Hotel No Tell by Daphne Uviller
By SMW Staff
Zephyr Zuckerman is undercover as a concierge at the Greenwich Village Hotel, trying – and failing – to track down a missing hundred grand. Her detective boyfriend has moved out because of their disagreement about reproducing (he wants kids, Zephyr doesn’t), and she’s left with her Holland Lop bunny named after a famous atheist, an old friend who’s married and miserable in suburban motherhood, and one new friend who’s a wedding planner in dire need of an exorcist.
It soon becomes clear that the trouble at the hotel goes much, much deeper than a little old-fashioned laundering. Before Zephyr can master the reservation system, she is yanking at the threads of a multi-million dollar egg donation scandal and re-examining her own motives for opting out of mommyhood.
DAPHNE UVILLER BIO
A former Books/Poetry editor at Time Out New York, Daphne’s reviews, profiles, and articles have been published in The Washington Post, The New York Times, Newsday, The Forward, New York Magazine, Oxygen, Allure, and Self, for which she used to write an ethics column.
Super in the City, her debut novel, is available in paperback and Kindle editions, and still getting rave reviews! Daphne also co-edited, with Deborah Siegel, the acclaimed anthology Only Child: Writers on the Singular Joys and Solitary Sorrows of Growing Up Solo.
A third-generation West Villager, Daphne lives in the Hudson Valley with her husband and two children.
Friday, October 2, 2009
I definitely should have lied. Until that moment, it had never occurred to me that I’d have to lie about my age for anything other than the kiddie rides at Coney Island. Tucked into an overstuffed armchair inside the sterile offices at Ova Easy, my feet straining to reach the floor, I faced a girl who resembled her metal desk: angular, sterile, unyielding.
“We only accept eggs from donors under twenty-five. And you. Are thirty-one.” She glanced distastefully at the application I’d hastily filled out at Formica counter at Groovy Smoothie, a block south on lower Broadway. From where I sat, I could see a pale-orange citrus stain dampening the corner of the paper.
“Thirty,” I corrected tersely, adjusting the black rectangular frames I’d opted for instead of contacts with the express purpose of conveying youthful studiousness. Black miniskirt, black tights, black knee-high boots, black turtleneck. Perhaps I’d gone a bit too far on the artsy, intellectual university look. Perhaps I’d missed my stop and gone all the way to Paris in the sixties: The only items missing were a Gauloises and some pinot noir – not exactly the look you want to convey when posing as a candidate for egg donation at a fertility clinic recently featured on a Best Of list in New York magazine.
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