I continue down the hall to a short set of stairs and one of the exit points to the main floor. I wait, hand on the knob, and listen to the murmur of the gathering crowd on the other side. The faint twitch of nerves flutters in my stomach. This is it.

I take in a long breath, trying to steady myself. I don’t know what to expect from my first look at the crowd. The excited buzz from the dressing room has given way to that other, unnamed sensation. Whatever it is, it’s good; a little unwieldy, but good. When I open the door, sound swells into my ears: laughter, chatter, and the clinking of barware. I round the corner into the bar, and my breath catches.

The bar is almost full, guests enjoying drinks and conversation as they wait to be seated. The seats on the islands are filling up with our VIPs, and the tables between the islands and the bar are mostly seated as well. Across from me, Marley beckons to a group I recognize as friends of Chloe’s in from California, escorting them to the catwalk. Andrea’s resumed her post at the hostess station, fielding a phone call. She throws her head back, clearly exasperated, and plucks her martini from the podium.

Looking around, there’s no question we’ve maintained the Russian contingency, and I spot a penis-tipped tiara among a group of women with sashes that read, “Karli’s Gettin’ Hitched!” No sign of any fratty Wall Streeters, though. I suspect their attendance had more to do with Meryton’s proximity to the Financial District than any particular fondness for the club, but it works for me: Wickham can have all the coked-up broker bros he wants—assuming Meryton ever opens.

The thought passes over me like a cold shadow. Our renovation crew had friends on the Meryton job and kept us abreast of the setbacks that befell the other operation. It seems a few purloined sketches of a design scheme do not a cohesive concept make, and when pressed for clarity on “his” vision, Wickham struggled to expand beyond what he’d snatched from me. This cost him two reputable contractors, and when he finally found someone willing to work with the incomplete concept, Wickham couldn’t pony up for the deposit.

The bold-lettered sign that went up a few days after Meryton’s last show read, “REMODELING: Under New Management!” It was replaced a month later with “Schedule Your New Year’s Eve Event!” Last week, a handwritten note was taped over the vinyl sign: “Grand Opening: TBD.”

When Tonic sent me the picture, my stomach bottomed out. Wickham’s spiraling descent toward failure should be satisfying; instead, it’s just sad. We may have transplanted the heart of the place, but it hurts to see Meryton being treated so shamefully.

“Hey, kitty cat,” calls Michael. “Feeling proud?”