by Stark, Rhona
I loved walking around Manhattan over my lunch-breaks. It made me feel like I was right at the center of everything, right in the middle of the world. I loved the smell of the place: hotdogs, smoke and hot pavement. I know, I know, it’s not like the scent of evening jasmine or, like, mountain pine trees, but it was home, and it was exciting, gosh-darn it!
I walked down Madison Avenue, taking in the sights and sound of the city. I was lucky that my mom and pop were financing me through this internship. Don’t get me wrong, they weren’t giving me the money - it was all a loan, with a reasonable interest rate. My dad was an investment portfolio manager when he’d been younger, and there was no way he’d ever let me squirm out of paying it back.
My budget each month was tight, and if I was really about to head into Marmi Shoes and buy a pair, I probably wouldn’t be able to eat for the rest of the month. But, some things were worth starving for!
I walked back into the office an hour later with a bright red shoe box and a creamy white bag under my arm. I hoped that the investment would be worth it.
The dress I’d bought was quite sexy, especially by my standards - a strapless, red, figure-hugging number. I wasn’t the bustiest girl, but I was slim enough (just) to get away with quite close-fitting dresses. I’d tried to choose something quite elegant, rather than overly revealing, no plunging neckline or anything like that. I figured Ms. X might like more of a classy look! I chose a beautiful pair of black patent Vaneli heels for my big date. Although the heels were short, these shoes just oozed sex-appeal. At least I’d thought so, anyway.
‘What, are you dressing up like a nun?’ said Teresa. As soon as she’d asked to see what I’d bought, I’d known that an insult wasn’t far away.
‘No, Teresa,’ I said.
‘An accountant?’
Jeez, were the shoes that boring? I must have looked heartbroken, because Teresa actually smiled.
‘Hey, kid, I’m just joking. The shoes look…nice.’
That must have taken some serious effort. She pulled out her e-cig and took a noisy puff.
‘Hey, Cassie, you OK to stay a little late tonight? I’m expecting a phone call from Boris at Kelter-Saatchi, but I want to head home. I need to spruce myself up before the show tonight.’
She was going to see Cats . She’d been talking about it for months, but I’d forgotten it was tonight.
‘How late do you need me to stay?’ I asked. She wasn’t going to make me miss my date, was she?
‘I dunno, eight, nine. Something like that? You don’t have plans, do you?’
Effing heck.
Why should I, Cassie the boring wallflower, have plans? As usual when I got anxious, my mouth went into overdrive.
‘Well, no, I mean, kinda, I just, well, the thing is I had this last minute text from a friend, and I hardly ever get to meet her, and, actually, come to think about it Teresa, it’s the first time I’m meeting her, yeah that’s right, we’ve been penpals for years, online, I used to play a game, club penguin, we met on that…’ I was practically foaming at the mouth by this point, and with every word I wished more I could just shut up.
‘Woah, woah, woah,’ said Teresa, with a wicked smile on her lips, ‘sounds a little more serious than two penpals meeting.’
‘Um,’ I said.
‘No, it’s OK, I’ll get someone else to stay late. But you owe me one for this sweetie.’ She wrinkled her nose as she let another stream of vapor pour out of her mouth. ‘But I’m going want all the deets tomorrow. Of this innocent penpal meeting.’
The rest of the afternoon wen by seriously slow. I had to work hard, to finish my filing and research before 6pm, and Teresa kept bugging me for seat-warming and coffee-making duties.
For the last half hour of the day, I was literally clock-watching, staring at the second hand as it circled round and round and round, hypnotizing me, making me feel sleepy. I thought again about the woman I was meeting tonight, wondered what she’d be doing now. I twirled the looping cord of my desk phone around my finger and thought, for a moment, without meaning to, of a pink orchid, slowly splitting, opening itself up insects, to life.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I’ve never walked home quicker from the subway than I did that day. It wasn’t too far to go, but I was desperate to get the stink of the day off me. I’d had a couple of sweaty guys leaning up against me in the train, and I felt so yucky. In stark contrast to yesterday, it was a hot summer’s evening, and it must have been more humid than usual, cause I was dripping from the short walk.
I clutched my new shoes and dress close to me, worried for some reason that someone might just grab my bags and run off. I’d not been mugged or anything like that, but I just felt like so much rested on these new clothes, like I was making some new identity for myself: the quiet, thoughtful, sexy, intellectual Cassie, who hung out at swanky hotel bars with drop-dead gorgeous, assertive, powerful women who ordered expensive tea. Think yourself sexy , I thought.
The studio apartment I called home was in Hell’s Kitchen, close to the train lines. It was pretty much the one part of the neighborhood that hadn’t gentrified yet. While the prices of apartments all around me had shot up in the last few years, the rent here was still vaguely affordable, because no-one in their right minds would want to live this close to the tracks. I’d sometimes wake up in the middle of the night, rattled out of sleep by a passing carriage.
The place itself was pretty nice. I kept it clean enough, and I’d gotten some nice pieces of furniture, but it was micro-sized. There was just one room, basically. I guess you’d call it the kitchenloungeroom. God that sounds stupid. The bathroom was separate, at least. The walls were dark red brick, and there were exposed beams at head height. I think it had been a warehouse originally, and some of the places in here were seriously nice, big, loft-style conversions.
My apartment always made me feel like it was a mistake on the architect’s plan or something. They were like, ‘it’s too small for a normal bathroom, so why don’t we just turn it into an unlivably tiny apartment for a moron?’ I sound so ungrateful. It was all I needed, and it was a thrill to be able to live in downtown Manhattan.
I threw my dress and shoes down onto the couch and flicked the TV on while I fixed myself a cup of iced tea. I was so excited to be getting on with my evening, I only half finished my cup, before slipping out of my uncomfortable work dress, and shimmying into the bathroom. Never had I been more thankful for the invention of warm showers than I was on that day. The feeling of the water caressing my tired body made me feel full of warm, cozy, confidence.
Something I did like about dates was the ritual of preparation that I’d always go through. I’d always started it with ice tea. It was my favorite drink when I was a kid, and as soon as I tasted it, all those good memories I’d stored up over the years would come flooding back in one big endorphin rush. After the tea, I’d have my shower, kind of psyching myself up for the evening by repeating positive thoughts as the water cleaned me up.
Today, though, I was struggling more than usual. There were thoughts in my head that weren’t normally there. I found myself thinking back to the daydream I’d had yesterday, about Ms. X. I’d thought about her in the shower. I wonder whether she had thought about me in the shower. If she had, I wondered what she would have imagined me doing. Would she have thought about my body? The way the water spilled down from my shoulders, down, between my breasts, and down further?
Suddenly, I realized that my hands were tracing the journey of the water, my fingertips playing softly over my skin. First my chest. It felt almost like I was learning about my body for the first time. How funny, I thought, that only I had ever seen my breasts, touched them. Would she be imagining me doing this, circling my nipples gently with my hand, rubbing the soap suds over the darker skin?
I started to feel a hot, pulsing sensation between my legs. My secret part, those delicate little folds, they were pumping, reacting to the blood coming from my heart, beating in time to my
thoughts. I moved my other hand down, over the top of my entrance, let my palm rest on the coarse hair that guarded my modesty, then, closing my eyes with pleasure and anticipation, slid my index finger down, into my moist, soft flesh.
It was so rare that I treated myself to something like this, and as I began to make slow circles with the tip of my fingers, I promised I would do this more often. Little darts of pleasure started to move around my body. I imagined Ms. X watching me from nearby, through a gap in my shower curtain, taking in the sight of me pleasuring myself. She wouldn’t be able to resist, seeing my little body wriggling in the water as I pushed my slim finger further into myself. She’d have to touch herself too, wouldn’t she?
The thought of her touching herself made me suddenly sigh, and I slid another finger into my gap, clutching my breast hard, giving in, making myself moan, taking myself to the edge, and then, as I could feel something happening, as my body started to say yes, yes, yes, my mind said no. No Cassie. This isn’t good. This isn’t right.
And like always, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t finish.
I forgot to tell you. Not only am I virgin, but I’ve never managed to make myself come. For the longest time, I thought that maybe I had, and that it was different for other people. I was pretty convinced that I wasn’t capable of doing it. It was always the same, I’d be touching myself, getting hot, getting close, and then my head would kick in, telling me that I was dirty, that it was bad, that I shouldn’t be allowed to enjoy myself.
And the good feelings would just stop.
That’s just the way it was, I guess.
I exited the shower, disappointed, and started to towel myself off.
Oh no! I’d left my dress crumpled up in the bag on the couch. I dropped my towel and grabbed the bag, taking the dress out, and making sure that I was able to iron this thing. Thank goodness: I could. I got my iron out and started working on the dress. It was tough work, but before long I’d manage to get most of the worst creases out. The television bleated on the background. The news. It was grim, like always, but nothing could stop me from getting excited about the evening ahead.
By the time I was in the dress, had done my makeup, and had calmed down a bit, it was only 7:00pm. I still had a whole half hour to wait.
Now if there is one thing that I’m not very good at, apart from keeping my mouth shut, it’s waiting. I paced, I thought about biting my nails, I endlessly checked Facebook.
Finally, as soon as the the clock on my phone showed half past seven, I picked up my phone and dialed the number I’d been curious about all day long.
The person who answered wasn’t Ms. X. It wasn’t what I was expecting at all.
CHAPTER NINE
‘Elite cars and valets, how can I be of service this evening?’ The man’s voice was upper-class, clipped, almost British-sounding. Like, this guy could have played the villain in any Hollywood movie. I wasn’t used to talking to people who sounded so, I don’t know, official. It got me a little flustered.
‘Um, hi,’ I said. ‘This is gonna sound weird. Well, it is weird, I guess, but I met this woman, and she told me to call this number, at this time, and she told me that I should say silence is golden .’
‘Aha,’ said the voice, with a little touch of something like amusement. ‘Miss Rayne, is it?’
Rayne. Ha, I guess that was the name of this new personality I was creating for myself. Rayne was the kind of successful, demanding woman who knew exactly what she wanted. Rayne wasn’t out of her depth speaking to creepy British-sounding dudes - heck, they should feel anxious speaking to her.
I thought I’d try an experiment. Tonight, from this moment on, I was going to be confident Rayne, not nervous Cassie.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ I said. My voice was so steely and determined that I barely recognized it.
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘May I have your address, Ma’am? I can have the car with you within half an hour.’
Car? Was she sending a car round for me? What would Rayne do? I thought to myself. She’d just go with it, I decided.
‘Half an hour?’ I said, ‘I was hoping it could be here sooner. In any case, my address is 4523 34th Street, in Hell’s Kitchen.’
‘Very well, Ma’am, I’ll try to have someone with you sooner rather than later.’
When the phone clicked off, my heart went into overdrive. I’d never spoken to anyone like that before! Let alone someone who sounded so in control and in charge. I had to be careful, or I’d start to sweat all over again!
I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked OK, but I wasn’t sure that this was the type of makeup Rayne would wear. I took out some cleansing wipes, and cleaned it off. Now, I thought, what would she do, this confident femme fatale .
I chose some brown eye-shadow and applied to my lids, giving me a smoky effect, and finished the look with Benefit mascara and some ‘Coca-Cola Red’ lipstick. The Real Thing, I thought to myself, as I carefully finished my lips with a pencil. I wondered how Ms. X would react to seeing me like this. No drowned-rat look tonight. Oh no, my makeup was not going to be running anywhere before I met her.
With almost freakishly good timing, the doorbell rang as I was putting my makeup back in its bag. I answered the buzzer, threw on a jacket and headed down. The sight that met me was enough to make me gasp.
The car was amazing. Like, it wasn’t a limo, but it was somehow classier than that, and more beautiful. It was a gun-metal gray Jaguar, and standing next to it was a driver in a full chauffeur’s outfit, looking extremely patient.
‘Name please,’ said the man.
‘Rayne,’ I said. He opened the door for me and I sat down on the beautifully upholstered seats. Next to me was a small, golden envelope, with Rayne written on it in elegant script.
It was strangely heavy, and when I opened it, there was a key inside, as well as a small note. The key’s handle was a loop, and the number 901 was printed into the shiny metal.
Rayne,
I request the pleasure of your company in room 901 this evening. Bring your sense of adventure, but leave your inhibitions at the door.
In romance and excitement,
Ali
A name! she had a name! Ali. Wow, not what I would have guessed. It was sexy, though. Masculine and feminine all at once. A name that conjured strength - like Muhammad Ali - but also beauty - like the former Miss USA Ali Landry. As the journey progressed, I kept rolling the name around on my tongue. Ali, Ali, Ali. I loved the feeling of it in my mouth.
I tried to work out where we were headed. We drove north down 10th street, then along West 56th street. For an awful second I thought that it was all a joke, and that I was being taken back to my place of work, but thank God we drove straight past the Time Warner Center, along the south edge of Central Park. That’s when it hit me.
We were heading back to the Plaza Hotel . Room 901 must be one of the rooms there. Of course! It made sense now. I rubbed the shiny silver key in my fingers. I always thought that these days, hotels had keycards or whatever. I guess for the real fancy rooms, you could still get normal, metal keys.
It was just as grand as I remembered it. As the chauffeur pulled up outside the red-carpeted entranceway, I felt a sudden rush of excitement. I was here at one of the most famous hotels in the city, to meet with a mystery woman. It felt for the first time as if I was living a story from a film, or a book. I felt special, and more than a little bit naughty. I tucked the gold envelope into my bag and walked into the reception area.
This time, I felt as thought I did belong here. The other guests of the hotel looked at me a bit more approvingly this time. Cassie may not belong in a place like this, but Rayne, the seductive femme fatale most definitely did. I felt tall and unstoppable.
I walked through the entrance hall and made straight for the elevators, my heels making a satisfying clicking sound on the polished marble floor. The doors of the elevators were finished with mirrors, and as I waited, I looked myself up and down. It was the most
glamorous that I’d ever looked. The weirdest thing was my eyes. The dark brown eye shadow made me look older, dangerous, more confident. I let a smile play across my lips and straightened the hem of my dress. Then, I breathed out, and pressed the call elevator button.
I’d always had a bit of thing about elevators. I don’t think it was the small space really, more that it felt like it could just break and fall at any time. This one seemed particularly rickety and old. It was charming, in a way, but as it clattered its way up the shaft, I had to remind myself that this wasn’t the original elevator put into the hotel in 1907. It had been replaced, renovated. I thought about all of the rich, famous people who might have been in here. I mean, the gosh-darn Beatles stayed at the Plaza in 1964. Miles Davis recorded an album in this place, and Truman Capote’s famous ‘Black And White Ball’ took place in the grand ballroom. I breathed in the history and then, before I knew it, the journey to the ninth floor was over.
The door to room 901 was the first I came across when I exited the elevator. It looked quite humble, really, not as grand as I was expecting.
D’uh, Cass, how grand can a door be, for goodness’ sake?
I took the key from my bag and slipped it straight into the lock, before turning. It made a satisfying little click, and I pushed the door open.
I couldn’t believe what was waiting for me inside.
CHAPTER TEN
For some reason, I’d been expecting an enormous suite. You know the kind of thing, a big sort of living-room type area, with a kitchen and other rooms attached, kind of like a mini-apartment. No, this was most definitely a room.
But what a room. It was just beautiful, tastefully decorated, with some crazy, over-the-top touches. Were the taps on the little sink in hallway real gold? Was that actual marble surrounding the sink? Was the furniture all really antique?