“Uh . . . right, except we’re not sinking. Notwithstanding that analogy, I’m sure your novel’s terrific.”

Instead of following Georgia’s advice to go into the other room, he sits on the couch and watches the lobby scene on the TV.

He is not aware that Jen Bloominosky actually is at the party already. He probably didn’t see her because she’s always hidden by several people trying to talk to her. Georgia is clearly in no mood to set him straight, which I find amusing yet cruel.

Not all of Georgia’s guests are shameless networking self-promoters, but a depressingly large number of them are. Jen Bloominosky is one of the few who are good, kind souls. She is beloved by everyone. And unlike many of the other guests at this party, she doesn’t strike me as superficial, but rather as quite genuine—in fact, unnervingly so. Earlier, she came up to me and raved about my living room decor and “breathtaking costumes on the animals.” As I was thanking her, I noticed her looking at my face carefully, which caused me to ask, “What?” thinking perhaps I had some dip smeared across my cheek.

She said, “For some reason you don’t want people to think you’re very pretty, do you?”

Flustered, I tried to respond naturally. “It’s very nice of you to say that. You look great too.”

“Your hairdo,” she said. “Not many women in their twenties would willingly sport short gray frizzy hair.”

“I know,” I said, smiling. “I like it.” I tugged on one of my gray curls fondly.

“You don’t fool me. Do you fool a lot of people?”

Rattled, I blinked. I didn’t know what to say. Jen Bloominosky is not only an editor but a respected author—clearly an alarmingly observant one. I hoped she wasn’t going to scrutinize me more closely and notice how my hands were a bit slender compared to the rest of my arms. I hid my hands behind my back. I closed my mouth, in case she realized that my ugly teeth were fake. I shrunk my head further down into my turtleneck so she wouldn’t spot my thin neck.

Making sure to keep my teeth covered by my lips, I replied, “Thank you for the compliments. I really like your shirt. Where did you get it?”

She laughed and said she was going to get a refill (three people swarmed her on her way there).

That was earlier in the evening.

Now my friends and I switch my TV set from the doorman channel to regular channels where there is breaking news coverage of the event. Live aerial footage of the building, surrounding crowds, and police cars are brought to us by helicopters we can see and hear outside my windows. We switch back to the closed-circuit surveillance channel.

Peter again tells me he’d like to talk in private. He whisks me into the same bathroom as before and locks the door.

“Barb, doesn’t this put everything in perspective?” he says to me earnestly. “Doesn’t the issue of beauty seem trivial when you compare it to what’s happening in the lobby? I mean, physical appearance is not a life-and-death problem, right? Can’t we get past it?”

The situation with the doorman does make me more vulnerable than ever to Peter. At this moment, there is nothing I’d like more than to sink into his arms and be comforted and loved.

But instead, I say, “If life doesn’t feel worth living, that’s a sort of death, right? No one has ever genuinely loved Lily romantically. And do you think she seems happy? Some days, like today, she seems so sad I’m afraid she’ll kill herself. Yesterday she and Strad broke up because he couldn’t love her the way he did when she was beautiful. So when you ask me if the situation in the lobby puts things in perspective, my answer is things were already in perspective. Take a good look at Lily as she sits at her piano and tell me if beauty isn’t an issue of life and death.”

“Okay, now, let me give you my perspective of what’s going on. Hearing about this psycho doorman insulting you every day terrifies me and makes me realize even more than before how much you mean to me. My feelings for you are not about your looks. You’re the one hung up on your looks.”

“Only because everyone else is.”

He nods. “Barb, life is short. Disasters can happen. It’s true that you could still meet someone who would fall in love with you before finding out about your beauty. But what if he turns out to be an insufferable ass?”

I realize Peter has a point. I’ve thought of that possibility myself. But giving in would be against all my principles. If only that didn’t matter. There’s nothing I would love more than to give in to him right now.

“Would that be better?” he asks.

“No,” I say.

“So let me ask you one more time,” he says. “Can we have more?”

“I wish we could, but I can’t. I’m blocked.”

He nods, looking resigned. I doubt he understood that my last comment was a cry for help. But I say nothing more because I can’t imagine how anyone could help me.

I leave the bathroom. He stays in there a while longer.

I go to my office, wishing there were some solution, some way out of this cage of principles I’ve built for myself.

I see that Mike, the guy who was desperate to meet Jen Bloominosky, has now met Jen Bloominosky. He has trapped her in a corner of my office and is slowly pulling his big manuscript out of his bag while she is nodding to him kindly.

My friends are glued to the doorman channel. They tell me that nothing has changed, no one in the lobby’s been hurt yet. I’m relieved, but I still don’t have the stomach to watch the channel with them, so I look down at the floor.

Georgia comes over to me. “You don’t look well. Are you okay?” she asks.

I don’t feel like telling her that the horror going on in the lobby is not the only reason I’m not feeling well. So I say, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

She strokes my arm. “I’m sorry I made you feel bad before about not reporting the doorman to the super. It’s not your fault this siege is happening. Are things okay with Peter?”

Just as I’m trying to formulate an answer, Molly, Georgia’s freelance publicist, bursts into the room, hollering at us, “I’ve got Page Six on the phone! Barb, they want to know if you’re involved in any movies right now.”

“Uh . . .” I stammer, off guard.

“Molly, will you be sane?” Georgia says.

Molly covers the mouthpiece with her finger and whispers to Georgia, “You be sane. Three of my authors, including you, are trapped at this party. And yes, I know that your new novel is great, but that doesn’t mean you don’t need publicity. You are only an author. Your profession will probably be extinct within your lifetime. So stop bustin’ my chops. I’m just doing my job, which I do as superbly as you do yours. You should congratulate me on having had the presence of mind to pitch the doorman drama to Page Six while it’s still hot. What’s more, they’re eating it up, which hasn’t been the case in a long time.”

Georgia grimaces.

Molly goes on: “So when they ask me if our hostess, Barb Colby, who’s a member of the Knights of Creation—and remember, I came up with that name for you guys—”

“Yes, I could kill you for that, by the way,” Georgia says.

Before Molly has a chance to finish talking, Peter bursts in and rushes up to me. He grabs my wig from my head and flings it aside.

Georgia takes a step back, in shock. Jack, Penelope, Molly, Jen Bloominosky, and the guy with the manuscript no longer in his bag, are all staring at Peter and me in amazement.

Before I can react, Peter rips open my extra-large man’s shirt. The buttons fly off. He yanks apart my fake-fat jacket underneath. The snap fasteners pop like machine-gun fire. My long blond hair is swarming around my shoulders.

This passionate act of Peter’s takes me by surprise. And so does my response to it. I am overcome by a strange sense of relief. My principles—instead of bucking at his disobedience—are paralyzed in the face of such irreverence. I can’t muster the will nor the desire to fight him. I remain completely passive.