speaking of sizes . . . I believe he’s blessed in bulge department. Or delusional. Anyway, he orders extra-large condoms and keeps a small stockpile in his bedroom closet. Maybe he got them on special?
But the man is urbane and sophisticated and a lover of fine things, from the staples in his kitchen cupboards to the high-end products in his bathroom.
Speaking of which . . .
I leave the bath running and take the short route to the dining room because I also seem to know he’s the type of man who orders a bottle, never a glass, and insists on settling the bill. He’s not so gauche that he’d suggest splitting it. One look at his drink’s cabinet—scotch, cognac, vodka, gin, several bottles of each and all luxury brands—tells me that Mr Hayes is generous. Or else he has a drink problem.
The former, I’m pretty sure. Because if the definition of generosity isn’t allowing strangers to stay in your home, I don’t know what is. So I’m sure he won’t mind if I help myself to a splash of his twenty-year-old Macallan.
Inhaling the earthy smokiness of the whisky, I amble back to the bathroom comfortable in the knowledge that Carson Hayes III doesn’t sweat the small stuff. In fact, I bet he doesn’t even make a peep when his bedroom partner inserts their digit up his derriere, judging by the toys he keeps.
I know, I know; my snooping had become a little invasive this week, but the man has a whole drawer dedicated to the pursuit of sexy times.
Which leads me to believe he’s a man’s man and someone really comfortable in his own skin. And while I can’t be absolutely sure, I think he might be gay. Maybe bi? But definitely sexually adventurous.
My final observation, as I wander through the small library, re-examining the spines on the shelves, is that he’s at least fifty years old.
The Odyssey.
All Quiet on the Western Front.
Lettres à une Amie.
Inferno, Canto 26.
Cicero; The Life and Times.
These are all books about old men. Older men probably read books about old men, right? It stands to reason. The older they get, the easier they become annoyed by things outside of their spheres. Reading about their contemporaries (i.e. older men) probably provides some level of comfort to them.
Back in the bathroom, I place my glass on the conveniently placed quatrefoil table before taking one of the artfully rolled towels from under the open vanity. They’re probably just for show, but oh well.
My phone bings with a text from the real estate agent Rose has put me in contact with and, as the bath continues to fill, I open the link and begin to flick through the list of potential apartments.
Too pricey.
Too swanky.
Too far away and too pricey.
Too no!
This mothertrucker must think I’m loaded. Maybe I should take Bethany, my new colleague, up on her offer of help. A native New Yorker’s input might be useful. That is, a native New Yorker who hasn’t been dazzled by Rose’s company profile and the knowledge that she’s married to one of France’s wealthiest men.
Google has a lot to answer for, if you ask me.
The bath is almost ready, and the room is filled with steam and the bitter-rich scent of bergamot as I strip out of my clothes. I pile my hair on top of my head and step into the tub while the last inch of hot water continues to cascade from the tap.
“Ooh! OW! Hot! Annnd . . . ” I slide lower letting the hot water lap almost around my ears. “Utter, utter bliss.”
It’s been a long day in an even longer week. Not that I don’t like my job, but I’ve been shadowing Marta the dietician, and that is a steep learning curve.
Twisting the tap, I reach for my iPad, planning to catch up on what’s going on in the world. I also reach for my glass, enjoying the way the whisky’s smoky flavour rolls across my tongue. I read a few emails, catch up on news from home via the BBC news app, then idly flick through my social media. It isn’t long before I’m served an advertisement for a new dating app.
And they say our phones don’t listen to us. Or at least Rose maintains they don’t. I’m not about to make myself a conspiracy theorist’s tinfoil hat but if our phones are listening to us, they need to do a better job because those are some wasted dollars, serving ads for gay dating