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Once they’re gone, I shower and dress for brunch with my parents. It’s a daily affair, and the one appointment I never break no matter how late I stayed up, or how fucked up I am.
“Have a nice brunch, Mr. Arnaud,” the doorman says as he facilitates my exit. This one, Killian, is a ray of sunshine compared with Brooding Drew. Brewd. I grin to myself as the crisp, bright morning smacks me in the face.
Foot traffic is light at this late morning hour, and I strut casually up the block past nannies strolling babies to the park, bicycle couriers, and retired folks out for their daily constitutionals. I’ve lived in this neighborhood my whole life with no plans to ever leave. It’s The Good Life™? up here, and in the Hamptons, of course.
Another doorman welcomes me inside my parents’ building. He’s new to me. Handsome, older. And though I’ve never laid eyes on the man before, he greets me by name. Doormen are interesting. In a way they creep me out because they always seem to know too much, and in another way, I find it sort of comforting—like they give a shit about the people they’re gatekeeping. I probably think about them more than most people do just because Brewd is such a fascinating case study, and I find I look forward to our interactions more and more. He’s one of the few people in my life I can’t predict, although, lately, he has been sort of boring and predictable.
“Staying warm today?” this one asks. “I heard a blizzard’s coming.”
“Hmm…” I shrug off my coat in the heated lobby. “When?”
“Tomorrow night. Supposed to drop a few inches.”
“Bummer. I had plans.”
“You never can tell with the weather,” he says, pushing the button on the elevator bank for me so I don’t have to lift a single finger. Mark is the name on his name tag.
“How’d you know who I was?” I ask him out of curiosity.
He lifts his dark brows and gives me a questioning glance. “You arrived on time,” is all he says as the doors open. He nods me into the elevator. Like I said—creepy.
My parents own the building’s entire top floor. My father’s offices are there as well as my mother’s “she-shack” as she calls it, which is really just an elaborate apartment where she entertains her friends and goes to escape from the “help.” All her words, not mine.
Their penthouse proper is two-storied like mine, but theirs has a full complement of staff, which includes a housekeeper, butler, chef, and house manager. It’s formal, stuffy, and it’s where my parents host potential business partners, parties, and me.
Jefferson greets me at the door, takes my coat, and asks how my day is.
“Perfect,” I tell him. “Yours?”
“Busy.”
“Ollie, there you are.”
My mother sweeps into the room looking radiant in ice-blue chiffon. She keeps her hair long and blonde, and I inherited my large eyes from her. She’s in her mid-fifties but doesn’t look a second over thirty-five thanks to the miracles of plastic surgery and talented aestheticians. She links an arm through mine and plants a kiss on the cheek I lean down to offer her.
She tuts. “You look like you haven’t slept.”
“I slept a little.”
“How little?”
I snort. “Very little.”
“Coffee, Mr. Ollie?” Petra asks as we pass through the living area.
“Cappuccino, please.”
“Two minutes,” the middle-aged woman says, and then she’s off, disappearing behind the kitchen doors. She’s worked here for as long as I can remember.
“And what were you up to so late?” my mother asks.
“I met some lovely people out last night and brought them home because I didn’t want the night to ever end.”
“Mmm…anyone special?”
“No, but I’ll keep looking,” I promise.
“Is that Olivier?” My father’s stern voice calls from the dining table around the corner.
