Any Boston native, not to mention most New En-glanders, would be familiar with the Oval Room. It was historically significant, artistically important, architecturally stunning, and socially desirable. But estrogen charged? Definitely not an everyday occurrence, and one those who normally frequented the Oval Room would have pooh-poohed at.But not Vivi. She’d been prepared for this. And she’d come anyway. Glutton for punishment, that’s what she was.“What can I get you, darlin’?” the bartender asked her.Vivi peered through the foliage and discovered him standing in her neck of the woods, at the end of the bar.“Trying to keep a low profile here,” she said under her breath.“Something tropical,” he decided, eyes on the greenery, not getting with the skulking program. “Piña colada? Mai tai?”Vivi gauged the level of sexual tension in the place. “How about a fire hose?”The bartender grinned. “What kind of fun would that be?”“Planning to console the losers?”“One or two of them, anyway.”He winked and headed off to fill a drink order for the aforementioned potential losers, which would be any number of the rich, bored socialites crowded at round tables, some of them with their chairs turned backward so they didn’t have to crane their necks to see the rainbow of men lined up across the low stage erected at the opposite end of the room.
