Love Story Of A Call Girl

Henry, the good, old doorman greeted us at the marble arch entrance. He nodded and I smiled my standard formal smile. We took the elevator right up to the fortieth floor; the highest floor of the serviced suites, which just opened for residence one month ago.

We walked along the wide corridors which were supported by avant-garde beams with arches reminiscent of an Italian garden. We arrived too soon at his door because I was in awe admiring the carvings on the corridor walls. The number 409 was carved into the door. He unlocked the door with a key which shone like gold. How appropriate, I thought. Even the key matched the architecture.

The same glow could not be said about its owner. Those eyes which had pierced me just now at the restaurant made me not want to look at him directly in the eye anymore. When he opened the door I took the chance to view him from my position at his side.

I did not take in to both the way he looked and his attitude. Not only ghastly, but menacing with a touch of arrogance. Years of conscious training had taught me to treat him without prejudice no matter what I thought privately.

Once inside, I took in with curiosity the full immersion of this architectural contemporary grandeur. It was a sight to behold. Though it was not my kind of style, it was grand and exploited to the maximum in its furniture, decorations, carpeting, flooring and even the abstract wallpapers plastered on the wall.

A Steinway grand piano shone like jewels at the far edge of the room. It looked new, and it had been polished till it reflected back what little light there was in the room. Its black silkiness and imposing width humbled me. Never had I seen such a beautiful piano before.

"It's a Steinway; a piano of good quality. I bought it when I moved in here because I wanted to learn how to play the piano. I never got round to it. Had other commitments." He said.

"I can see that it's really new. It's beautiful." I said, trying not to gush out too much excitement.

He must have noticed that my interest rested on his piano longer than any of the other furnishing in the room. Immediately I pulled myself together and directed my gaze to the pair of settees in front of us. I wondered if he preferred our i.n.t.e.r.c.o.u.r.s.e to take place in the living room or in the bedroom, which I had yet to see.

The living room was wide and airy. I felt comfortable with my surroundings. The pair of settees faced directly the opposite of the other. There was a balcony, accessible via sliding glass panels; right in front of the living room. Clear glass panels displayed the view of the suburbs and the city which never sleeps from a distance. If you looked far enough, you can make out the outlines of the skyscr.a.p.ers beyond the horizon, and that was at least twenty kilometres away from here.

"Where are my manners?" He seemed to be muttering to himself.

His gaze was beyond and over me. He seemed to be looking through me instead of at me. I looked at him. I tried not to twitch my fingers. It was something I did when I was felt uncomfortable. Instead I placed one palm on top of the other to cover my restless fingers.

"Do sit." He said.

Finally his gaze was aimed at me. It was quite an order, and I complied.