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Rudy had recently moved from an East Side penthouse to a loft in the Village; he'd seen it in a design magazine and had to have it. Walking off the elevator and into the massive open-plan first floor gave me a pang of homesickness for a time when such a thing would have been possible for Neil and me. Before Emma and Michael, before Olivia, before El-Mudad and the girls. Our lives hadn't seemed empty and lonely then; we could have packed up and changed our lives at a moment's notice. But we never had, so I wasn't sure why I felt so much regret about that now.
Maybe it was just my brain trying to distract me from all my other thoughts and feelings, none of which were good.
"Welcome, welcome," Rudy said, going for his usual, theatrical charm. It fell flat under the weight of too much evident exhaustion.
"You haven't slept a wink," Neil accused, going in for a hug.
El-Mudad and I lingered awkwardly. We weren't on a casual hug basis with Rudy the way Neil was.
"Well, come on in, don't haunt my doorway. It’s bad luck." Rudy wore arguably the most dressed-down outfit I'd ever seen him in; black leggings and albino snake-skin slippers, with what appeared to be a Talking Heads t-shirt beneath a soft ivory pashmina shawl.
That's his sitting around the house clothing.
Not that I hadn't tried to turn my fashion choice down a notch. Rudy and I shared a love of clothing that sometimes led to situationally inappropriate sartorial decisions. But not today. My black turtleneck and dark jeans were the two plainest items in my closet.
"The place looks lovely," Neil said, clearing his throat nervously as he walked into the large square of natural light in the middle of the room. "Skylights?"
"No, I had a model made of the sun, and I stuck it to the ceiling," Rudy said with a roll of his eyes. "Of course, skylights. Right down the middle, straight from the fifth floor.”
"Bloody hell, you could fit my apartment in here four times," Neil said with a low whistle.
"And it probably cost a quarter of the price," I put in.
Rudy pointed a finger at me. "Exactly."
"When I bought mine, the address was the most important bit," Neil said defensively. "Besides, you and I have wildly different tastes."
For example, Rudy's Roman villa themed decor and architecture wouldn't fly with Neil. He'd mentioned with great chagrin that Rudy's new apartment would be "a theme park."
"Where should I wait?" El-Mudad asked, slicing through the thin membrane of tension that cloaked the atmosphere of the room. "I don't think Valerie would appreciate my presence."
To my surprise, it was Rudy who said, "No, she won't appreciate it. But you're going to be Olivia's daddy now. She needs to both accept that and respect it."
"Thank you," El-Mudad said, placing a hand over his heart. "For your support."
"I love Valerie," Rudy went on. "I love her, and I would do anything for her. But Olivia is a child. She comes first. She needs our help right now."
Neil had gone very quiet, examining one of the Romanesque columns surrounding the seating area. For the first time, I noticed the shallow, circular pond resting placidly where a coffee table should have been, and I giggled. The guys all looked at me with varying levels of annoyance and rebuke.
"I wasn't laughing at the situation." I pointed to the water feature. "I was laughing about how extra that tiny pool is."
"That's fine. You can call it extra. I'll be the one relaxing with my aching feet in it later." Rudy raised an eyebrow.
Neil stooped down and touched the water. "My god. It's heated."
"Don't pretend you've never noticed how I pamper my feet," Rudy shot back smugly.
El-Mudad and I exchanged a surprised look. Neil and Rudy had never been intimate, but a comment like that made their friendship more fascinating than it already had been.
"Come on. We're going upstairs to the salon. We don't need her walking into an ambush," Rudy said, leading us toward an open-backed staircase like black marble shelves set into the wall. As we ascended, I noted that the top of every step showed a scene from Roman mythology in bas relief.
Stylish, but a trip hazard.
Rudy's "salon"—I still couldn't figure out the artsy people aversion to "den"—was less ostentatious than the first floor, but that wasn't much of a bar to clear. The walls were painted deep red, with frescoes of what appeared to be elaborate stage productions.
"Are these operas you've designed costumes for?" I asked, knowing the answer before Rudy gave it.
"I don't care for the look of photographs and programs on the walls," he said with a wave of his hand. "It's tacky, and it smacks of ego."
Because frescoes of one's achievements certainly didn't scream ego.
We seated ourselves on the Roman-style chaises. El-Mudad sat beside me while Neil reclined on another, and Rudy paced the room.
