Marshall was tall and chestnut-haired, with a square, symmetrical face. He had what Cleo had once heard referred to as “understudy good looks,” a generic handsomeness that lacked any discernible flaw or character.
“Wow, you look great,” said Audrey.
“I think your neighbor was looking at me naked,” Cleo said. She perched on the sofa arm to braid her hair.
“Pervert,” said Audrey. “I caught him watching us having sex the other day.”
“Babe, that’s because you refused to close your curtains,” Marshall said.
“Well, I prefer the way I look in natural light, my sweet.”
“All I’m saying, gorgeous, is that it wasn’t very private.”
Cleo smiled inwardly at this exchange. The more petulant they grew with one another, the more saccharine their nicknames became. This, along with Marshall’s gift for offering the most basic psychological insight possible into any situation （“Relationships are complicated,” “People are full of surprises”）， was a reliable source of amusement for her.
“That’s the crazy thing about New York,” said Audrey. “Not even your bedroom is private. All the world’s a stage, I guess.”
“And the men and women merely overcharged renters,” said Cleo.
“New York is so overpriced,” said Marshall.
Audrey stroked Marshall’s cheek affectionately with her big toe. They’d met at Santiago’s first restaurant, where she was still a hostess and Marshall had until recently been a server. Now Marshall made his living cheerfully harassing tourists into buying tickets to comedy clubs on MacDougal Street, where he also occasionally performed with his improv group. Cleo was spared having to attend these performances by Audrey, who didn’t believe in theater where, as she put it, “no one has bothered to learn their lines.” Marshall was Audrey’s first boyfriend, the first man Cleo had ever known her to sleep with more than once, in fact.
“Anyway,” said Audrey. “I should start getting ready too. You look so good, Cleo. I wanna wear something like that.”
“Really?” said Cleo. “I have some more if you want to take a look in the pile by my suitcase.”
Audrey sprung up and disappeared into the bedroom.
“Perks of having Cleo as a roommate!” she sang.
“Just houseguest!” called Cleo. “I promise I’ll be off your sofa soon.”
“Don’t worry,” Marshall said. “We love having you here.”
Cleo raised one eyebrow. We? As far as she knew, Marshall lived in a loft in Red Hook with six other out-of-work actors. Audrey appeared from the bedroom wearing one of the jackets over a dress so short it ended up looking like a very tiny bathrobe.
“Ta-da!” Audrey pivoted on her pointed high heels. “What do you think? Good enough for the party of the year?”
They were going to the opening night for the artist Danny Life’s new show, Deathly Revelations. Danny and Cleo had been in graduate school together back when he had adult braces and still went by Danny Rodriguez, which was how she’d managed to get them on the list for what was arguably the most hyped and exclusive party to come out of a circle of artists known for producing hyped and exclusive parties.
Located in an abandoned liquor warehouse on Randall’s Island, the event was being sponsored by real estate developers hoping to drum up support for two luxury towers they planned to erect in the warehouse’s place. It was the central thrust of an effort to rebrand the neighborhood as a viable home for creative urban professionals, most of whom had never heard of Randall’s Island. But Cleo wasn’t going for the hype, the guest list, or the pleasure of being able to tell those not invited she was there. Frank would be there. She was going to see Frank. She was going so Frank would see her.