by CJ Roberts
“Oh.” I can hear the disappointment in his tone.
“Why would I be thinking about me?” I say. “It’s you my mind is focused on.”
He laughs at my silly joke. “I’ve been planning what I’m going to do to you. Have you thought about that, Pearl? The things I’m going to do?”
“Yes,” I whisper. There is someone else in the editing room. “And little else,” I add quietly.
“Dinner tonight?”
“I’d love to. Where?”
“At my place. I’ll be cooking. Anything you don’t eat?”
We both burst out laughing, realizing how apt his question is.
“No red meat. Only free range chicken.”
“I’ll send a car to pick you up at eight o’clock.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“Oh yes, I know you will.”
So arrogant! This man is sure he has me just where he wants me. Under his thumb. And what a thumb it is too, zeroing in on my G-spot the way it did the other day. Just thinking about it has me feeling all melty again.
Eight O’clock is going to feel like an eternity.
The exterior of Alexandre’s corner-lot, pre-war apartment building is particularly elegant. It is entered on Sixty Second Street under a very high fixed marquee, rather than the ubiquitous green awning seen everywhere else in Manhattan. The doorman lets me in with a flourish. It seems he is expecting me. The lobby is grand and makes my place look humble. This is how the other half live, or rather, not the other half (I am the other half – I have food on the table, right?) This is how the 0.75% lives – the ridiculously wealthy. The old black and white marble floors are polished to a high sheen, set off by large arches. Antique sofas upholstered in silk damask are placed strategically by a vast, marble fireplace overhung with a Louis XlV mirror. I doubt people sit on those sofas very often, as they are pristine. The flower arrangements look as if they were prepared for a wedding or for some charity benefit, towering in old-fashioned copper vases, which gleam so brightly they reflect the room. All this, for just the lobby.
The doorman buzzes open the elevator for me and says, “The Penthouse, Ms. Robinson.”
“Thank you.”
I walk inside the roomy elevator that smells of roses. Just as the doors are about to close, an elderly lady shuffles forward, shouting, ‘wait’ but the doors magically reopen, controlled at the entrance by the doorman. The elderly lady steps in. She is draped in jewels, dons oversized dark shades and carries a host of shopping bags from Tiffany and Neiman Marcus.
“Hello,” I say and smile.
“Hello dear,” she croaks.
The lit-up buttons display our floors, although neither of us has pressed anything.
“You’re visiting Alexandre?” she enquires.
“Yes. For dinner.”
“How exciting. He’s a marvelous cook. I wonder what he’ll serve you.”
“You’ve had dinner with him?” I ask, trying not to sound too surprised – I don’t want to seem rude.
“Dinner, lunch. He’s a lovely boy – everybody in the building just adores him. Such a talent at everything he does. He’s arranged some soirées for charity with musical quartets and just the best food ever. He’s so kind and has time for everyone – even an old lady like myself. Such a honey.”
Her door opens at the third floor. “Have a lovely evening, dear.”
“Thank you. You too,” I call after her.
The elevator is lined in mirrors and has a small bench to sit on, also upholstered in silk damask. I inspect myself. I’m wearing a black dress, a beautiful, vintage Jean Muir which I picked up for a song somewhere in The Village. It is silk knit and hangs like a dream. Simple, elegant, understated. It fits like a glove, perfect about my bust – tight about my breasts, demanding no bra. I have a small back which means a lot of tops and dresses swim about me, but it’s also a blessing as it means I can pick up things from the sixties and seventies that don’t fit today’s modern woman.
I left my apartment looking as if vandals had ripped my bedroom apart. Every single item of my wardrobe is lying in chaotic piles on the bed, strewn over chairs, on the floor. They have even found their way into the bathroom. Decisions, decisions. I was going to wear a slinky, long, red dress but thought it was too ‘sex siren’ – not the message I want to advertise. I think Alexandre has got the point. I don’t want overkill. I tried on a beautiful cream dress with rosebuds but I looked too ‘little girl’. Then I decided that I must wear the pearls. Not something I can put on for work, and where else can I wear them if not for dinner with Alexandre? So then the dress became all about, ‘what will go with the pearls?’ Thank goodness I left work early and gave myself time. I finally settled on this old favorite, the Jean Muir. Classic. Timeless. It reaches just below my knees, is tight about the bust but flares in two layers so if I spin about it almost makes a circle around me. I put on some simple pearl studs but would you know it? The pearls of the earrings did not match – did not pick up even one of the forty shades of the choker. So I tried some diamond studs which my mother gave me for my twenty-first birthday, which match the clasp of the necklace – just about. The faithful, high, nude pumps complete the outfit. Nude pumps with a black dress? Yes, they lengthen the legs. A tip I picked up from Vogue.
Hair loose, mascara, a little eyeliner and some lip gloss. My eyes don’t look good with a lot of make-up, and I’m so bad at blending foundation that I pass on that.
My bag is a simple black clutch (that’s a first) and I just have a pale blue cashmere wrap, in case I get chilly, but right now it’s pretty hot outside.
The elevator doors open directly at the Penthouse on the thirteenth floor (lucky for some) and I walk inside the apartment. There is no corridor. It seems that there are no other apartments on this floor – Alexandre has it all to himself.
He welcomes me. He looks even more informal than usual in just his Levis and a T-shirt. He’s barefoot and I catch a glimpse of those elegant toes.
“Good evening, Pearl, you look quite beautiful.” More Beauty Full than Beauty Fool, his accent says. Let’s hope I can keep going with the Beauty Full and not slip into the Fool which I fear I did this morning with my needy begging for sex. He said himself he likes me because I am ‘mature’ – I need to act like a grown-up, not a spoiled brat screaming for more candy.
He kisses me softly but not passionately, as if to say, let’s try not jumping each other’s bones in the first few seconds.
I keep my shoulders back (thanks for that tip, Mom, it has served me well) to try to give the gliding, poised look. It seems to work. I feel tall in my heels.
“You look so elegant in the necklace,” he says. “I appreciate that you’re wearing it for me.”
“Not as much as I appreciate the gift. Every time I look at it, I’m bowled over.”
“I have another gift for you.”
“Oh no! Alexandre, please. You’re cooking me dinner, that’s already special. And this choker was beyond generous. You really don’t have to give me anything else.”
“Don’t worry, it’s very simple. I’ll show you in a minute. Now what can I offer you to drink? Champagne? A cocktail?”
“A cocktail sounds tempting but I think I’ll go with champagne, please.”
“As lovely as you look in those shoes why don’t you kick them off – you’ll be way more comfortable – I’ll show you around my abode.”
His abode? His palace, more like.
He’s right. I’m tottering about and feel self-conscious with Alexandre being so informal. I sit on a chair and slip my shoes off my newly buffed and pedicured feet. My toenail polish is ice blue. I look in awe about me. Like the main lobby, the floors are marble, not black and white but a pale gray. Up here the feeling is more Bohemian chic than in the lobby. Nothing is too polished, nothing flashy or overdone. It gives the air of an eighteenth century Parisian house that you might read about in a novel or see in a period movie. Everywhere there is wood paneling
, even hiding the elevator when it closes. There are paintings on the walls, mostly figurative – an eclectic mix of modern and old, and a worn priceless-looking tapestry – a medieval scene of unicorns and ladies picking apples from trees.
Just this hallway is practically the size of my whole apartment.
Alexandre takes my hand. “Come, I’ll give you a tour.”
He leads me into the first room. The floors are now parquet, the wood buffed to a warm glow. The room is also completely paneled.
He stands there, his legs astride, and tells me, “This walnut boiserie is original 1930s when the building was constructed. None of the other apartments have this paneling. See how the era’s ribbon-edge wood motifs are intact?”
I notice how it adds a kind of rococo accent to the place, adorning the doorframes, and the cabinetry and bookshelves which are integrated within the paneling. They run along one side, and on the other are picture windows looking across Central Park to the West side, letting in beams of evening light. The massive room has two fireplaces and a double-aspect – from the south windows there are views to the Plaza and Fifth Avenue. In the middle of the room are two enormous sofas facing each other with a coffee table in between, and at one end of this striking living room cum library is a black, grand piano.
“Do you play?” I ask.
“No, but my sister does.”
“Where is she now?”
“In Paris. But she always stays here when she’s in New York.”
“How often does she come?”
“Once a month, or so.”
“What’s it like having a business partnership with a member of family?” I pry.
“Put it this way, I couldn’t have done it without her. We’re a team. She’s savvy, smart and has a good head on her shoulders when it comes to deals. She’s a tough negotiator.”
“Did she go to Mumbai, too?”
“Oh yes. I don’t make deals without her present. She got a scholarship to Harvard Business School – she’s very well versed when it comes to corporate, multinational stuff.”
I lean against the Steinway and run my fingers along its smooth lines. “I used to play,” I say. “If only we’d had room for a piano like this in our small apartment, maybe I would have continued more seriously.”
“Really? Be my guest. Play something now.”
“Oh, I’m very rusty.”
“No, you’re not,” he replies with a wry smile, and I roll my eyes at his innuendo. “Go on, play something,” he entreats.
I sit at the piano stool and shake out my fingers and wrists. “It’s been a while.”
He leans languidly against the grand, waiting. I take a deep breath and begin one of my favorite tunes.
“Erik Satie,” he says with a knowing smile. “Gymnopedie number 1 – so haunting. You play beautifully, Pearl.”
When I finish he claps and I feel pleased that I didn’t make any mistakes. It makes me remember why I chose the instrument in the first place. I would give anything to have a piano like this.
“Some champagne,” he remembers, opening a hidden bar, camouflaged by the walnut paneling. He looks into a small refrigerator. “For some reason there doesn’t seem to be any in here. Let’s go to the kitchen.”
We make our way down a wide corridor and I find myself in – not a normal kitchen – but a sort of show-room. The ice-box alone would fit a regular-sized bathroom inside it. There is an island in the middle of the room, a big round table at one side, and wall to wall cabinets reaching to the high ceiling. All is white, the counter-tops marble, the floor marble. Light is pouring into the room as the windows are massive. There is a gas-burning stove, wider than an elephant, from which is emanating a delicious aroma of something roasting quietly in the oven.
“That smells wonderful,” I comment.
“Well, let’s hope it tastes as good as it smells.” He walks over to the refrigerator and takes out a bottle of Dom Pérignon rosé champagne and pops open the cork.
“The lady from the third floor was raving about your cooking,” I tell him.
“My grandfather was a chef – I picked up a few tricks.”
“I guess you have the best food in the world in France.”
“Oh, I don’t know, lots of other countries have caught up with us in many ways. I had the most exquisite dish near San Sebastian in Spain a couple of weeks ago, and some of the pizzas here in America rival Italy.”
“Pizza doesn’t count,” I exclaim, “as world-class cooking.”
“Never underestimate the culinary importance of pizza, Pearl,” he tells me with a sardonic smile. “If you were on Death Row you probably wouldn’t ask for haute cuisine.”
“I’d ask for my mother’s macaroni and cheese.”
“Exactly, there you go. It’s the Italians that have us all hooked on their food.” He pours us both some chilled champagne. It’s crisp and aromatic. Champagne, an unbeatable French export.
I raise my eyebrows. “Do you sometimes think about that? Imagine being on Death Row?”
“We don’t have the death penalty in France but since I’ve lived here in The States I do question the possibility sometimes.” He says this with a serious look on his face. Is he kidding? I can never quite tell with him.
“Do you think you’d be capable of murder, then?” I ask, half teasing.
But his answer is serious. “We’re all capable of murder, aren’t we, Pearl? Given the right – or rather the wrong – circumstances.”
I stare at him. I can’t read his expression. He’s a dark horse – an enigma, that’s for sure. I return to the more comfortable topic of food. “You’re probably the only European I’ve met who hasn’t touted his country’s cuisine as the best in the world.”
He laughs. “Oh, I never said we weren’t the best. We take our cooking very seriously. The lunch hour in France is sacrosanct. Everybody sits down for a three-course meal. The point is, we want to be the best – our reputation matters to us. We want to create gastronomic fantasies – so that our guests beg for a second helping.”
The way he says this speaks volumes. That double entendre again. He’s got me begging for a second helping, that’s for sure.
“Follow me.” He leads me by the hand to another room with a flat screen TV splayed across one wall – the room peppered with opulent sofas and chairs. There’s a wrought-iron, spiral staircase and he leads me to it, guiding me as I climb the steps in front of him. At the top, we arrive in a Victorian-style conservatory, spilling over with tropical plants and trees. “I have several species of rare plants here. My sister could be arrested by Customs. She transports cuttings from all over the world in her suitcase.”
“Don’t the plants die in transit?”
“The secret is to wrap the cuttings in kitchen paper towel first, and then plastic. The paper towel is important or the cuttings sweat to death with too much moisture. This way they can survive a good twenty-four hours.”
“Your sister sounds like quite a character.”
“Yes, Sophie can be formidable. Not someone to have on the wrong side of you.”
The more I hear about his sister, the more wary I am, although she seemed perfectly friendly when we met in the coffee shop.
I look about this conservatory which is full of small orange trees, purple bougainvillea and towering palms. It has a sweet aroma of jasmine which I notice climbing on trellises, wild and free.
There is a table in the middle, and elegant garden furniture composed of wrought iron, topped with sumptuous cushions, and double French doors which lead out on to a garden.
“You have a garden on the roof? In New York City?” I squeal in delight, running outside.
“I told you I was organizing my life around my dog. Rex should be quite content here, don’t you think?” His lips curve into a mischievous grin.
The garden has real grass running across the length of the roof and small trees which are swaying in the evening breeze. The view across Central Park is spectacular
– a sea of green reaching across the park to the Dakota on the Upper West Side, and I can even spot the Empire State.
“Now, where would you like to eat? Up here in the conservatory or in the dining room downstairs?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t seen the dining room yet.”
“Well, I’ll show you.”
The dining room is perfectly round and a work of art. Tromp l’Oeil murals adorn the walls, making everything look three dimensional. Looking up, there is a painted blue sky around a dome with puffy wisps of clouds and a hawk flying through the air. It looks so real! There are double-doors opening onto a lake with swans, the view reaching to a far away horizon. The effect is extraordinary. I feel as if I am in an Italian palace centuries ago.
I catch my breath. “I’m in awe”
“So which is it to be, the fake view or the real, rooftop view?”
“I don’t know which to choose. Both are unique. Which one would you suggest?”
“Let’s toss for it.” He reaches into his jeans’ pocket and pulls out an odd silver coin.
“That doesn’t look like a quarter,” I remark.
“It’s my lucky coin. I carry it with me everywhere. It’s a silver stater from ancient Greece.” He shows me a wonky coin, almost the shape of a small pebble – more oval than round with an image of a sea turtle. On the other side are triangular notches.
“Heads for upstairs, tails for down here, okay?”
“Okay, which side is heads?”
“The turtle side.”
He throws the old coin in the air and catches it between his palms. Those palms that cupped me and pressed against my sweet spot only this morning. A shiver rushes through me. He slaps the coin on the back of his hand.
“How d’you know that stater is real?” I ask, foolishly forgetting for a minute that Alexandre is so wealthy he can buy anything he wishes, even museum relics.
“Because I had it checked out by an expert at the Met. She said one of the earliest and busiest Greek mints was on the island of Aegina, off the north-eastern coast of the Peloponnese. It’s probably from around 550 BC. It comes everywhere with me. Nice to have a slice of history traveling about in my pocket wherever I go. Tails it is.”
