by Wendy Leigh
James, the chauffeur I met yesterday, hands me a large envelope before returning to the Rolls and, presumably, Hartwell Castle. Inside, a draft legal proposal for me to ghost Robert Hartwell’s autobiography, start date in three months, and offering me an improbably large sum of money. The ghosting assignment of my dreams! And Robert Hartwell is handing it to me on a plate!
But before the reality can sink in, I read his handwritten note informing me that he is looking forward to our lunch today, and it strikes me forcibly that so am I, far, far more than I ever imagined.
The truth is that since yesterday, I’ve been counting the minutes until I’m in his presence again to experience his magnetism, his power, the electricity of his green eyes fixed hypnotically on mine. He makes me feel that if I were lost in a jungle, he would rescue me, and protect me forever.
I only wish I had another Chanel to wear for our lunch. Instead, I settle on a green floral dress I picked up in a vintage shop and try hard to concentrate on getting ready.
But I’m finding it difficult, wrestling as I am with a dilemma: Do I bring my manuscript of Unraveled with me as Robert Hartwell instructed, so that I can read it to him over lunch? Or, as he’s already signed an agreement promising not to reveal my identity as the author, and has proposed that I ghost his book, do I rebel and leave the manuscript behind at home?
No matter what, Miranda, always be true to your word. Always be honorable.
My father said that to me when I changed my mind about going to summer camp long after the fees had been paid. At the time I remember thinking, Who are you to lecture me when you’re running around on my mother?
But deep down, I knew he was right, and I guess I still do.
So I stuff the manuscript in my purse and head over to the city.
During the subway ride, Grandpa’s warning of last night rings in my ears: Be on your guard, Miranda. Charming as Robert Hartwell may be, as lucrative as it might be to ghost his autobiography, don’t let him see the effect he is having on you. Play hard to get. Otherwise, once the white heat of his interest in you has subsided, he could easily discard you without another thought.
Are you saying that I shouldn’t do it, then, Grandpa? I said.
Dearest Miranda, I only want what’s best for you. I only want you to be safe and happy, Grandpa said, then returned to his astrological calculations.
Twenty blocks before the Hartwell Gallery, the bus hits a pothole and has a puncture. So I have to get out and walk all the way up Madison, praying that I won’t be late.
One look at Robert Hartwell pacing the purple marble lobby of the gallery, his face as dark as thunder, and I realize that I am late.
Very late.
Forty-five minutes late, to be exact.
And I’m surprised that he’s even still here, waiting for me.
“Delighted that you could manage to find the time to join me, Miss Stone,” he says.
Then he turns his big broad back on me and strides toward the restaurant, while I trudge along behind him, feeling about an inch high.
In front of the revolving door, he stops and motions me to go ahead.
A memory pops into my mind unbidden, something Grandpa once said about my father: “He goes through a revolving door behind you, but always comes out in front.”
An odd thought to have had at that moment, I know, but Robert Hartwell throws me so off-balance that I can’t think straight. One thing, though, is clear: Violetta, the Hartwell Gallery restaurant, appears to be empty.
A midtown Manhattan, three-Michelin-star restaurant completely empty at lunchtime?
But at least I won’t have to worry about the other diners overhearing me when I read the first chapter of Unraveled to Robert Hartwell.
I follow him to a red velvet–curtained alcove in the back of the restaurant. Without a word, he hands me a glass of pink champagne, raises his own in a silent toast, and then gives me one of his dark, intense stares, which burns through me to such a degree that I am so unnerved I have to look away.
The maître d’ glides over to our table, but Robert Hartwell gives him his fierce look, and he instantly bows away.
“Now, Miss Stone,” Robert Hartwell says, once we’ve sat down facing each other, “let me get right to the point . . .”
“I wouldn’t expect anything else of you, Mr. Hartwell,” I say.
“Spirited today, aren’t we, Miss Stone?” he says, with enough of a chuckle to make me relax slightly.
“Always, Mr. Hartwell,” I say, emboldened by the pink champagne I’ve been sipping.
“Good,” he says, “I like a woman with spirit.”
So does that mean he likes me? As a woman, not just as a ghostwriter?
“And I also like your sense of style, Miss Stone. Navy Chanel yesterday. And a green dress today,” he says.
Green like your eyes, I think, but instead say, “Vintage, Mr. Hartwell.”
“Perfect for your hair, Miss Stone.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hartwell,” I say, about to add how thrilled I am to be ghosting his autobiography, but a waiter is suddenly at the table, as if Robert Hartwell has somehow magicked him there.
“Miss Stone will begin with the beluga, followed by the lobster Newburg, and I shall have the same. Then she will finish with the chocolate soufflé,” he declares, then dismisses the waiter before I have the chance to protest.
Not that I want to.
Chocolate soufflé.
I hardly know this man.
But he sure as hell knows me.
“Don’t get too comfortable, Miss Stone. It’s time for you to start reading!” he says suddenly.
How in hell’s name can I read anything to him when he’s so close to me that I can hardly breathe?
“Did anyone ever tell you that can be extremely overbearing, Mr. Hartwell?” I say, trying to win back some ground from him, if only for a moment.
“Allow me to lay down a rule, Miss Stone,” he says by way of an answer.
“I hate rules, Mr. Hartwell.”
“That’s unfortunate, because I believe that strict rules can be beneficial, especially to a young lady in your position,” he says.
“My position, Mr. Hartwell?”
“As my ghostwriter, I mean.”
Robert Hartwell’s ghostwriter! I was too focused on seeing him again, too overwhelmed by the man to truly grasp the news that I really do have the chance of ghostwriting his autobiography after all. And making all my career dreams come true.
“Then I’d be most interested to hear your rule, Mr. Hartwell,” I say.
He leans back in his chair, in the process displaying his big shoulders and well-developed muscles to their best advantage.
“Very well: as you are about to become my ghostwriter, I’d advise you never to butt your pretty little head against mine, Miss Stone, because mine is far, far harder than yours.”
Robert Hartwell: Hard. Harder. The image that flashes through my mind is so potent that all of a sudden, I’m at a loss for words.
“You are a clever girl, Miss Stone,” he goes on after a minute or two, “but if you choose to dance with the devil, you will have to accept that you may never get your own way again.”
“Are you saying that you are the devil, Mr. Hartwell?”
“No, Miss Stone, but I’ll wager that when we’re done, you’ll be claiming that I am.”
Done? We’ve only just met, but Robert Hartwell is already planning to be done with me! Just like Grandpa predicted . . .
“When we are done with lunch, I mean,” Robert Hartwell says hastily, intuiting my thoughts, then adds, “Unless, of course, you are planning to welsh on our bet . . .”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” I say, somewhat grudgingly.
“You are indeed, Miss Stone. And as Napoléon used to say, ‘Once you parley with
the enemy, the fortress is lost.’ ”
Before I can think of an intelligent response, the waiter presents me with a purple and gold porcelain plate filled with delicate mounds of beluga, chopped onions, and a dollop of sour cream, plus some tiny blinis.
In contrast, he hands Robert Hartwell a large tin of beluga, plus a crystal spoon, with which he proceeds to demolish the entire contents of the tin, while I struggle not to look startled. Then again, why should I be? After all, he makes no secret about the fact that he is the King of Excess.
Good thing he works out so fanatically . . .
After the waiter has cleared the table, Robert Hartwell waves him away and fixes me with a glare so stern that I know there truly is no escape for me anymore.
So I take a few gulps of champagne, square my shoulders, and start reading.
It’s excruciatingly cold at six thirty on a December night in Manhattan. Seven inches of hard-driving snow has settled on the city, JFK is closed, and so are LaGuardia and Newark.
The Carlyle doorman opens my cab door and gives me a welcoming smile. I smile back as best as I can, under the circumstances. As I do, I wrap my white mink coat with the silver fox collar tightly around me.
“A gift from your boyfriend, Miss Stone?” Robert Hartwell interrupts.
“Why don’t you hold your horses, Mr. Hartwell? You must be the most impatient man in the universe!”
“And you the most impatient woman,” he says, but I ignore him and force myself to carry on reading.
The coat is new, my present to myself, in celebration of the publication of my latest book.
I check that all the clasps are fastened.
It occurs to me that the furrier hasn’t yet embroidered my name on the gray silk lining.
Given what lies ahead of me, I’m relieved.
When I step onto the pavement, the snow encases my burgundy leather boots, the icy air slices through my coat, deep into my flesh, and I shiver. Once inside the hotel, I check my phone again.
No new wordy text from the Master.
No imperious voice message.
Nothing more to say.
The plans are now set, and I have no choice but to go through with them.
At reception, I give my name. If the concierge recognizes me, he is far too well trained to acknowledge it. He hands me a large blue envelope.
Most of the front of it is covered in dramatic handwriting dominated by lots of loops and curlicues, the words written in navy ink with a firm hand.
By the elevator, I stop and open the envelope.
A key to the suite, the name of the suite, and nothing else.
Then up to the twenty-eighth floor, as my excitement rises along with the elevator, my heart pulsates, and the rest of me throbs with the fearful thrill of the unknown.
Outside the suite, I take a deep breath, then open the door.
At the far end, a floor-to-ceiling picture window through which the lights of nearby Central Park glitter.
Candles are placed strategically around the suite.
The air is potent with the fragrance of iris, musk, vanilla.
“And Birchwood embers,” the Master will tell me later, his voice lingering on the word birch.
For a moment, I survey the scene, transfixed.
Then I unzip my boots.
For a second, I consider placing them in the corridor so that they can be removed by the valet and cleaned during the night.
But do I really want anyone to hover outside the suite during the night, even for a moment?
I stand the boots in a corner, opposite the grand piano.
Next, I unfasten my coat, slip it off my shoulders. and let it fall in a heap onto the black polished floor, leaving me stark naked.
“May I stop reading now, please, Mr. Hartwell?” I say.
“In your dreams, as you once phrased it so succinctly, Miss Stone.”
I glare at him, take another gulp of champagne, and go on.
According to the Master’s orders, I drop to my knees, then onto all fours, and crawl toward the window.
As I do, there is a clash of cymbals and the Saint-Saëns Organ Symphony resounds.
“Ah, so you like classical music, Miss Stone,” Robert Hartwell says.
“This isn’t about me, Mr. Hartwell,” I say.
He raises an eyebrow in disbelief.
By the window, the Master—the man I’ve never met before—has laid down a hot-pink rug, a rug so cheap, so rough, so tawdry that it screams out its contrast to the elegance of the suite.
Following his orders to the last letter, I crawl onto the rug, and its bristles scrape my knees.
I have no illusions about how they will feel on my . . . nipples.
On the word nipples, I blush scarlet but don’t look at Robert Hartwell. There is worse, far worse still to come. I think I’m going to die of shame.
But before I am compelled to experience what the Master intends, I pick up the crimson velvet blindfold from next to the rug and put it over my eyes.
The blindfold is attached to a long piece of elastic, and, as instructed, I reach back and tie it into a tight knot, secure the blindfold, and imprison myself in darkness.
Then I assume the position.
On all fours, my legs spread, bottom in the air; my breasts dangle down, and the harshness of the rug abrades my nipples, just as we both knew it would.
From that moment on, I stay perfectly still, waiting.
Outside, the snow is falling again, harder and faster than before, and even over the strains of the Saint-Saëns, I hear it whip against the windows.
The music changes.
Bryan Ferry, “Slave to Love.”
Then Grace Jones, “Slave to the Rhythm.”
Elvis, “Don’t Be Cruel.”
Carly Simon, “Haven’t Got Time for the Pain.”
And through it all, I remain perfectly still, waiting.
Somewhere, across the room, another me, another Miranda observes the scene . . .
“ ‘Miranda?’ ” Robert Hartwell says, his voice urgent and demanding. “So Unraveled isn’t a novel? I was right! This is about you!”
“Dream on, Mr. Hartwell! You know very well that my name isn’t going to be on the final book,” I say, adding, “Now let me get this over with . . .”
Somewhere, across the room, another me, another Miranda observes the scene and makes notes of the following:
The gross indignity of my position.
The rounded curve of my bottom.
The pendulousness of my breasts, pressed into the rug.
The spread of my legs and the moisture seeping out from between my thighs.
The shame, the submission, the disgrace.
But as time passes, and I slowly sink into an altered state, that Miranda melts away, and is no more.
If only. This Miranda, on the other hand, is acutely aware of Robert Hartwell’s every movement, each flicker of an eyelash, every shift of weight as he leans closer to me. And I’m even more aware of the heat from my flaming cheeks—and the insistent throbbing at my very center.
I have no idea how long I have been in this ignominious position, or whether it is dark outside now or not.
I have lost all track of time.
The music is still playing.
And the candles are still burning.
But their scent has now been replaced with something more pungent.
“You are not to wear perfume,” the Master texted me, earlier that day. “I want you to wallow in the smell of your own deepest, most secret self.”
Thus my senses are suffocated by the aroma of my own arousal.
Suddenly, I hear a door slam.
I flinch.
Even the air around me seems to tremble with excitement.
> I hold my breath.
The Master’s footsteps echo around the suite.
Doors open, doors close.
The anticipation is unbearable. And yet . . .
Then the Master—the man in whose presence I have never been until now—is by my side.
I know, because I inhale Eau Sauvage.
He fastens a collar around my neck, bracelets around my wrists and ankles, and then attaches a leash to the collar.
But instead of leading me somewhere else in the suite, his fingers pinch both my nipples simultaneously.
I let out a moan of anguish, and he slaps my face.
I cower momentarily in fear.
Nonetheless, the slap was not hard. Not hard enough to dislodge the blindfold, but hard enough for me to gasp, not in pain but in humiliation, and for him to make his point.
I am here of my own volition, in his power, at his disposal to do with whatever he wishes, with the exception of my hard limits, which we have established in advance.
Then there is always my safe word, which he, an experienced player of some repute, is honor-bound to respect.
Of course, it’s up to me to use it.
Or not.
I, and I alone, am responsible for my fate.
“And so you are, Miss Stone. Very evocative writing, though . . .” Robert Hartwell says.
Suddenly, his eyes appear to have taken on a deeper darker shade of green than usual . . . but I decide I must be imagining it, and go on reading.
The Master pinches my nipples again.
“Grind them into the rug,” he says. “Grind them hard.”
I comply, and the sensation is painful.
More shameful is my awareness of the humiliating spectacle that I am making of myself.
But I do what he asks.
Then he kisses me bruisingly.
And I love it.
Robert Hartwell shifts slightly in his seat.
I hear the pop of a champagne cork.
