a start in the half-light of the early Manhattan morning, facedown on my sofa in a puddle of drool. Panic electrifies my body as I re-remember Hudson is gone. My eyes feel like they’ve been doused in a combination of lemon juice and glue. They sting, but I can’t quite pull them open. I’d spent the early part of the night alternately laying down, feeling like a freight train was racing through my brain, then leaping up and pacing the apartment. I wonder how many hours of sleep I’d I’ve had. Two or three? I had been sure the police would call, or that someone at the shelter would get in touch to say that Hudson had shown up. My cell phone never left my hand.
As I moved from room to room, filled with an energy to act, but having nothing to do, I’d stop and pick up a squeaky toy here, or a morsel of kibble there, each time calling, “Huddie!” before realizing again and again, like Groundhog Day, that he wasn’t there. Everywhere I looked was another reminder of our life together. The framed photo of us at The Chelsea Piers Mixed-Breed Dog Show, the prescription bottle of antiseptic the vet had given us when he stepped on that nail on Amsterdam Avenue, the fluffy donut bed I’d splurged on from Orvis with his name embroidered on the front.
Awake now, and at the end of my tether I punch Aunt Miranda’s number in via “Favorites.” Actually, it should be “favorite,” since she’s the only one. Despite the pre-dawn hour, she picks up before the second ring.
“Oh hello, darling,” she launches in immediately. “I only have a split second, but I’ve rung to say I’m mortified I haven’t gotten in touch since the fiasco at the tree lighting.”
“You didn’t call me, I called you.”
“Be that as it may, I’m standing in The Russian Tea Room overseeing the set-up for an informal meeting of the G8 leaders, but you didn’t hear that from me. Would you believe the Prime Minister of Canada flat out refuses to sit at a table where smoked sable is being eaten? Claims it makes him gag. Usually Canadians are the least of my worries, always so polite.”
“I don’t care about the tree lighting,” I interrupt her, stripping off my sweaty clothes from the night before, and pulling on sweat pants and a sweatshirt.
“That’s the attitude!” she bursts in. “Shake it off and move forward. Let it go, or get revenge. No point dwelling. By the by, I’m still not up to speed with what happened, but rest assured when I find out, heads will roll. Say you aren’t cross with me.”
“I’m not, but…”
“Well, I should think not,” she cuts me off. “Doubtless you got some underling’s back up, and in the short term that can only lead to a dead end. Until you’re prepared to shoot through the heart, never show your gun. Have you still not read that copy of the “Art of War” that I had Cerie ship to you?”
“You are not listening to me. I’m trying to tell you that Huddie is missing.”
“He’s quite small…have you checked under the bed? You know, at one time Cerie was a warrior. I once watched her bring Joan Rivers to tears! I loved Joanie, God rest her soul, but Cerie was right. The Gucci bootlets were too youthful.”
I sense that she’s in the middle of a monologue, and not about to come up for air any time soon. I take the time to run into the kitchen and pop a capsule into my Nespresso machine. I’m going to need coffee today, and lots of it if I’m going to find my little needle in the haystack that is New York City.
“Aunt Miranda, do you even care that my dog is missing? Do you?”
“Of course, darling, but I’m in the middle of a story. Just let me finish my thought. Losing Cerie was like losing my right arm, let me tell you. I will never, as long as I live, understand how she could have chosen to take leave just as I was on the brink of locking down the curation of Caitlyn Jenner’s world debut.”
“Didn’t you say she was in labor?” I demand in exasperation. “For God’s sake, Aunt Miranda.” I slam down my coffee cup.
“We all make our choices, don’t we? Any old hoo, I’m calling to break the news that Christmas Day lunch at yours is defo a no-go. I’m sorry, darling, it’s just the event planner for the Vatican Christmas Dinner quit in a huff. It seems the new pontiff is a good deal more humble than previous ones, and he’s insisting on keeping it simple.”
“Aunt Miranda! I called to talk about Hudson. I don’t have time to talk about Christmas.”
“Several cardinals are in an uproar, and Jacques Desmaisson refuses to work with such a low budget, “low” being in heavy inverted quotes, you understand.” While she rattles on, I pour milk in the frother, and watch it swirl and foam.
“Aunt Miranda,” I say, cutting in where there’s a breath, “I need you to focus. On me, for a change.”
“Oh, but don’t you want to hear my genius plan to make this disaster an opportunity by introducing a shabby-chic element? Picture it: The Vatican meets Pottery Barn meets Summer in Provence! It goes without saying that all of the gold staffs and mitres could distract from the theme, but my new assistant has some ideas that could tie it all together.”
“You are seriously not going to listen to me, are you?”
“Hold the phone, darling. You cannot put silver spoons in the Beluga caviar, you nitwit! That’s why we special-ordered an entire crate of mother of pearl ones! Sorry about that, as I was saying, Henry did a short stint in Connecticut last summer for Martha Stewart, you know. During the Post-Prison Renaissance. I stole him from under her nose. She’s furious. Suffice it to say, I won’t be shucking clams at her beach house any time soon. Still, it was worth it. Henry is a hungry young thing who works like a machine. I have him here through to New Year’s when he’s promised himself to Nigella Lawson for some launch or another. I’ll be sorry to see him go, even though he’s in the doghouse with me at the moment for the way he treated you at the tree lighting.”
I feel a stab of guilt. “Don’t punish him on my account. Even if he is a puffed-up jerk.”
“Don’t try and defend him! I’ll think of a little lesson to teach him. If you give the brilliant ones too much rope early on, they don’t learn discipline. If I check his ego, he’ll respect me for it and take it like a man. He’s the closest thing to a mini-me I have. No offense, darling.”
“None taken. Believe me.”
I slurp down my second coffee in one hot gulp, the bitter burn no match for the hole in my heart left by the fact that Aunt Miranda is continuing to ignore me. It’s no secret she has always been disappointed that I don’t click around behind her in high heels and a form-fitting pencil skirt barking orders at catering staffs around the globe. But you’d think she’d be on deck for me in a time of crisis. As if I’d want to be a robot like that stick-up-his ass Englishman she had toadying for her. I wish I didn’t need her. It would feel so good to just hang up on her. But today I do.
I can hear crystal tinging, and people shouting in Russian.
“Aunt Miranda! Hello? Are you even listening to me?” Why won’t she just pay attention to me and let her little shadow handle whatever is going on at The Russian Tea Room. He’s probably lording his power above PAs and waiters as we speak.
I’m not sure if my heart is pounding from the two shots of espresso I just chugged, or from abject fear of never seeing my dog again.
I check my circa 1955 red Bakelite kitchen clock, and see that
