the afternoon, she had me bring her mail up.
An advantage of owning the entire building of your company’s headquarters and of living there yourself: if you don’t feel like going to work, you can have work come to you. She doesn’t do it all that often, but I’ll admit I like it when she does. The penthouse is just breathtaking.
Every time I take her private elevator to get up there, I feel I’m stepping into a whole different world. The offices, and the rest of the building for that matter, have this open feel that comes from being high above the city with windows from floor to ceiling. There’s a lot of glass and steel all around. It was featured in some architecture and style magazine, once. The penthouse…
How can I describe it?
For one thing, it’s a sort of maze. When you walk out of the elevator, you’re presented with a half-moon wall with four identical doors spaced out evenly. In my mind, I call that first room the flowers room because there are always large arrangements of fresh flowers on stands between the doors. Most days, Miss Delilah comes down with a flower on her lapel or pinned to her breast, and I guess that’s where she gets them.
Of the four doors, I only ever go through the second on the right. I’m not sure where the others lead, although I wish I dared explore when I know she’s out of the building. The next room could be called a sitting room, I suppose, with its heavy carpets, assortment of sofas, love seats and armchairs, and the gas fireplace made entirely out of glass like a throne in the center of it all. Thing is, I’ve never seen a sitting room that was as large as my apartment. And no, my apartment is not tiny.
This room also has four doors: the one that goes back to the flowers room, and one on each wall. Again, I only know what’s behind the door directly across. If I didn’t have a good memory for places and directions, I’d probably get lost. As it is, it only takes me two or three minutes to cross five extravagant rooms and finally reach the antechamber where Miss Delilah always waits.
I say antechamber but really it’s a walk-in closet. A closet as large as my living room, but still a closet, with a shoe rack taking an entire wall, and opposite that wall rows of gowns, dresses, skirts, shirts and pants all perfectly organized. There are only two doors in that room, the one I come in and the one to her bedroom. I caught a glimpse, once, when she was walking back in. It’s done all in dark blue and navy colors, and the bed could fit at least five or six people.
Do I think it ever welcomed that many? I told you, I’d never betray Miss Delilah’s trust, not even now.
Especially not now.
That afternoon, she was still in her dressing gown, reclining in the Victorian fainting chair in the center of the room. The chair was upholstered in shiny black velour and looked simply gorgeous. So did she, in fact.
Her hair was done, half of it piled on top of her head in a regal bun set with pins accented with what I’d bet were real diamonds, and the rest framing her face and neck in elegant curls. Her skin is so pale that her hair seems darker for it, jet black, shiny and beautiful. Her make-up was perfect, too: just a hint of lipstick, a burst of pink in her cheeks, and smoky eye shadow that deepened her green eyes. Except for the robe, she was ready for that party.
She set the correspondence aside without giving it so much as a look when I handed her the tray and then she gestured for me to sit on the chair next to her.
“I can’t make up my mind,” she said, and only after I sat did I know what she meant.
Facing us, four mannequins displayed the dresses she’d had made for the party. I couldn’t help but smile.
“I can’t blame you,” I said. “They all look beautiful. And I bet they look even better on you.”
No, I wasn’t sucking up to her. It was only the truth. She has the kind of body that could make a potato sack look like high fashion. It’s
An advantage of owning the entire building of your company’s headquarters and of living there yourself: if you don’t feel like going to work, you can have work come to you. She doesn’t do it all that often, but I’ll admit I like it when she does. The penthouse is just breathtaking.
Every time I take her private elevator to get up there, I feel I’m stepping into a whole different world. The offices, and the rest of the building for that matter, have this open feel that comes from being high above the city with windows from floor to ceiling. There’s a lot of glass and steel all around. It was featured in some architecture and style magazine, once. The penthouse…
How can I describe it?
For one thing, it’s a sort of maze. When you walk out of the elevator, you’re presented with a half-moon wall with four identical doors spaced out evenly. In my mind, I call that first room the flowers room because there are always large arrangements of fresh flowers on stands between the doors. Most days, Miss Delilah comes down with a flower on her lapel or pinned to her breast, and I guess that’s where she gets them.
Of the four doors, I only ever go through the second on the right. I’m not sure where the others lead, although I wish I dared explore when I know she’s out of the building. The next room could be called a sitting room, I suppose, with its heavy carpets, assortment of sofas, love seats and armchairs, and the gas fireplace made entirely out of glass like a throne in the center of it all. Thing is, I’ve never seen a sitting room that was as large as my apartment. And no, my apartment is not tiny.
This room also has four doors: the one that goes back to the flowers room, and one on each wall. Again, I only know what’s behind the door directly across. If I didn’t have a good memory for places and directions, I’d probably get lost. As it is, it only takes me two or three minutes to cross five extravagant rooms and finally reach the antechamber where Miss Delilah always waits.
I say antechamber but really it’s a walk-in closet. A closet as large as my living room, but still a closet, with a shoe rack taking an entire wall, and opposite that wall rows of gowns, dresses, skirts, shirts and pants all perfectly organized. There are only two doors in that room, the one I come in and the one to her bedroom. I caught a glimpse, once, when she was walking back in. It’s done all in dark blue and navy colors, and the bed could fit at least five or six people.
Do I think it ever welcomed that many? I told you, I’d never betray Miss Delilah’s trust, not even now.
Especially not now.
That afternoon, she was still in her dressing gown, reclining in the Victorian fainting chair in the center of the room. The chair was upholstered in shiny black velour and looked simply gorgeous. So did she, in fact.
Her hair was done, half of it piled on top of her head in a regal bun set with pins accented with what I’d bet were real diamonds, and the rest framing her face and neck in elegant curls. Her skin is so pale that her hair seems darker for it, jet black, shiny and beautiful. Her make-up was perfect, too: just a hint of lipstick, a burst of pink in her cheeks, and smoky eye shadow that deepened her green eyes. Except for the robe, she was ready for that party.
She set the correspondence aside without giving it so much as a look when I handed her the tray and then she gestured for me to sit on the chair next to her.
“I can’t make up my mind,” she said, and only after I sat did I know what she meant.
Facing us, four mannequins displayed the dresses she’d had made for the party. I couldn’t help but smile.
“I can’t blame you,” I said. “They all look beautiful. And I bet they look even better on you.”
No, I wasn’t sucking up to her. It was only the truth. She has the kind of body that could make a potato sack look like high fashion. It’s
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