New York on a crisp autumn Saturday night in 1990 was hard to beat for buzzing energy—every restaurant, bar, club, sidewalk, park and alleyway heaving with pinstriped bankers, moonstruck couples, gender-indeterminate hipsters, drunken students, gawping tourists, all sure that they were in the bright center of the galaxy at that moment.  And Shelley, a slim and irritated blonde, alone at the bar at Jean George, looking at her watch and rolling her eyes:  “I can’t believe this—he’s done it again!”  It was the third time in as many weeks that Peter had stood her up, every time with an excuse barely inside the chalk line of plausibility, and delivered with that special mix of charm and humor and puppydog groveling that somehow transformed inexcusable affront to forgiveable transgression.  The “emergency redraft of the IPO prospectus;” the “surprise visit from the client from Tokyo;” the “discounted-for-a-reason sushi at lunch;” it was always something.  Peter was good-looking, charming and funny, and the most unreliable and unpunctual person she had ever met.   His friends only put up with him because of what good company he made when he actually showed up.  When Shelly was sure that Peter was not coming, she stood up to leave with injured pride and a vindictive gleam in her eye.  

“Ok, Ok, I’ll go—Eagle Tavern at 7:30—but last chance forever,” she finally said to Peter the next day, after letting him wheedle and plead about his “big pitch with GE” for about 20 minutes.  As soon as she hung up she called their mutual friend Scott—a partner in exasperation—to hatch a plot.  Scott’s ad agency had had a very beautiful French intern the summer before that Peter had only heard about but had wanted to meet, and Scott called to tell him that Inez (the girl in question) and her sister were in town for a modelling assignment and that Scott needed someone to buy them a drink and keep them entertained for an hour that night.  Peter rose to the bait like a shark to a surfer:  “I’m supposed to see Shelley, but I’ll think of something—tell them Bobby Flay’s at 730!”  “Shelley, terrible news, my mom is in hospital at Mt Sinai, I have to postpone.  Thanks, I think she’ll be fine, really sorry!”

Peter arrived right on time for once, dapper and ready to please, and pushed towards the bar, keen to find his brace of models.  He arrived at the bar, looking around for his French quarry, when he spied a familiar figure sitting there—Oh, no! Shelley!  His eyes darted left and right, but too late, he had been spotted: “Hi, Peter, your mom feeling better?”  “Uh, no, I’m just on my way there, just needed to see a guy for a minute!”  And at that moment the woman next to Shelley leaned back and said “No need, Petey, I’m feeling much better now!”  It was his mother.