by Stark, Rhona
‘Through here,’ she said assertively, guiding me through a set of gleaming double doors.
Now, I’ve always had a problem with the phrase, ‘my jaw dropped’. Think about it. Try it. Try dropping your jaw. Try opening your mouth wide and letting your jaw just hang open. Has that actually ever happened to you because you were surprised? I don’t think so. People didn’t actually do it. It had certainly never happened to me. Until now. But the room that awaited us through the doors was ridiculous. It was like Karl Lagerfeld had had a fantasy about what it might be like to transplant a tropical island into a dining room in downtown New York.
I couldn’t help it. My jaw hit the floor.
It was called the The Palm Court, and it was easy to see why. Exotic palm trees were dotted around the room; their dark, splayed-out leaves contrasting strongly with the honey-colored marble the walls were largely covered in. As well as palm trees, there were huge, olive-green ferns growing from ornate pots next to Roman-style columns, dwarfing the circular bar which was the centerpiece of the space. Classical statues of goddesses and muses watched from the walls, their grace and beauty making me feel like an awkward lump of clay.
‘Tut tut. It’s rude to gawp,’ said my companion, and I felt a finger under my chin. My mouth was still open! she pushed up gently, forcing it closed. How embarrassing! I’d managed to act like an idiot without saying even one word. Thank God I was banned from talking.
‘Come on,’ she said, with a little smile on her lips, let’s have something to drink.’ She gently pressed my shoulder, guiding me toward the center of the room, ‘And let’s get you out of this wet coat, shall we?’ She helped me to take my anorak off, and hung it on a coat stand at the edge of the bar. It was a thrill to feel her hand on my body, even if it had just been to take my coat off.
I felt a little more confident now that she could see I was wearing a normal outfit, not just my crazy-person coat. We sat close to each other, and when the immaculately dressed barman asked what we’d like, my guide answered for the both of us, of course.
‘A pot of Darjeeling for two please, with leaves from the Makaibari estate. Silver Tips Imperial, if you’d be so kind.’
‘Certainly, Madam,’ said the barman, and proceeded to unscrew the lid of a small, white, porcelain jar. I’d heard of Darjeeling before, but not Makaibari, whatever that was. I opened my mouth and was about to ask, when I remembered the little game I was playing. She talks. I listen. Anyway, as it happened, the woman I was with seemed to know what I was about to ask.
‘The Makaibari estate is the oldest estate in Darjeeling. It’s a luscious, incredibly green and vibrant place, in the foothills of the Himalayas in India, full of life.’ The barman picked little white-color strands of tea from the pot, and then poured boiling water over them, causing pungent vapor to fill the air. It was smoky and rich, unlike any tea I’d ever smelled before. ‘They only harvest this particular tea under the light of a full moon, and it’s streaked with silver. That’s why they call it Silver Tips.’
Silver Tip Makaibari Tea? Who was this woman? I found the way she was talking to be a bit insulting, to be honest. Like I was a child, being taught a lesson in school. We were the same age, roughly. She was maybe only a couple of years older than me. How did she know I wasn’t a world-famous expert on the way that Indians harvested their teas? But at the same time, there was something undeniably intoxicating about it. She was making the choices. She was doing the talking. And I’d never met anyone who knew with so much certainty exactly what they wanted.
The barman put the steaming pot of tea down in front of us, and, feeling awkward, I took hold of its handle and was about to pour myself a cup.
‘Not yet, we need to let it steep. This is rare tea. We want to taste it at its best.’ I moved my hand away. Ugh, how embarrassing. I was doing everything wrong. I felt my phone buzz in my bag. It would be Teresa, I was sure of it, probably worrying about the mugging I’d ‘seen’. Was I allowed to get my phone out? Would that count as ‘talking’ somehow. I was annoyed with this woman, but equally, I didn’t want this weird experience to stop.
For the next few minutes we sat in silence. I looked down at the hands of the person I was with, sometimes at the pot of tea, and only occasionally at those warm hazel eyes. Hmm, was there a mark on her ring finger? It was hard to say. Could she be married?
‘Now,’ she said, finally pouring us a cup each of the tea. ‘I’m going to tell you how this is going to work.’ I swallowed. She looked at me, straight into my eyes. I felt like I was being hypnotised, like she was a tiger, and I was her prey. ‘I don’t want to know your name. Not yet. I don’t want to know anything about you. Not one thing. And I’m not going to tell you anything about me. All you need to know is that… I want you .’
I know this is going to make me sound mad. Or desperate. But when she said that, that she wanted me, I felt a fuzzy feeling inside me. It grew from my chest, like this delicious, dreamy molten happiness, and it spread down and out, moving through my body like the beating heat from an open fire. I felt goosebumps on my arms.
‘I wanted you the moment we touched out on the street. I wanted you more when I looked at that soft yet fiery face of yours, with those sad, expressive eyes, and that pouting, red mouth. Now, I’m aware that you might have never been with a woman before. From the look of you, I’d wager a guess that you’ve never been with anyone before.’
I pouted moodily, but I knew that she liked my pout, so strangely, I also felt like I was flirting.
‘Whatever you call yourself, or whatever you thought you were until now, I’d ask you to leave your preconceptions at the door. I know that I’ve got something you’ll want. And baby, I know that I want to give it to you.’
The more she spoke, the stranger I felt. It was like being drunk almost, a feeling of anxious, reckless passion. My mouth opened, and once more I was about to speak.
‘No,’ she said, quickly, moving a finger to my lips ‘don’t say anything. Not until I tell you that you can. It might be some time. Are you patient? You’re allowed to nod, if you like.’
I did so, just once, letting my gaze fall down to the table again, down to that ring finger.
‘Good,’ she said, ‘now, why don’t you try the tea?’
I picked up the elegant little cup I’d been given. The tea was golden, like a sunset on a fall evening. I breathed in deep, and was lost in a world of wildflower and smoke. Then, I took a long, deep sip.
As I drank the most delicious tea I’d ever tried, she talked to me a little about the way the tea was harvested, about the hard hands of the plantation workers, about the way they selected only the most beautiful leaves, about the gentle rustling noises the rows of tea plants made under the light of the full moon. I found myself lost in her voice, and in the stories she told me, transported far away to a world of dreamy, soft pleasure.
‘Do you like it?’
I nodded.
‘Would you like to see me again? In a more, intimate setting?’
Was she asking me if I wanted to do, you know, that thing that lesbians do? Scissor ?!
Before I’d even given myself time to think about it, she motioned towards my bag.
‘Pass me your cell phone. I’m going to give you my number. I’m not going to call you or text you. If you want to see me again, just send a text with an ellipsis in it to me.’
What the hell was an ellipsis ? She must have noticed my puzzled look, because she explained: ‘That’s three dots in a row. You know? Dot dot dot.’
She wasn’t going to text me or call me? That’s the first time one of my dates had told me that to my face. Hang on, did this count as a date? I was with a woman I hadn’t agreed to meet, who I knew nothing about, drinking something I hadn’t ordered. Weirdly, this was one of the best dates I’d ever been on! I reached into my bag, took my phone out, ignored the texts from Teresa, and unlocked it. I passed it to the mystery woman, who entered her number and passed it back.
I
entered her name as Ms. X. It seemed like the right thing to do.
‘Now, unfortunately,’ she looked down at what seemed to be a very expensive watch, ‘it’s time for us to part company. I have a meeting here at the Plaza, and I imagine the pressing errand you avoided earlier is even more pressing now.’
Fuck! I’d totally forgotten about Teresa and her God-damn artisanal sandwich errand. I wanted to get my phone out and look at her SMS, but something told me that Ms. X wouldn’t really like me to look at it while we were together. I bet she’d think it was rude, or something. Who was I kidding? I had no idea how she’d react. She was a complete mystery.
I’ll have a taxi waiting for you out the front of the hotel in five minutes. Give them the name… hmmm, what would be appropriate? How about the name Rayne? That seems appropriate,’ she said, a playful smile crossing her lips.
Rayne? I guess, I had been pretty wet when we first met. There was something nice about the name, too. Nicer than Cassie, anyway.
I felt suddenly sad to be leaving her. The whole encounter had been so weird, but so exciting. I had, like, a million questions I wanted to ask her, but I wasn’t allowed to even ask one.
She got my raincoat from the stand. It was a little drier now.
‘Here,’ she said, holding out the sleeve for me to put my arm in. It felt good, having someone be a gentleman. How crazy that my ‘gentleman’ was a woman! None of my other dates had ever done stuff like that for me. Most of them had just wanted to get into my panties, and were about as subtle as a sixteen-pound bowling ball.
As I left the palm court and made my way back to the reception area of the Plaza, I looked back over my shoulder, hoping to see Ms. X watching me leave. She was there, but she wasn’t looking at me. She stood by the bar in her expensive, beautiful suit, looking down at her hands. She had the strangest look on her face. Then, she looked up, and just as it seemed our eyes would meet, the gold-handle double doors between us swung closed. Dot dot dot.
CHAPTER FIVE
My first ever first date was Mark. Mark was cute and sweet, or at least I thought he was to begin with. He’d brought a red rose for me, even though we were going to the cinema. We were watching Frozen , which is a pretty lame date movie, let me tell you, and sitting there clutching a rose had made me feel super self-conscious.
My nerves got even worse when I felt Mark’s hand on my knee. At first I thought he’d put it there by accident. Does he think my knee is his knee? I thought to myself. It was only afterward that I realized how dumb of a thought that was. I found out soon, when that hand started to move its way up towards a part of me that no-one had ever touched before, that it definitely wasn’t there by accident.
I can’t really explain what happened next. I guess I just panicked. It was a nervous reaction, maybe. Anyway, none of that stuff can change the fact that I smacked young Mark in the face with the rose. Yep. To be honest, that ranks among the better first dates I’ve had.
Oh, and the phrase ‘every rose has its thorn’ is not a cliché without good reason. I’d managed to scratch this poor guy across the cheek. With a flower.
He didn’t call me again. Ah well.
The next first date I had was with a guy called Ernie who was a friend of my best friend Debbie’s brother. It was a couple years after my date with Mark, and I was nineteen at the time.
It was a blind date, so I was relieved that first impressions were good: no flower, no weird gifts at all, in fact, and a reasonably good-looking guy with a nice smile.
‘So where are you taking me?’ I said, trying to be a character from a rom-com.
‘I was thinking we could just go to McDonalds or whatever,’ he said.
Interesting choice, I thought. Maybe he’s got a good sense of humor, maybe he’s making a joke. Maybe he’s got something fancy in store. A surprise.
‘Cool,’ I said, ‘I used to love getting Happy Meals when I was a kid. They’re so cute and fun!’
He gave this weird kind of half smile, totally insincere, the kind of smile you might give to someone who was having trouble understanding that two plus two equals four.
‘I never liked Happy Meals,’ he said. ‘They take away from the food. They are not cute, nor are they fun. The toys are badly made, the portion sizes are too small. They are insulting, even to children.’
Turns out he had no sense of humor. I felt like a sad, deflated balloon.
When we got to McDonalds I bought a Happy Meal, just to spite him. I sat there, playing with a little plastic doll while he ate. We didn’t talk, and the short time we spent together seemed to last forever.
Ugh. Then there was Peter. I’m not going to go into details. Let’s just say the phrases ‘sudden onset of norovirus’ and ‘romantic first date’ don’t go together particularly well.
So, as I sat in the taxi, reflecting on my first, weird meeting with Ms. X, I found it hard not think, BEST FIRST DATE EVER. The thing I liked most was that I had the power to take this further. With just three little dots, I could see this mysterious, handsome woman again.
Check me out! Boring old Cassie, going on a date with a woman! A woman. A woman. Just thinking about the word ‘woman’ felt exciting.
I found myself fingering a loose patch of fabric on my seat, running through the events of the day over and over again. Jeez Cassie, you sure do manage to get yourself into some weird situations, I thought. Today was meant to be just like any other day. Pick up some bread for Teresa, head into work…
‘Oh my god!’ They were the first words I’d spoken in over two hours, and they shocked me just as much as the shock the cab driver.
‘Everything alright, miss?’ she said, looking at me in the rear-view mirror.
‘My boss!’ I said, ‘I didn’t get her bread, she’s going to kill me!’
‘Do you want to stop and get a loaf? There’s a 7-Eleven just round the corner…’
‘No, 7-Eleven is no good. They don’t have artisanal rye sourdough loaves. No, just keep going. Better to turn up empty-handed than even later than I already am.’
A few short minutes later, we were driving past the south end of Central Park, then we arrived at the public entrance of the Time Warner Center: the building that housed our offices.
The first time I’d arrived at the building, I’d convinced myself I had the wrong address. This surely couldn’t be the place I’d be working, right? Well I guess working was technically inaccurate. I was still an intern at Bryce-Smith, and my boss, Teresa, never let me forget it.
Bryce-Smith was one of the most prestigious marketing companies in New York - no, scratch that, the world. You’re probably more of an expert on them than you think. Always Coca-Cola , I’m Lovin’ It and Just Do It were just a few of the more famous slogans the geniuses working at the agency had created.
My slogan, so far, was: ‘Yes, Teresa.’
Intern always sounds like such an official, grown-up word. In reality, I was nothing more than a delivery and errand girl. I’d get Teresa’s bread, make her coffee, restock the stationery cupboard. That kind of thing. The most exciting work I seemed to get at the moment were the few times I was able to serve drinks to clients. Actual contact with people from big companies.
But not today. Today I was bread girl. And bread girl hadn’t brought the bread.
‘What the fuck, Cassie? Seriously, what the fuck? You saw someone get mugged? What the fuck?’
Teresa was her normal, polite, pleasant self. She stood in front of me, an e-cig clamped hard between her fingers. Her perfect, straight black bangs framed her slim, icy face. She always wore old-fashioned power suits; huge shoulder-pads and dramatic, figure-hugging cuts to the jacket, severe looking straight-cut pencil skirts, that kind of thing. Oh, and she always, and I mean always wore killer heels. And I mean, the sort of heels that you could kill someone with - tall, sharp and very shiny.
She took a long drag of nicotine and breathed out in a short, angry puff. The smoke hung in the air for a second and then was go
ne, leaving the mild scent of raspberry in the air.
‘I’m sorry, Teresa.’
‘Sorry? Why? Were you the one doing the mugging?’ She snorted out a little laugh. Her laugh was one of the weirdest things about her. It was freaky - it sounded like a pig sneezing or something. And she only ever laughed at her own jokes.
‘Ha ha,’ I said. It was the lamest attempt at a fake laugh of my life.
‘Still, you were late, even considering the circumstances. I guess I should let you off though. Do you think that’s fair?’
She had this trick of asking me if I thought things were fair. Like, she’d say, ‘Cassie, you need to work for an extra two hours after close of business today, do you think that’s fair?’ And obviously I couldn’t say no to that. How could you? So I’d always have to say that yes, the crappy treatment I was getting was totally fair.
‘Yes, Teresa.’
‘So, where’s the bread?’
Um, was she serious?
‘I didn’t…I mean, I thought I should come in, you know, before…’
‘You haven’t got it?’
‘No Teresa.’
‘Even though I asked you to get it for me,’ she said, her nostrils widening and her eyebrows arching, ‘I asked you to get a loaf of Schott’s rye sourdough pumpkin-seed. But you thought, oh, I’ve seen a mugging, I guess I don’t have to complete my duties?’
‘It’s not like that,’ I started. Maybe I should just tell her that I’d actually been on a date with a mysterious woman at the Plaza, and that she could shove her organic seeded loaf up her skeleton ass?
‘No, no,’ said Teresa, taking another long drag on her e-cig. ‘I understand. You must have been traumatized by the mugging. I’m an understanding person, so I’m not blaming you.’
Yeah, I thought, you’re real understanding.
I left Teresa’s roomy office and headed to the cupboard I had to work in. Ugh, the glamor of working for an international marketing agency.