Domaine de la Romanée-Conti
We talked for hours last night. I didn’t notice that he was slurring his words until he was half way through the third bottle of Domaine de la Romanée-Conti. He was finally relaxing. His heartbeat had slowed to a normal rhythm and he was leaning back against the couch, long legs stretched out in front of him. As I spoke, he hung on my every word in wide-eyed fascination. When I questioned him, his answers were always honest. The initial awkwardness had faded away and his smile was contagious.
It was just past 3am, by the time I helped him into the elevator. He traced the curling “R” emblazoned on the floor with the toe of his shoe, then stumbled, gripping the hand rail tightly until we reached the main floor. The lobby opened before us in majestic hues of deep red and gold and the scent of fresh flowers filled the air. He held my shoulder to steady himself as we made our way to the front door. The night doorman tipped his hat in greeting and I slipped a crisp £50 note into his hand as we passed.
Navigating the stairs to my waiting limousine was no easy task, but eventually, he made it into the back seat unscathed. I slipped in beside him, knowing that he was in no condition to be travelling alone. Lights flickered through the tinted windows and he seemed content to quietly watch the city pass us by.
His flat was as unimpressive as I had expected. Tucked in the middle of a row of identical brickwork, windows and stairs. My driver opened the car door for him and he turned to face me.
“I don’t think I will ever find a way to thank you for this,” His voice was thick with emotion.
“We’ll think of something,” I smiled.
He was about to slide from his seat when I reached out, grasping his chin and pulling him closer until my lips met his. His heart began to race, but I released him before any real panic could set in.
Stepping out of the car, he staggered and fell to the pavement with a nervous laugh. He was quickly on his feet again, beginning his slow climb of the concrete stairs leading to the front door. I watched as he teetered from one side of the wrought iron railing to the other before finally using the door handle to steady himself. He was mumbling and patting himself down in search of his keys.
“Sir,” I barely noticed that George; my driver, was speaking. “We need to get back.”
Though many of my staff did not understand the reasoning behind it, they were all well aware of the fact that I had to be hidden away safely before dawn.
“Not yet.”
Success. With keys now in hand, he stabbed ineffectively at the lock, first missing it completely and scratching a line of paint from his front door. His second attempt had him trying to insert the key upside down. I was beginning to think that I might need to help when I finally heard the mechanism click. He turned to me and waved with one arm, still clinging to the door handle with the other before finally disappearing inside.
I waited. Listening.
“Sir?” It was George again.
“I said not yet.”
I could hear movement inside the flat. A muted bang, followed by some cursing. Footsteps again. The clatter of keys dropping on wood floor. The creak of old couch springs and what sounded like a muffled goodnight. The noise of the city was distracting, but if I concentrated, I could hear his deep, steady breaths. He had fallen asleep almost immediately.
“Now, George,” I said finally, knowing that time was growing short.
There was nothing but the hum of the engine and my own thoughts as we drove back to the hotel.
It was just past 3am, by the time I helped him into the elevator. He traced the curling “R” emblazoned on the floor with the toe of his shoe, then stumbled, gripping the hand rail tightly until we reached the main floor. The lobby opened before us in majestic hues of deep red and gold and the scent of fresh flowers filled the air. He held my shoulder to steady himself as we made our way to the front door. The night doorman tipped his hat in greeting and I slipped a crisp £50 note into his hand as we passed.
Navigating the stairs to my waiting limousine was no easy task, but eventually, he made it into the back seat unscathed. I slipped in beside him, knowing that he was in no condition to be travelling alone. Lights flickered through the tinted windows and he seemed content to quietly watch the city pass us by.
His flat was as unimpressive as I had expected. Tucked in the middle of a row of identical brickwork, windows and stairs. My driver opened the car door for him and he turned to face me.
“I don’t think I will ever find a way to thank you for this,” His voice was thick with emotion.
“We’ll think of something,” I smiled.
He was about to slide from his seat when I reached out, grasping his chin and pulling him closer until my lips met his. His heart began to race, but I released him before any real panic could set in.
Stepping out of the car, he staggered and fell to the pavement with a nervous laugh. He was quickly on his feet again, beginning his slow climb of the concrete stairs leading to the front door. I watched as he teetered from one side of the wrought iron railing to the other before finally using the door handle to steady himself. He was mumbling and patting himself down in search of his keys.
“Sir,” I barely noticed that George; my driver, was speaking. “We need to get back.”
Though many of my staff did not understand the reasoning behind it, they were all well aware of the fact that I had to be hidden away safely before dawn.
“Not yet.”
Success. With keys now in hand, he stabbed ineffectively at the lock, first missing it completely and scratching a line of paint from his front door. His second attempt had him trying to insert the key upside down. I was beginning to think that I might need to help when I finally heard the mechanism click. He turned to me and waved with one arm, still clinging to the door handle with the other before finally disappearing inside.
I waited. Listening.
“Sir?” It was George again.
“I said not yet.”
I could hear movement inside the flat. A muted bang, followed by some cursing. Footsteps again. The clatter of keys dropping on wood floor. The creak of old couch springs and what sounded like a muffled goodnight. The noise of the city was distracting, but if I concentrated, I could hear his deep, steady breaths. He had fallen asleep almost immediately.
“Now, George,” I said finally, knowing that time was growing short.
There was nothing but the hum of the engine and my own thoughts as we drove back to the hotel.