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“Yes, Mr. Pattinson is expecting you,” came her smooth reply. “Elevator all the way to the left, and then up to the top floor.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled wanly before striding through the marble lobby. And fortunately, the elevator was right there, the doors swooshing open in anticipation.
But when I looked inside, another surprise greeted me. Because there was an actual attendant waiting inside, perched on a wooden stool and dressed in a natty bellhop suit. It seemed like a throwback to the sixties when every elevator had an operator, but who knew? At this point, there’d been so many unexpected events that I didn’t know what to think anymore.
“Hello,” the young man greeted cheerfully. “Up to the top floor?”
“Um, why yes,” I stammered, getting in. “How did you know?”
“We only go to the top floor,” he said in a bright voice. “How’s your day going, ma’am?”
I didn’t answer, merely looking at him curiously. Because why was there an attendant for an elevator that only served the penthouse? Why did the penthouse have its own elevator anyways? Did the owner not like to share?
My mind was churning because clearly, my client had to be rich. The building he lived in was nothing to behold from the outside, but the lobby had been fancy with marble floors and modern chandeliers. And now, the elevator was pure luxury itself, what with the wood-paneled walls and personal service. What was going on? It seemed like the closer and closer you got to my mysterious customer, the more elaborate things became.
But I took a deep breath. This is just a two-hour jaunt, the voice in my head came. You’re making your two thousand and then beating the hell outta Dodge, it said firmly. Don’t lose your head.
So when the bell dinged, I nodded politely at the attendant before stepping outside into a long, carpeted hallway. Hmm, you could almost smell the luxury now, from the gold-scrolled carpet to the elegant damask wallpaper. I made my way down the hall to the one door at the end, which was huge and oaken with a lion’s head knocker. How weird. Who would have a lion’s head knocker on their apartment door? This was an apartment, wasn’t it? Not a house?
But immediately, a low voice rang out.
“Come,” it said. And somehow, I knew who would be in there before I actually saw him. It had to be the mysterious man from last week, the one who’d watched me dance while half-hidden in the shadows. A shiver ran down my spine as I stepped into the foyer.
“Hi, it’s me, Susie,” I said. “Or Pearl,” was my quick stammer. Drat, why did I keep making that mistake? My heels clack-clacked on the marble floors, and I felt nervous yet excited at once. Because the man had been ruling my dreams for the past weeks, and it was frankly embarrassing how I’d been at work thinking about him non-stop. For example, just today at lunch, my friend Lizzie had noticed the dreamy look in my eyes.
“Hello, hello,” she’d said, waving her hand in front of my eyes. “Geez Louise, Suse, what’s wrong with you?”
But I could hardly reveal that I’d taken up moonlighting as an exotic dancer, so I merely smiled weakly.
“Um nothing,” was my reply while biting into a portabella sandwich. “This is really good, mmm!”
Fortunately, Lizzie was more interested in scrutinizing my eating habits than asking about my dating life.
“You?
?re so lucky to have such a curvy shape,” she said, casting me an envious glance. “I eat and eat and eat, but look at me,” she frowned, staring at her hands. “My fingers are like twigs,” she bemoaned.
It was true, and the perfect distraction.
“No,” I protested. “You look great, Liz! Clothes always look amazing on you, while on me, everything’s too tight in every direction,” I said wryly. “That’s why I have to eat less, not more.”
But somehow, my healthy appetite and resultant curves had gotten the attention of this mysterious customer, and I was curious to finally see his face. So slowly moving forwards into the suite, my body flushed with heat.
“Hello?” I called off towards the sitting room where a light shone. “Should I take off my shoes or anything?”
Immediately, I cursed myself. That was dumb. Of course I didn’t have to take off my shoes. This wasn’t some hippie-dippie dude who listened to Indian music while meditating in front of a fire. Everything so far pointed to a successful businessman, from the driver, to the fancy elevator, to the lavish apartment.
“No, shoes on is okay,” rumbled that male voice again. “Come on in, Susie.”
And tentatively, I made my way towards the voice. Again, I wasn’t sure what I was going to see, and was a little afraid, frankly. Because I hoped against hope that it was my mysterious patron, but then again, I’ve been wrong before. Maybe it was some disgusting old dude who was eighty years old with a giant potbelly. Totally possible, given that New York seems to be ruled by guys like that.
But when I stepped into the living area, my mouth dropped open and my eyes grew wide. Because the man there was tall and handsome, with flashing blue eyes. But it wasn’t the perfectly cut suit, the broad shoulders, or the knowing grin that got me. It was everything about him … because in front of me sat the President of the United States himself, Thomas Burke.
“Mr. President?” I gasped. “What are you doing here?”
A white smile flashed, one that I’d seen so many times on various news programs.
“I’m your customer,” he rumbled with a knowing smile. “Welcome to my home.”
