Chapter One Connor Blakey limped through the crowd of New Year's revelers in the lobby of the Pierre Hotel. It was just as well everyone was too drunk to notice the blood on her leg, she thought, heading for the elevator. She glanced at her watch: eleven-thirty. In a half hour the whole depressing year would be over, definitely something to celebrate. The next thought, that 1978 could turn out even worse than 1977, was too demoralizing to dwell on. She felt the eyes of the hotel staff on her. She knew they were worried to see her alone. Her family had paid them not to report her exploits to the gossip columns; what would happen to that extra income if she became celibate? She rode up in the elevator with an unaccompanied male. By the time he got off at his floor, he was also unaccosted. Connor had a rule: She never offered herself to a man over forty. The elevator doors closed. She was rich, beautiful, and easy; and now, outrageously, she was alone again. She unlocked the door to the apartment she kept in the hotel, flinging her purse onto a chair. It fell to the floor, spilling out her lip gloss, artificial sweetener tablets, and empty diaphragm case. I'm just like Willy Loman, Connor thought -------- © 2004 Sarah Kernochan
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