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JEFFREY LOOKED AT HIMSELF in the mirror and saw what he already knew. He folded his silk tie and hung it delicately on a tie rack, nestled inside his oak-panelled walk-in closet.
“Nice girl ... probably too nice.” He caught his reflected expression and turned away from its cynical worldly perception.
He slipped on a new pair of pyjamas, running his fingers appreciatively over the smooth fabric of the matching dressing gown, and contemplated his choice of bedtime tipple: tawny port or perhaps a classic cognac?
He loved his comfortable, privileged lifestyle, but there was no denying that, at times like these, he did feel a tad lonely.
The phone rang, and he used a remote to turn down the jazz music playing out of his top-of-the-line wall-mounted speakers.
“Brian, how you doing?” He was pleased to hear from his friend. “No, not the club. I’ve just been out on a date if you must know, and I’ll tell you, this lady is very nice. I mean, super nice.”
Jeffrey made some faces at the scurrilous suggestive remarks that were coming down the line by way of heavy-handed teasing, although he enjoyed, to some degree, the game of reliving the experience and dwelling on the possibilities.
“Maybe ... yeah maybe. We’ll see how it goes, but I’m not screwing this one up, Brian. I’ve been round that block.”
Brian kept up his good-natured banter, but he could tell he was not going to prise any indiscretions from Jeffrey, and they ended their conversation with an agreement to get together soon for lunch.
“So just how hot is she, Jeff?” Brian tried one last time.
“Hotter than anyone you’re likely to meet, Brian ... that hot.” Jeffrey smiled at the pleasure he was feeling from just talking about Hazel. That could be dangerous.
He caught his expression in the mirror again and realized he might just be who he thought he was some time ago.
“Age, isn’t that a bugger?” He realized he was talking to himself in the mirror now.
He winked at his reflection and cautioned, “First sign, young man, first sign you’re getting old is talking to yourself in your mirror, so shut up.”
* * * * *
THE LIGHT ON THE SIDE of his fax/printer glowed its signal of incoming, and he watched with mild curiosity the printed pages spew out slowly in all their glorious, saturated colour.
Over a photo of a vividly blue swimming pool, surrounded by blonde stone pavers and manicured lawns, the caption read, “Fully Restored Period Château with new swimming pool and landscaped grounds, South-West France just north of Biarritz. Asking price 1.3 million euros.”
He briefly scanned the images and murmured to himself derisively, “Yeah, sure. One million three hundred thousand, but you’ll happily pocket nine hundred thousand cash and wave a sad but fond farewell to the old pile ... oh yeah, oh yeah.”
And then a thought occurred to him.
And the thought grew louder along the lines of opportunity and chance, and he considered the full range of possibilities: Hazel, Biarritz, château sales jaunt ... or maybe Italy. Yes, at this time of year, Italy would be warmer and sunnier – even better.
