That night I was meeting Paul at a donor’s house for a dinner party organized to help raise yet more money. So after taking a shower and drying off, I put on a long, hunter green velvet skirt with a scarlet silk blouse, black suede lace-up boots and then coiled my hair into a twist and stuck in some pins. I looked in the mirror but the image I saw didn’t fit how I felt inside. Without thinking about what I was doing, or what it meant, I took off my skirt, boots, pantyhose, blouse and my bra. And then put everything back on except my underwear.
The velvet skirt was silk-lined and swished against my bare skin with every step I took. The blouse lay soft against my breasts and every time I breathed I felt a caress. Like the woman I had been on the phone, I was only half- dressed. And no one at the party would know. Except me.
In the taxi on the way downtown – the dinner was in a townhouse over by the East River – I shifted in my seat feeling the fabrics brush against me. When I got out of the cab, the air blew up my skirt and cooled off my skin. Inside, I was welcomed by the host and a waiter who offered me champagne. Across the room, I saw Paul talking to a woman, listening intently and standing just a little too close to her. She didn’t seem to mind, even putting her hand on his arm to make a point and then leaving it there for several seconds more than was appropriate. It was no different when Paul talked to men. He seduced them all, flattered them, charmed them, lead them on until they were captivated. Until they were his to take.
Paul looked up then, saw me and broke away to come over and greet me. He was more relaxed now that I was there. As usual my presence reassured him. As he reached my side he touched my hand the way he always did – as if he were making sure I was real – and then he leaned down to kiss my cheek. I breathed in his scent and its familiarity made me aware of how separate and apart I felt from him, this place and this night.
“You look wonderful,” he said and smiled. How could I fault him for being satisfied that everything was now as it should be. For years his approval had been exactly what I sought. Exactly what gave me pleasure.
“Come with me, there are some people I want you to meet,” he said. Sipping my champagne, I followed him across the room, wondering what would happen if I put my hand out and stopped him, if I reached up and whispered my secret in his ear, “I’m not wearing any underwear.”
My deviation from the norm wouldn’t please him. “What’s the matter, Julia? Are you feeling all right?” he’d ask, concerned. And then, when he realized I was fine, he’d be annoyed. “Don’t you understand how important this dinner is? We have work to do here tonight!”
Of course I didn’t tell him. The secret would stay mine, I’d be the only one to get any pleasure from it.
After a half hour the hostess announced dinner was ready and we all went into the dining room. I was seated between two men I had never met, both of whom were already at the table when I sat down. The man on my left was talking to the woman next to him so I began a conversation with the man on my right. George Helprin, the CEO of a cosmetics and fragrance company, was a tall man with close cropped silver hair, chiseled features and steel gray eyes who looked every bit the part of a corporate giant.
I was good at starting conversations – enough evenings being Paul’s hostess had given me confidence that I could engage anyone. But that night, for the first time, I enjoyed doing it.
I asked George how you go about selling something as ephemeral as perfume.
“You tap into a woman’s imagination,” he explained and described some of the techniques his research people used to delve into their customer’s unconscious.
“Do you ever talk to the women yourself?” I asked.
“No, but I read most of the research,” he said and took a sip of his wine.
“Do you remember any of the women’s fantasies?” I asked him.
He smiled and was quiet for a minute. “Yes, yes I do actually. I remember several of them.” He seemed surprised, as if he’d never realized that before.
“Was there one you remembered more than the others?”
Continued…
© MJ Rose