Chapter Seven

The Boy in the Elevator

 

 

“Come on, let’s take elevator.” The sweet young porter held me upright as he guided me down the hall. “You’re in no condition to be climbing stairs.”

“You’re cute,” I gushed, though I’m not sure how I determined that when his features looked like a Chuck Close portrait.

“Okay,” he replied, chuckling nervously as he brought me into the elevator.

I wasn’t sure if it was the litre of champagne I’d drunk or the lasting effects of Imelda’s piquant tale that had me feeling so amorous, but inside that elevator there was only one person to direct it at: the boy pressing the button for the top floor.

When the doors closed, I turned to the blurry person holding me and laid a clumsy kiss on his mouth. He hesitated, his painted lips stonewalling my attempts at seduction. Nice try, but I’m not giving up that easily! Throwing my arms around his shoulders, I tried to jump up and throw my legs around his waist, but my feet were anchored to the floor by champagne and mini quiche. Instead of jumping into the boy’s arms, I ended up dragging him down to floor.

Throwing my head back, I snorted with laughter because this was, bar none, the funniest thing that had ever happened in the history of the world. At least, that’s what I thought in that moment of alcohol-induced glee.

And then, out of nowhere and for all his initial resistance, the boy leaned forward and kissed me back. His kiss felt somewhat inept and his mouth tasted like roasted chicken, but at least it wasn’t a full-out rejection.

When we reached our destination and the elevator gave its distinctive ding, the blurry porter pushed me away. Eyes wide, he cleared his throat and said, “I think we need to get you some coffee right after you put on your gown. Now come with me. Come see what Mr Drinkwater picked out for you.”

Helping me to my feet, he led me to a nearby room where a court of Louis XVI gown in pastel shades of blue, pink and cream had been laid out just for me.

“It’s beautiful!”

This whole night had been so surreal I could have sworn I was living in a dream. When I stumbled into the room to get a closer look, I noticed the young porter didn’t follow. He remained in the hallway.

“I’m going to need your help with this,” I told him, half teasing and half pleading.

From outside the doorway, he replied, “I don’t think it would be wise of me to enter your room, ma’am. Not after…”

“I’m not a ma’am,” I rebuked, stumbling even as I stood still. “I’m only twenty-six… twenty-nine… am I thirty?”

“I really have no idea,” the boy replied, regarding me with a quizzical expression.

“Me neither,” I confessed, because in that moment I could have been fourteen or forty-seven. I didn’t know. Putting my hands together like I was praying to the porter gods, I begged, “Please help me with my dress. I can’t do it on my own. I’ll fall on my ass.” Again, I laughed. “Oops. I said ass. If my mom were here she’d spank me.”

Even with my impaired vision, I could see he was suppressing a grin. “Oh would she…?”

I couldn’t tell if he was laughing with me or at me, and in that moment I wasn’t too concerned either way. Leaning over a chair, I smacked my butt, asking, “Would you like to spank me, porter? Come in here and give me a good spanking.”

“Okay, okay,” the porter relented, still chuckling as he entered. “I’m not going to spank you, but I will help you into your dress if you promise not to kiss me again. I don’t want to lose my job.”

“That’s very noble of you,” I said, offering an unsteady curtsey. I felt so proud to have come up with a word like noble in my inebriated state.

The porter closed the door behind him. When he came over to give me a hand, he noticed the blue stain on my skin and cried, “I didn’t give you that bruise when I was holding your arm, did I? I’m so sorry!”

“Oh, that’s paint,” I said salaciously, or so I thought. “I’m a dirty girl.”

He didn’t take the bait.

When I convinced him to unzip my purple dress and it fell into a heap on the floor, I was left standing before him in my strapless bra and matching pink thong. “Don’t you think I’m hot?”

It was a leading question, I’ll admit.

“I think you’re drunk,” he replied as he set out my costume in a circle on the floor. “Look, now all you have to do is step into the middle of the dress and I’ll pull it up around you and zip it at the back.”

When I followed the boy’s instructions, I was absolutely amazed by the impact the gown’s corset-like top had on my small form. The dress seemed to work miracles, lifting my breasts to make what was in fact only a little seem like quite a lot.

“I have boobs!”

“That’s right,” the boy replied, his tone bone-dry.

Even as the young porter led me by the elbow to the dining room, I was so entranced by my cleavage that I practically drooled down the front of my corset.

“Did I know there was a dinner?” I asked myself as we approached the dining hall.

“It’s only for the special people, so I guess that makes you special,” the porter said with a smile. “Look, Ms Fon, I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about that whole kissing in the elevator thing.”

“Don’t worry,” I chuckled as he opened the door for me. “I doubt I’ll remember any of this in the morning.”

It turned out that I wasn’t all that special, because the other guests had started dinner without me. My young porter friend showed me to my seat right next to Gavin’s father. Perfect. Just perfect! At least he’d taken off his silly wig to reveal the shock of snow-white hair Imelda told me about.

When the porter helped me into my chair—no easy task considering the girth of my gown—and my ample skirts brushed Mr Drinkwater’s stocking leg, he turned to me and my fingers went numb. When he greeted me, “Hello again, Ms Fon,” I lost my power of speech.

Sure, I’d considered the man an elitist bastard earlier in the evening, but champagne can cure even the most accurate of first impressions. As I gazed at the man seated beside me, I found him staggeringly handsome and even rather charming.

“You must have made a deal with the devil,” I said to Drinkwater, clasping his forearm a little too tightly.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked, considering me with a degree of suspicion.

His eyes were so like Gavin’s they made me weak.

“Your skin is so smooth,” I replied. “There must be a portrait of you somewhere that keeps getting older while you stay young.”

The porter, standing forgotten at my side, leaned over to whisper something in Drinkwater’s ear. They nodded, and the boy took his leave, returning moments later with a cup of black coffee in hand. Reaching over my watercress salad, he replaced my wine glass with the coffee cup and Drinkwater instructed me like a nursemaid to drink up.

That was the moment I realized I couldn’t say no to him.

As he chatted with the elderly woman to his left, and with various people who came over to whisper into his ear, I thought I would die of jealousy. The mixture of champagne and black coffee in my system produced the curious effect of drowsiness coupled with enthusiastic attentiveness. Placing a gold-coloured napkin in my lap, I took a bite of my palate-enlivening watercress salad and tried to catch snippets of his conversations.

Dinner arrived: grilled pheasant breast with herbs de province, parsnip fritters and haricots vert. At long last, Gavin’s handsome father turned his attention to me. For a moment, I thought the intensity of my attraction would do me in.

“Goodness me! Has somebody mistreated you?” Drinkwater traced a solid finger around the bruise-like mark on my arm. His touch sent a gush of naughty feelings coursing through my veins.

“No, it’s just pigment. I must have brushed against one of my paintings,” I explained, feeling at once stupid and lovely. “This food looks delicious. I can’t believe I’m still hungry after I ate almost an entire tray of hors d’oeuvres.”

That wasn’t the most lady-like thing to say, was it?

Fortunately, my deceptively ample cleavage grabbed Drinkwater’s attention. He remarked, “Corseted as you are, you’ll find you won’t have room for much. I would advise you not to save the best for last, because you simply won’t get around to it.”

Laughing appreciatively at Drinkwater’s advice, I felt more in control than I had moments earlier. Then he leaned in. Gasp! I hoped he would get close enough to brush those pink lips against my cheek in passing.

Flustered all over again, I listened attentively as he spoke into my ear. “I hear you were talking with my first wife. I hope she hasn’t poisoned you against me.”

Poisoned? Never!

“Actually, we barely talked about you at all,” I assured him between dizzy bites of buttery green beans. “But Imelda did start a story I’m hoping you can finish. She was telling me about a girl called Ondine.”

Drinkwater straightened up in his chair. “That girl was a greedy little whore, if you’ll pardon my French.”

“What a terrible thing to say,” I gently scolded. “Imelda seemed to think of Ondine as a sweet, if troubled, young woman.”

“Imelda always could see the good in anybody,” he mused, resting his arm on the back of my chair. “She was in love with the little witch. That wasn’t problematic in itself—Imelda had freewill; she could love whomever she chose—but my ex-wife failed to see Ondine for what she really was.”

It seemed there was more to this story than I’d imagined.

“What was she?” I asked, intrigued.

“A deceitful enchantress preying on female lust,” Drinkwater replied. “Much like the sultan Shahriar, Imelda was easily seduced by a good story and, like Scheherazade, Ondine was clever enough to use this to her advantage.”

That tantalizing teaser kindled my imagination, and I begged Drinkwater to tell me more.

“All in good time,” he said, eating his vegetables like a good little boy. “Have you tried the parsnips? They’re divine.”

Indeed, they were. Now, why was I supposed to loathe Gavin Drinkwater Senior? I tried to remember what the mogul and I argued about earlier, but that portion of the evening’s festivities was now lost in a dense fog. It had something to do with the arts, I was quite sure.

Hoping he would redeem himself, I asked, “Do you really believe everything you said before?”

“Don’t let’s start up that debate again,” Drinkwater said with a hearty laugh that seemed for public consumption.

I looked up to catch sight of a photographer snapping our picture.

This strange shift to his public persona helped my fuzzy mind retrieve the content of our earlier dispute. “You can’t seriously believe poor people shouldn’t have access to the arts. When it comes to music, drama, and dance, everybody who wants to experience or watch or learn or participate should be able to, don’t you think?”

Drinkwater looked around, shifting his chair toward me until his leg was pressed right up against the layered skirts of my dress. His breath warmed my neck as he spoke, melting my abhorrence as the sun melts the winter snow. “Yes, of course I agree with you, but my publicist has advised us to take a different approach in marketing this hotel. She thinks the best way to advance the Versailles Ballroom is for me, as the company’s figurehead, to take on the role of Elitist Monarch and make this space out to be the playground of the privileged.”

It was difficult to disagree with someone whose very breath I found arousing, but I somehow managed. “So you’re publicly expounding someone else’s views—which you don’t share—for business purposes? That sounds like amateur theatrics to me.”

“It’s not amateur if you’re getting paid for it,” he chuckled. “And in any case, theatrics, trickery even, is a huge part of business. The Versailles Ballroom is just a room, albeit a finely dressed one. If I’m going to expect rational, intelligent people to pay the prices I’ve set to simply rent a room, I need to convince them there’s something magical about the place. When you crept up behind me earlier, I was telling a group of reporters how very exclusive this hotel, and the ballroom in particular, was to be. In fact, you were a great help to me, Ms Fon.”

Drawn into his gravity, I leaned so close to him that our cheeks touched. I’d never been so turned on at a dinner table. “Please call me Evelyn,” I insisted, taking in the citrus-and-bergamot scent on Drinkwater’s hair.

“Evelyn...” he repeated after me.

When he spoke my name, I had to stifle the high-pitched squeak trying to escape from my throat.

“My publicist prepped me for every question you asked. She anticipated those scathing comments from the press, but when they came from my own announced dinner guest, it gave an air of legitimacy to my act. Our little dispute will make the gossip columns now. People love to hear about spats between celebrities—even minor ones like myself—and their lovers.”

I gasped, swallowing a green bean whole. He rubbed my back as I sputtered and coughed. The sensation of his warm hand on my bare flesh tempted me to fake it even after my choking subsided. “We’re hardly lovers. I’ve only just met you.”

“That never matters. I’m still thought of as quite the foxhunter, and that hasn’t been true since I was married to Imelda. The public is welcome to believe whatever they wish. Thanks to the publicity we’ve generated, every wine snob and opera buff out there will read about the Versailles Ballroom and want to book an engagement. The moment you say a certain spot is exclusive, everybody wants to stand there.”

“Not me,” I said with a shrug. It was true. I’d never been interested in status symbols. I didn’t shop in trendy boutiques or live in the nice part of the city or drive a BMW.

“In this country, the affluent do not feel entitled to their riches,” Drinkwater explained, still sitting so close I could feel his heat on my skin. “If you remind the very wealthy there are millions of hard-working individuals out there who can barely afford to feed their children, they feel remorseful for spending their fortunes on trinkets. I want to do the opposite. By calling to their minds 18^th century Europe, where those with great fortunes believed wealth was theirs by divine right, I give the affluent permission to overindulge.”

I turned to him, but his eyes were so like Gavin’s that I focused my attention back on my plate. “But there’s a real problem caused by that schism. The rich still believe, for the most part, that the poor are poor by way of idle stupidity. Who does it help when you encourage that belief? It only broadens the gap between the affluent and the underprivileged.”

I was pretty impressed by my ability to debate so coherently through my champagne-and-black-coffee-induced stupor. By nature, I’m not that argumentative, but there was something about this man—about the scent of his white hair and the warmth of his breath on my neck—that made my mind whirl and threw my sense of propriety way out of whack.

“The wealthy spend money more carelessly when they don’t feel guilty about it,” Drinkwater continued. “Money can be a great burden, you know.”

“A burden most people would be more than happy to bear,” I stated unsympathetically. “And speaking of money, you do still owe me quite a large sum for the works you commissioned. Or had you forgotten?”

A wave of disappointment came over me like a black veil when the mogul slid his chair back to its original position. How could I feel so drawn to this magnate whose views were not aligned with my own? And why was it so exhilarating to quarrel with him?

“We shall attend to business matters anon,” he said as the servers brought our desserts. “Now for the ultimate indulgence: chocolate mousse cake wading in an amaretto reduction. This is absolute perfection in cake form. You must try it.”

Chocolate had always been my weakness. When he took a forkful from his own dish and held it to my lips, all I could do was open up and take it. The sweet richness of the cake warmed my mouth and flooded my body with endorphins, making me smile for no good reason.

Before I could stop myself, my hand was clutching Drinkwater’s thigh. “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted!”

“I’m glad you like it.” He pried my hand from his leg and set it on the table. “I’ll have some sent up to your suite for later.”

What was I doing wrong? The porter hadn’t given me a second look when I stripped to my skivvies, and then the elder Drinkwater shirked off my advances too. But, despite the disappointment of being rebuked, at least I could look forward to the prospect of more cake. “Wait, since when do I have a suite?”

Drinkwater chuckled. “If you’re wearing that dress, you’ve already been to your suite. I arranged for you to stay the night—with my compliments, of course, if that’s your concern. Now, dinner is coming to a close, but there will be more dancing to follow.”

I looked around the room for a clock. Could it really be as late as it felt? My eyelids were drooping and I worried I’d end up face down in my amaretto reduction if I didn’t get a quick nap in.

“No time for that,” he instructed, taking me by the wrist and leading me from the table. “You can sleep when you’re dead. Right now, it’s time to dance.”

Drinkwater sent me such mixed signals I had no idea what the night had in store, but I couldn’t say no to a little dancing cheek-to-cheek.

Too bad Baroque dance wasn’t a contact sport. Historical convention forced us to grasp either end of a silk handkerchief instead of touching hands. One square of silk maintained our connection as he taught me the ceremoniously graceful minuet. Thank goodness the dance was slow, because it gave me an opportunity to scan the vicinity for a missing person. Correction: two missing persons.

Maybe I was totally out of it, but I couldn’t see my Gavin and Bimbo Barbie anywhere. Probably getting it on in the honeymoon suite. Ugh.

Why did life always set me up for a fall? I really liked Gavin. I couldn’t believe how badly I wanted to be special in his life. When he first set foot in my studio, I figured he was going to be just one more of those bratty trust-fund types with an ingrained superiority complex and perpetually perfect hair. I was convinced he would enunciate every syllable as though my Chinese ancestry meant I didn’t speak a word of English.

I was very wrong about Gavin. Not only was he perfectly pleasant and humble, but he was also undeniably cute—exactly the kind of guy I go for.

So, that’s what I was thinking about while I danced with Gavin’s father. While I ought to have been energized by Drinkwater’s orange-and-bergamot scent and his nimble dancing abilities, I was brooding over that lousy son of his. Self-sabotage was my specialty. It was never intentional, it just happened.

My visit to the ballroom wasn’t a total waste, though. Even in my somnambular state, I’d never looked so regal. As Drinkwater led me about by a slip of silk, the reason for the themed ballroom finally started to sink in. The Versailles allowed people, if only the elite, to dress up in elaborate period attire and pretend they inhabited the time in history they most romanticized. It was, as that one reporter had accused, an amusement park for adults.

The ballroom represented majestic escapism, and wasn’t that at least a sliver of what art aimed to provide? I wouldn’t venture to argue in favour of Drinkwater’s marketing approach, but maybe the idea behind the Versailles wasn’t so terrible after all.