Never Say Forever

It's like floating on a watery cloud.

I light a couple of candles that I’d picked up in a dollar store on my lunch break yesterday and flick the lights off as the tub begins to fill. And I’m sure Carson Hayes III won’t mind if I use a little of his fancy looking bath soak.

“Bergamot and peppermint,” I read aloud from the label. It’s probably good for arthritic joints, I think as I twist off the cap and pour a decent amount to the running water. Bubbles begin to form almost immediately. “How decadent, Mr Hayes,” I murmur to the empty room with more approval than reprove.

As strange as it is staying in the home of a man I’ve never met, I feel that by living here, I’m gaining a kind of understanding of him. Well, as much as any ordinary person can because rich people are their own species. I mean, who owns a place as gorgeous as this and doesn’t live in it? Does he live somewhere even nicer? Is there even such a place? By Rose’s reckoning, he has a wandering soul, which sounds like a romantic way of saying he doesn’t have a proper job. Probably because he doesn’t need one; one look at this apartment and I just know he’s old money.

But Carson Hayes III is also a lot of other things. At least by my deductions. He is quite a bit older than me and a man of taste and culture. A man who derives joy in taking care of himself. And there’s nothing wrong with that. His clothes are timeless yet understated; a peek in his closet reveals tailored suits, cashmere sweaters, and brogues in shades of neutral and monochrome.

He takes care of his body; works out. Maybe he runs. Whatever his exercise of choice, he does it in expensive running shoes. There are several well used pairs in the hall closet. Size 11, if you’re interested. And 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.