Hershey Valentine was in love. The object of his affection (Hershey, of course) grinned back at him in the mirror. He washed the razor in the sink and scraped another line of foam away, the rasp audible as it traversed over his square chin. A few more scrapes, a quick rinse with cold water and the job was complete. He opened a cupboard, winking at himself again in the mirror as he did so, then applied some aftershave balm, allowed it to dry and followed up with a disrespectfully obvious cologne.
Hershey had expensive tastes which his bathroom, in fact his entire house, reflected perfectly. Every item was branded and top of the range, the primary selection criterion being affluence. Marble, imported at great cost from Europe to replace the previous (and already opulent) materials used in the bathroom, stretched from floor (Italian) to ceiling (Spanish). He had Jack and Jill sinks (although there was no official ‘Jill’ in his life), a toilet, roll-top bath, shower and bidet (used even less than the Jill sink, but Hershey thought it looked cosmopolitan and would impress his dinner guests as they tried to guess its purpose).
After one last admiring glance in the mirror Hershey exited the bathroom, a towel (Egyptian cotton) wrapped around his waist. A hop across the landing and he was in his bedroom. There was a hump in the middle of the expansive bed that dominated the space, a girl he had humped (he laughed to himself) last night. On the bedside cabinet was an ice bucket half full of tepid water and an upturned champagne bottle. Christ knew where the crystal glasses had ended up.
He began to dress, not bothered at all whether he disturbed the tart. With a hint of OCD he had neatly laid today’s clothes out the previous evening. His attire didn’t include underwear, as Hershey liked to go commando, but did comprise socks (with garters), trousers (crisply pressed), a shirt (monogrammed) and a jacket (Saville Row). After the trousers and shirt were in place he snapped on braces (à la Wall Street) then fumbled with cufflinks (gold dollar signs) and a tie. He shrugged on the matching jacket, pushed a fat wallet into an inside pocket and a gold watch onto his right wrist, turning the face around so it was palm side down. Hershey liked to make a big show of checking the time; he was a man that impressed himself, and therefore others, on a frequent basis.
“Let yourself out,” he said to the hump (he laughed to himself again). No response. Hershey hated a lack of feedback from those he abused. “Use whatever you want but don’t blag anything — I know where you work, Elodie.”
He trotted down two flights of stairs, pausing briefly by the front door to pick up car keys, house keys and his all-bling, no-bang cell phone from where they nestled on a Louis XIVth cabinet (unknown to Hershey it wasn’t French at all, but made in Dagenham by the finest late 20th century crooks). A blinking ruby red light on his phone piqued his attention because it meant a new communication. Hershey liked to pick up his e-mail outside hours as it made him look like the committed, hard worker that he actually wasn’t. The e-mails from the few people in the Bank more senior than him took priority, of course. However, when he read the note his face darkened.
“For fuck’s sake,” Hershey barked and immediately banged out a reply.
For all his bullying bluster Hershey preferred indirect confrontation, unless he had a cast-iron case and utter superiority, so an electronic reply was perfect to deal with the sales woman that kept vying for his business, which he categorically didn’t want to give. Worse, he didn’t have a clue how she’d managed to get hold of his address.
He despatched the swear word-loaded rejection and hoped that maybe now the mental would leave him alone. Feeling distinctly better (to him insulting people was the equivalent of a nicotine rush, whilst being as addictive as crack) he switched off his phone to prevent a response and left the house. He pulled the door to with a deliberately loud bang (to annoy the neighbours and wake Elodie), skipped down the steps (he liked the elevated position the front door had over the street) and walked towards his selfishly-parked Hummer. Smiling again, he felt in his Dom Perignon-laden water that today was going to be a good day.
Elodie sat up in bed when she heard the front door slam. She rubbed her eyes, smearing some make-up in the process. She burned with anger; being French she had an overdeveloped sense of (she’s) right and (they’re) wrong. She’d heard Hershey’s every uttered word, only feigning sleep.
As was her habit Elodie swore heavily under her breath. She hated Hershey treating her like this, like some common whore from the docks. But worse she hated herself for letting him get away with it. Hershey’s position meant Elodie could clamber up the corporate ladder in exchange for the temporary exploitation of her vagina.
She went into the bathroom, turned the shower to its highest setting and stepped under the cascade, keen for the heat and force of the water to blow the fury away.