by Carmen Quick
‘Through here,’ he said gruffly, 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! He 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. ‘You know, when you gawp like that, there’s something very…childlike about you. You look like a little kid.’
A little kid? Hmm, I suppose kids do tend to stare at things for longer than they’re meant to. And, to be honest, I guess I had to admit that I did feel young in a place like this. Everyone here seemed so grown-up, so serious. It just reinforced just how lost I felt.
‘Come on, kid,’ he said, with a little smile on his lips, let’s have something to drink.’ I felt like I was about to blush; I liked to be called kid, it made me feel looked after, cared for. He gently pressed my shoulder, guiding me toward the center of the room, ‘And let’s get you out of this wet coat, shall we?’ He 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 his strong hand on my body, even if it had just been to take my coat off.
I felt a little more confident now that he could see I was wearing a normal outfit, not just my crazy-person pink 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, sir,’ 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. As was becoming irritatingly usual, the man 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 guy? I found the way he was talking to be a bit insulting, to be honest. It felt like I was a child, being taught a lesson in school. How did he know I wasn’t a world-famous expert on the way that Indians harvested their teas? Having said that, there was something undeniably intoxicating about it. He was making the choices. He 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 Violetta, 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 guy, 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 guy I was with, sometimes at the pot of tea, and only occasionally at those warm hazel eyes. Hmm, was there a mark on his ring finger? It was hard to say. Could this guy be married?
As we sat, waiting, the tea slowly infusing before us, my full bladder started to make itself known to me again. I know what you’re thinking - Lauren, go to the bathroom you idiot. And you’re right. I should have gone. I didn’t even need to say anything - I could have just got up and made it obvious where I was going. But for some reason, I just couldn’t move. I felt like unless I had his permission, I just couldn’t do anything.
So, I didn’t. I just sat there, waiting for the tea to seep, waiting for a disaster to happen to me.
‘Now,’ he said, finally pouring us a cup each of the tea, ‘I’m going to tell you how this is going to work.’ I swallowed. He looked at me, straight into my eyes. I felt like I was being hypnotised, like he was a tiger, and I was his prey. My bladder was so full that it started to hurt - a dull pain in my tummy, a sac of liquid pushing its way out. ‘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 he said that, that he wanted me, I felt a warm 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 fiery face of yours, with those sad eyes, and that pouting, red little mouth.’ The more he 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,’ he 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,’ he said, ‘now, why don’t you try the tea?’
This was the moment that I made my mistake. It must seem so obvious to you, and to be truthful, I knew I was making a mistake at the time. I was desperate to pee. I mean, totally, utterly, bladder-burstingly desperate. But instead of going to the bathroom, I decided to do as he told me, and take a drink of tea.
I picked up the elegant little cup I’d been given. The tea was golden, the color of 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, he 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 his voice, and in the stories he 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 he asking me if I wanted to, you know, bump uglies?
Before I’d even given myself time to think about it, he 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? He must have noticed my puzzled look, because he explained, ‘That’s three dots in a row. You know? Dot dot dot.’
He 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 guy I hadn’t agreed to meet, who I knew nothing about it, 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 Violetta, and unlocked it. I passed it to the mystery man, who entered his number and passed it back.
I entered his name as Mr. X. It seemed like the right thing to do.
‘Now, unfortunately,’ he 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 Violetta and her God-damn artisanal bread errand. I wanted to get my phone out and look at her SMS, but something told me that Mr. X wouldn’t really like me to look at it while we were together. I bet he’d think it was rude, or something. Who was I kidding? I knew nothing about this guy.
Maybe it was the stress of remembering that Violetta was waiting for me. Maybe it was the unusual situation I was in, the panic of not being able to speak. Maybe it was simply that delicious, golden tea, working its way through the inside of my body, pushing my bladder to bursting point. I guess, in a way, the why wasn’t that important. Who cares why you wet yourself in front of a gorgeous stranger.
It was standing up that did it. I knew, as soon as my legs straightened, that it had already started. It was a different kind of warmth I felt as I stood. Not the hot energy of attraction, but the slow, spreading heat of my own body, pulsing out into my underwear.
I must have looked shocked, maybe even terrified, because the reaction on the face of Mr. X was one of immediate concern.
‘What’s the matter?’ he said, scanning me for a clue.
I said nothing, caught like a rabbit in the headlights of a fast approaching truck. There was silence for a second (although it seemed like an eternity) and then, much to my horror, the steady drip, drip, drip of my pee, splashing onto the marble floor.
‘What on earth…’ he started, then, he looked down at the floor.
Although I’d always seemed to need to pee more often than other people, I’d only ever wet myself in public once before. That one time though, had been enough to scar me for life. It had been school, at the end of the year, just before summer break.
It had been a hot, sunny day, and I’d had one too many glasses of lemonade. I don’t remember much of what happened (I think I’ve blocked it out of my memory), but the one thing I do remember is the shocked faces of my girlfriends, stunned and disgusted, as they realized what I’d done. The curled lips, the wide eyes, the open mouths, and then, after a brief silence, the howling, horrible laughter.
That’s not what happened here though.
‘Oh my God,’ said Mr. X, looking at me with concern in his eyes, ‘don’t worry, I’ll look after this.’
He looked over at the barman, to make sure he hadn’t noticed and wasn’t looking our way, then he purposefully smacked his arm into the teapot, sending its remaining contents flooding onto the floor in front of us, covering the widening pool of pee underneath me.
The teapot smashed into a thousand pieces, shards of porcelain scattering around the room, tinkling as the skittered towards its edges.
‘Oh crap,’ he said, loudly, before catching the barman’s eye.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Mr. X, ‘ but I appear to have broken your teapot.’
‘Not to worry, sir,’ said the barman. How was it that the barman looked nervous? It was as though he, rather than Mr. X, had broken the teapot. ‘Shall I charge it to the room, as normal?’ continued the barman. He nodded at a bellboy, who approached with a dustpan and brush. I kept my legs closed as much as I could, hoping that no-one would notice that the amount of liquid on the floor was far greater than the capacity of the broken teapot.
Mr. X nodded at the barman, ‘Yes, charge it to the room. Speaking of which,’ he turned to me and handed me a silver keycard.
‘Head up to room 302. Have a shower, freshen up. I’ll be up in ten minutes with a package for you, then you can head off.’
I nodded, trying to look grateful. I took the keycard, and made my way out of this grand room, towards the elevators. I was in a daze, and barely took in my surroundings. People didn’t seem to notice anything strange, even though I was walking all funny. The pee between my legs was getting cool, fast, and it felt horrible, really uncomfortable and also slimy. I was lucky that I’d drunk so much liquid, in a way. If I’d been more dehydrated, I’m sure that the smell would have been overpowering.
I looked at the elevators, looked at the fancy people waiting to take them, dressed in black tie and funky dresses. I couldn’t get into an enclosed space with these people, they’d smell the urine on me, they’d know that I’d wet myself just from the weird way I was standing. I had to take the stairs.
I was lucky that I didn’t run into anyone as I made my quick way up the stairs. But who takes the stairs in a hotel like the Plaza, I guess. I was almost sprinting at the top, desperately trying to hurry from the humiliation, from the embarrassment downstairs. I was so grateful for the way Mr. X had handled the situation. I wondered for a moment just how much that teapot had cost. Then I realized that it probably wasn’t even as expensive as the tea leaves inside.
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Table of Contents
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE The Glamorous World Of Local News
CHAPTER TWO Sheldon Forsythe
CHAPTER THREE And The Winner Is...
CHAPTER FOUR Letting Off Steam
CHAPTER FIVE Miss Goody Two-Shoes
CHAPTER SIX White Bear Problem
CHAPTER SEVEN Retail Therapy
CHAPTER EIGHT A Whole Lotta Flowers
CHAPTER NINE Hair Of The Dog
CHAPTER TEN Going Global
CHAPTER ELEVEN The Unmistakeable Eyes
CHAPTER TWELVE Bone China
CHAPTER THIRTEEN A Wish
CHAPTER FOURTEEN The Glamorous World Of International News
CHAPTER FIFTEEN Good Conscience vs. Bad Conscience
CHAPTER SIXTEEN An Unfortunate Encounter
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Weak At The Knees
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Teacher's Pet
CHAPTER NINETEEN Cards Are On The Table
CHAPTER TWENTY Answering Back
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Home Of The Satyr
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO A Dark Secret
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE An Exercise In Imagination
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Negotiation
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Pick Your Own
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX In At The Deep End
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN Bad Girl
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT Terrible, Forbidden, Wonderful
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE Healing
CHAPTER THIRTY Liberty. Peace. Strength.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE Fly In The Ointment
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO The Inevitable Retaliation
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE Sick Day
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR All Dressed Up And Everywhere To Go
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE A Dangerous Game
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX White Jasmine
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN An Ill-Thought-Out Apology
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT Making A Scene
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