The Book of Jane by Anne Dayton Page A

one?”
    â€œI’m sorry?”
    â€œOh, the animal I was trying to protect? In Bali? You know it?”
    â€œNo,” I answer slowly. “But isn’t that great of you? You really have a heart for—”
    â€œThe giant sea turtle…or was it a yak? I think the yaks were in Tibet though.”
    â€œHmm,” I say, trying to sound interested.
    â€œCan’t be sure. Anyway, let’s meet this weekend at the pool at the Hotel Gansevoort.”
    My eyes get wide. The rooftop pool at the Hotel Gansevoort is the celebrity hangout of the moment, replete with bone-thin women and ultra-tan men. “Su-sure. What time?”
    â€œLet’s say Saturday at three, but I’ll have Nina call you to confirm.”
    I jot down, Nina to confirm. Three at Gansevoort. Who is Nina? “Splendid. It will be great to meet you and pick your brain about what you want to do to help with the Strike Hunger Campaign.”
    â€œYep. Um, bye.”
    I hear a dial tone. “Bye-bye,” I say to no one. I’ve talked to the occasional celebrity now and then, but never anyone on his level and never on my personal cell phone. How did he get the number? What have I gotten myself into?

Chapter 5
    I look around uncertainly. The sleek glass fence of the rooftop pool deck reflects the bright sunlight. Thin, tan bodies lounge on the stylish deck chairs, and small groups of perfectly toned socialites gather under the umbrellas. Beyond the glass, the Hudson River glistens, and the deep turquoise pool glows softly in the sun.
    The Hotel Gansevoort is a boutique hotel in the gritty-chic Meatpacking District. Celebrities love to come to New York, and specifically the Meatpacking District, to get away from the paparazzi in Los Angeles that surround even tiny cafés, waiting for just a glimpse of someone famous. And the Hotel Gansevoort is this year’s beehive for the moneyed and famous. Upon seeing the forty-five-foot rooftop pool, I realize that the entire hotel is rather beside the point. The hotel exists to hold this pool high above the hoi polloi. The pool is the scene. This season, anyway.
    I scan the area again. I don’t see him. Surely I would recognize Matt Sherwin, right? Every woman in America knows what he looks like. He must not be here yet. I walk slowly to an available lounger on the far side of the deck. I feel out of place in my dark jeans and heels. A few people look up at me as I walk by but, quickly recognizing that I am not famous, look away. I sit down on the edge of my chair and take it all in.
    It’s one of those stiflingly hot days when summer feels like punishment, but despite the heat, the pool is almost entirely empty. Just one couple sits on the low steps, chatting quietly. Everybody else is just here to see and be seen. A skeletal blond girl sips something cool and clear through a straw under an umbrella, looking around vacantly. Next to her is a pretty auburn-haired friend. They look kind of familiar, especially the redhead. I rack my brain for a name. The redhead glances up and sees me staring at her, and I quickly look away.
    Where is Matt? I should have known better than to show up on time for a celebrity. Maybe I should roll up my jeans and dip my feet in the pool. I lean forward in my chair and begin to roll up my pants, looking up every few seconds to make sure he hasn’t arrived. No luck. I start on my other pants leg, looking around.
    I stand up and walk toward the edge of the pool. I stick my toes in, then crouch down to sit on the edge. I swirl my feet around in the water. The sound of swishing water is soothing in the moist, silent air.
    I don’t hear the door open, but I notice every head swivels when a large, perfectly muscled man walks out holding a glass. I look quickly. Oh my gosh. It’s him. Two girls to my right lean toward each other and whisper. I take a deep breath. Be cool, Jane.
    Matt strides confidently to an open lounge chair, gives