So here I sit on a mission, at least that’s my excuse for being here. My friend Alex is working on a cover for my collection of Carlyle pieces I hope to assemble into a book. He wants an authentic cocktail napkin to photograph. It’s good to be working on something whether it actually comes to fruition or not.
I was supposed to meet my friend Jacques here, but he unexpectedly left town. A pity, since I hadn’t seen him in so long and was looking forward to a catch-up conversation and a handsome man to stare at across the table. Sometimes all a girl needs is a little eye-candy and a chat to hoist her spirits. Jacques, who could rent himself out being so easy on the eye, looks great even in his casual work clothes…khakis, soft, crisp button-downs, a blazer never buttoned. He’s J. Crew with a shot of Brooks Brothers thrown in, to remind you where he comes from.
Bemelmans is pretty empty except for a couple of chic men having a deep discussion practically on top of one another. I can’t help but to admire their suits, one beige the other a light gray. They clearly haven’t switched over their closets as yet still in late summer mode. Poloesque with a shot of Tom Ford tossed in. Now that’s a look worth staring at along with dueling martinis, their olives glistening in the overhead light.
As I sip my Merlot, a well-kept woman in her forties glides in the side door with a diamond the size of a searchlight. She looks around sharply combing the room not finding what she seeks. But then, an imposing looking man walks in from the Madison Avenue entrance lingering just long enough to take all of her in. It could have been a French deodorant commercial as they approached one another like choreographed deer. He took her hands in his, kissing her on both cheeks…hmm…maybe they are French, but then again my exterminator is from the Bronx and greets me the same way, so who knows.
Let’s write a screenplay, shall we? He just got off a plane rushing to her side. She has already secured a room she’ll slip away to in an hour or so, after they have a drink concealed on a corner banquette, their legs commingling beneath it.
You know at least one of them is married since it’s all too Louis Malle for it to be remotely legitimate, and lets face it, legitimacy is just not nearly as exciting.
The barmaid brings them what looks like shots of scotch over ice in heavy beaded glasses. I can easily see bright red nails encircling hers waiting politely for him to raise his. Oh, to be that hot for someone is like a resurrection of ones vital signs. He kisses her hair the shade of wheat that keeps falling over her face she coyly buries in the crook of his shoulder oh so broad. OOH…previews of coming attractions, and just like in our screenplay, she collects her things after a long parting gaze, and takes leave.
He sits, checks his phone, calls for the bill he pays in cash then embarks from the opposite door. Guaranteed, all he did was circle to the elevator the other way right passed JFK’s picture who would more than approve, as if he were going to his own room, and I suppose he is, where the wheat awaits.