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She took out a lipstick and painted a slash of deep maroon across her lips; instantly she looked different, more sexual. Liz smiled at the power of cosmetics to change your face, your identity. She pulled another pot out of her bag. Asgill’s hair wax, which she ran over her hands and through her hair, combing it down severely along the contours of her skull.
She glanced up and could see the taxi driver looking at her, his eyes opening wider at her transformation. In thirty seconds, the smart woman with the smoky eyes and glossed lips – the typical groomed Manhattan businesswoman – had morphed into a futuristic sex kitten. Arriving at her destination, she exited the cab and wordlessly handed the driver a twenty–dollar bill.
Liz stood on the sidewalk and smiled at the neon sign for the Red Legs bar. It really belonged in the old Clinton, she thought. For years Clinton had been one of New York’s most notorious areas: poor Irish gangs and white trash living in comparative squalor. Hell’s Kitchen: that’s what it had been called before Giuliani had cleaned up the city. Now it was becoming gentrified, but the musicians, artists, and students were taking their time moving on and, if you knew where to look, you could still find a taste of down–and–dirty New York, a city that never ceased to excite her. She had spent time in London and Paris for the company, but nowhere had her as entranced as her hometown.
The entrance to the club was a metal door. There were people outside smoking, a transvestite blowing smoke rings into the night air, a couple having an argument, all the usual sights and sounds of the Big Apple. Liz descended the stairway and put her coat in the cloakroom, pausing at the entrance to the main room to check her reflection and compose herself. She knew what to expect; she had been to the club a couple of months before. It was one of her golden rules not to frequent the same place regularly, but she liked this place. A doorman pulled open a soundproofed door and Liz was engulfed by sound. The club was one huge underground space, crammed with sweating, writhing bodies moving to the deafening music as spotlights criss–crossed and whirled. The room was bathed in deep red light and, with the pulsing and shaking of the walls, Liz felt as if she was walking inside a giant beast. Pushing her way through the crowd, she took a seat at the end of black glass bar, sitting at right angles to the room, where she could observe the action without attracting attention. Nodding at the model–grade barman, she ordered a single malt scotch, wishing for the days when you could light up a cigarette.
She savoured the heat of the liquor in her throat and watched. She only vaguely listened to the music; that wasn’t why she was here. It was ten minutes before she saw him. Tall, handsome, a little dishevelled, a painter perhaps. But when their gaze met, he had a look in his eye that Liz recognized.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’ he said over the music.
She gave a small smile, shook her head. ‘I’m not staying.’
He took a seat next to her and propped his elbow on the bar, just looking at her. Liz didn’t mind such a brazen approach; in fact she enjoyed it. She uncoiled slowly, watching his reaction as she crossed her long legs. Liz might not be beautiful in the way her sister Brooke was, but she had always been sexy. Her hardness, her cleverness, her sexual experience – who knew what drew men towards her? But Liz had an aura, a scent that only the right – or the wrong – kind of man could pick up.
‘I’m Russ. Russ Ford.’
‘Hello Russ,’ she said, staring off across the room, feigning indifference, even mild irritation. It was all an act, a game. She knew men well; she had been in this situation many times before and experience had taught her that men as good–looking as Russ liked to be treated like this. She waited, savouring the moment. He will speak, she thought, any moment … now.
‘Are you ignoring me?’
Exactly, thought Liz.
‘What are you looking at?’ she asked, still not looking at him.
‘The cleft on your chin,’ said Russ, ‘I have one too. I wonder where they come from?’
‘It’s where the right and left side of your jawbone hasn’t fused completely. It’s a Mendelian trait.’ She took a drink and watched his reaction.
‘A what?’
Liz touched the small dimple at the base of her face. ‘Genetics. It’s a dominant gene. I was unlucky. My sister escaped it.’
‘Mendelian trait, you say?’ he laughed slowly. ‘You’re a smart girl.’
Choate Rosemary Hall. Princeton. Wharton Business School, thought Liz. He didn’t know the half of it.
‘Sorry, I missed your name,’ said Russ.
‘I didn’t tell you it.’
Now she turned the full power of her eyes on him, looking at his face in detail, feeling a growing dampness between her legs. He was good looking, really good looking, like a greeter at Abercrombie & Fitch. No more than twenty–five, twenty–six. Tanned skin, a smudge of stubble over his chin. He seemed self–assured, arrogant even. Keen to challenge her, banter with her. She knew she had chosen well; this was exactly the sort of man to respond to her.
‘So what should I call you?’
She paused, a hint of a smile. ‘Lisa.’
‘Okay, smart, lovely Lisa,’ he said. ‘Forgive the corny question, but what are you doing in a place like this?’
‘A place like this?’
‘A place full of hookers and transvestites?’
‘Is that right? And which category do you fall into?’
He chuckled.
‘Neither I’m afraid,’ he smiled. ‘I live round the corner. It’s cheap and I’m broke. Bars like this suit me. What about you?’
