The Dirty Ones

I was wrong. I am not prepared at all. I get the doorman. I get it. I have seen these things on TV, and I’ve been to the city with Hayes several times over the years, so I’m expecting the greeting. “Good afternoon, Miss Astor.” But after that things get a little surreal.

“Hello, Gregory,” Sofia says, accepting Hayes’ hand as he helps her from the car.

Gregory tips his head at Hayes. “Mr. Fitzgerald. How are you doing today?”

“Just fine, thanks,” Hayes replies, reaching in for me.

“Hello, miss,” Gregory says to me with a cheery smile. “Welcome to the Corinthian. You’re a new guest for our Miss Sofia, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I manage to say, looking up at her building like a tourist.

“Gregory, this is Kiera Bonnaire,” Sofia says. “She’s staying with me.”

“Welcome, welcome, Miss Bonnaire! Anything you need, you just ask.”

“Thank you,” I say, feeling nervous for some reason.

Then Sofia leans into him, cupping her hand near her mouth like she’s gonna tell him a secret, and whispers—not all that softly—“She’s a famous author, Gregory. So if any fans come looking…” Sofia makes a shhhh sound with a finger to her lips.

“Mum’s the word.” Gregory beams.

Sofia beams back.

“We have two bags,” Hayes says, palming a tip into Gregory’s hand.

“I’ll take care of it, sir.”

Then Hayes is between us, placing his hands gently on the small of our backs, urging us towards the door. Gregory turns a key in a short pillar of stone near the entrance to the classic green canopy that covers the walkway leading to the entrance. And when we enter the lobby that’s it, I’m done.

I know it’s dumb. I just came from a mansion so big I can’t wrap my head around it. But that was Long Island. This is Fifth Avenue.

It’s art deco. Straight lines that bend in sharp corners. And glittering sun medallions made of inlaid marble on the floor. It’s black, and white, and gold, and old. Every man is in a suit. Every woman fresh with perfect makeup and designer clothes, and necklaces that cost more than my cottage.

How is this real?

It makes no sense. So many rich people in one place, sipping afternoon tea in low velvet upholstered chairs with tiers of scones, and pastries, and pretty little finger sandwiches piled on silver trays. There are small gatherings of conversation. People whispering secrets, holding martini glasses, and drinking in the bar. Because this isn’t an apartment building. It’s a hotel. She lives in a hotel penthouse.

I knew that. I did. But I didn’t understand it until this moment.

“You coming?” Hayes asks, pushing on my back a little.

I realize I’ve stopped to gawk. I look down at my feet. My shabby shearling boots. Realize I’m wearing leggings and a too-big coat and get a little lost in the inlaid marble sun medallion as I try to control my instant feeling of inadequacy.

“Yes,” I say, looking back up at the expectant faces of Sofia and Hayes. “Sorry.” I laugh. “I’m just… wow, this place is a palace, Sofia.”

“Wait till you get upstairs.” Hayes chuckles, urging me forward again.

We stand in front of the bank of brass-fronted elevators. The art deco design continues here. Something that looks like an upside-down waterfall engraved into the gold facade parts in the middle as a door opens and we get in.

There’s a bench in there. And an attendant. “Good afternoon, Miss Astor,” the woman says. “How are you today?”

“Oh”—Sofia laughs softly, placing a hand on her heart as she looks at Hayes and me—“I’m having the best time.”

“So happy to hear that,” the attendant replies.

I wonder, as we ascend to the heights above New York, what it would be like to interact with so many people in the course of one day. And for it not to be a special occasion, like it is for me, but an everyday occurrence.

I don’t know if I’d like it. Intimacy isn’t my thing. I prefer to write about it. I prefer to live it in my head and put it down on paper.

The doors open directly into Sofia’s apartment and the first thing I see is New York. And the park down below covered in white.

“Wow,” I say.

“Jesus,” Hayes says. “You have never been this impressed with my place.”

“No, well…” I laugh and stutter. “Your place is super impressive, Hayes. But I’ve been there before. And it’s like a museum. I can relate to a museum. I just can’t relate to this at all.”

“You hate it,” Sofia says, pouting.

“No.” I chuckle. “I love it.” Then I take a deep breath and look around. Everything is decorated in black and gold, just like downstairs. So Sofia. Long drapes hang at the edges of floor-to-ceiling windows. The floor up here is classic black and white tiles laid in a diagonal pattern. And they have glittering flecks of gold where the grout lines should be. Something you’d see in a pre-war penthouse, for sure.