He replaced the phone in his pocket and stared back at the parole board with slow, dreamlike movements. Because this felt like a dream: one of those nightmares where you witnessed something terrible unfolding — something you knew would lead to tragedy, disaster — yet you remained paralyzed somehow, powerless to change anything, do anything…
And that was where the similarity ended. Because, Piston knew, one always woke from nightmare. But from this there would be no awakening.
THIRTY-THREE
Change of plans,” Lash said, leaning forward to speak with the driver. “Just let me off here, please.”
He waited for the taxi to clear Columbus Circle and nose to the curb, then he paid the fare and got out. He watched the cab lose itself in a sea of identical yellow vehicles, then put his hands in his coat pockets and began walking slowly up Central Park West.
He wasn’t sure, exactly, why he’d decided to get out several blocks short of the restaurant. Something about not wanting to bump into her outside. And what exactly did that mean? It had to do with controlling the situation: he wanted to see her first, establish his own space before they met. It had to do with nervousness.
In a different mood, he might have smiled at this piece of self-analysis. But there was no mistaking his rapid breathing, his elevated heart rate. Here he was, Christopher Lash, eminent psychologist and veteran of a hundred crime scenes — nervous as a teenager on his first date.
It had begun slowly, that morning, when — instinctively — he’d picked up the phone to call Tavern on the Green. Eden had already made the reservation, but he wanted to choose the dining room personally. As quickly as he’d picked up the phone, he put it down again. What should it be: the Crystal Room, with its glittering array of chandeliers? Or the woodsy ambiance of the Rafters Room? It had taken him ten minutes to decide, then another fifteen on the phone, name-dropping and cajoling the best possible table out of the reservationist.
This wasn’t like him. He rarely ate out anymore, and when he did he was indifferent to seating. But it was equally unusual to pause beside a bus stop and scrutinize his image in the glass, as he was doing now. Or to worry that the tie he’d chosen was too passé, or too gauche, or maybe a little of both.
No doubt Eden had anticipated such reactions. No doubt, in the normal course of things, he’d have been briefed, given a reassuring pep talk. But this was not the normal course of things. Somehow, the company that never made a mistake had made one. And he was now walking up Central Park West, the time was 8 p.m. precisely, and for the first time in several days his thoughts were not preoccupied with the deaths of the Thorpes and the Wilners.
Ahead, where West Sixty-seventh Street emptied into Central Park, he could see countless white lights twinkling among the trees. He maneuvered his way past the clutter of limousines, then passed through the restaurant’s outer doors. He smoothed his jacket, making sure the small pin Eden had sent was still in place. Even that little detail had been fussed over for several minutes: adjusting its placement on his lapel, making sure it was clearly visible yet not too obvious. His mouth was dry, his palms sweaty. Annoyed, Lash wiped his hands against the back of his trousers and moved with determined strides toward the bar.
It all comes down to this, he thought. Funny — all the time he’d spent undergoing his own evaluation, studying Eden and the two supercouples, he’d never stopped to think about what it must feel like: waiting, wondering how that perfect person would look. Until today. Today, he’d thought of little else. He’d learned, from painful experience, what his perfect woman wasn’t like. She wasn’t like Shirley, his ex-wife, with her inability to forgive human weakness, accept tragedy. Would his perfect woman be a blend of earlier girlfriends, some composite generated by his subconscious? Would she be an amalgam of the actresses he most admired: the poised limbs of Myrna Loy, the heart-shaped face of Claudette Colbert?
He stopped in the entrance of the bar, looking around. There were groups of twos and threes scattered around the tables, chatting boisterously. Other, single people were seated at the bar…
And there she was. At least, he thought it must be her. Because a small pin identical to his own was fixed to her dress; because she was looking directly at him; because she was rising from her seat and approaching with a smile.
And yet it could not be her. Because this woman looked nothing like what he expected. This was not willowy, slight, brunette Myrna Loy: this woman was tall and raven-haired. Mid-thirties, perhaps, with mischievous hazel eyes. Lash couldn’t remember ever going out with anybody almost a head taller than himself.
“Christopher, right?” she said, shaking his hand. She nodded toward his pin. “I recognize the fashion accessory.”
“Yes,” he replied. “And you’re Diana.”
“Diana Mirren.” Her accent was unexpected, too: a smooth contralto with a distinct Southern lilt.
Lash had always felt a completely unreasonable scorn for the intellect of Southern women; something about the accent set his teeth on edge. He began to wonder if, perhaps, the same mistake that had sent his avatar into the Tank had carried over to the matchmaking process itself.
“Shall we go in?” he said.
Diana slung her purse over her shoulder and together they approached the reservationist.
“Lash and Mirren, eight o’clock,” Lash said.
The woman behind the desk consulted an oversized book. “Ah, yes. In the Terrace Room. This way, please.”
Lash had chosen the Terrace Room because it seemed the most intimate setting, with its hand-carved ceiling and tall windows giving out onto a private garden. A waiter seated them, then filled their water glasses and slipped two menus onto the table before stepping back with a bow.
For a moment, there was silence. Lash glanced at the woman, noticed she was looking back at him. And then, Diana laughed.
“What?” he asked.
She shook her head, reached for her water glass. “I don’t know. You — you’re not what I expected.”
“I’m probably older, and thinner, and paler.”
She laughed again, and flushed slightly.
“Sorry about that,” he added.
“Well, they told us not to have preconceptions. Right?”
Lash, who hadn’t been told anything, simply nodded.
The sommelier approached, silver tastevin dangling around his neck. “Something from the wine list, sir?”
Lash glanced at Diana, who nodded enthusiastically. “Go on. I love French wine but know practically nothing about it.”
“Bordeaux okay?”
“Naturelement.”
Lash picked up the list, scanned it. “We’ll have the Pichon— Longueville, please.”
“Pichon-Longueville?” Diana asked as the sommelier walked away. “The Pauillac super-second? Should be fantastic.”
“Super-second?”
“You know. All the qualities of a premier cru without the price.”
Lash put the list to one side. “I thought you didn’t know anything about wine.”
Diana took another sip of water. “Well, I don’t know nearly as much as I should.”
“And how’s that?”
“Last year I went with a group on a six-week tour of France. Spent an entire week in the wine country.”
Lash whistled.
“But it’s embarrassing, what I retained and what I didn’t. For example, I remember that Château Beychevelle was the prettiest of the châteaux. But ask me for the best vintages and I’m hopeless.”