CHAPTER THREE
Bridget
I’m waiting on the couch in my apartment, pulling my skirt down over my knees.
Calm down, the voice soothes in my head. Everything’s going to be okay.
Of course it is, I remind myself in disgust. After all, I’m the one in charge here. I’m the client, and as a result Robert has to please me and not the other way around. But somehow I have a severe case of the nerves and can’t help but to glance at the clock again. It’s 7:05 p.m. already, and he said he’d be here at seven. Where is he? I almost reach to call Gold Medallion to make sure he’s still coming, but then I stop and breathe deeply. There’s no sense in getting worked up about five minutes.
Because this isn’t a regular date. It’s not like there’s going to be a second one after this one. This is just a fun time with a hot guy, and I’ve dressed accordingly. I put on a cocktail dress and heels, which is much nicer than my usual uniform of button-down white shirt, cardigan, and khaki pants for work. The dress is purple and hits mid-thigh exposing a good length of leg. It’s cut demurely, but not so conservative that you can’t see anything. My big Double Ds are obvious, and I pull at the décolletage a little bit from nerves. Am I pulling it up or down? I’m not even sure.
But suddenly, the bell dings and I leap from the couch, rushing to the intercom.
“This is Bridget,” I say in a breathy voice. “Robert, is that you?”
There’s a pause before a gravelly voice comes on.
“No, this is Tom, his driver. Mr. Half sent a car for you. Could you come down when you’re ready please?”
I nod before realizing he can’t hear me.
“Oh yes, of course,” I stammer. “I’ll be down in a sec.”
But when I turn, my movements are slow and dazed. Because Robert sent a car for me? Or was it Gold Medallion that planned this? Regardless, I gather my coat and purse, squeezing the tiny bejeweled clutch tight. Because this definitely isn’t a date at a bowling alley or a sports bar, that’s for sure.
And when I slip down five flights of stairs to the first level, there’s a man waiting there.
“You must be Tom,” I say hesitantly. “I’m Bridget.”
The man is huge, and I mean absolutely gigantic. He must be six foot eight at least, and as big as a bear. But his face is completely neutral, giving nothing away, and he wears a black and white driver’s uniform with a jaunty cap on his head.
“Yes, I’m Tom,” he confirms, nodding as his eyes survey me quickly. It’s not a up and down, you’re hot type of survey. It’s a professional go-over that makes me feel like I’ve been through an x-ray machine. He nods again, averting his eyes.
“I’m sorry ma’am, but I need to search you quickly.”
That makes me stop mid-stride about ten feet away from him in the building’s tiny, shabby vestibule.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, “but it’s standard procedure for Gold Medallion. We need to pat-down all clients, male and female.”
Another pause.
“You must be joking,” I say slowly.
He shakes his head regretfully.
“No ma’am, I’m not,” he says. “Again, it’s standard procedure.”
I want to argue.
“They could have sent over a female driver,” are my pointed words. “So that I don’t have to be felt-up by a strange man in a monkey suit?”
But the jab doesn’t get to Tom. In fact, he handles it like a professional.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry but this is the way it is. If you have any questions or concerns, please call management. I’m happy to wait.”
I think about doing that because what in the world is going on? Who gets patted down on a first date? But the allure of Robert is too strong and so close to meeting him, I give in. Whatever it takes to keep this moving along.
“Okay,” I say with an exasperated sigh, holding my arms out straight from my sides. “Let’s just do it.”
And the bear of a man comes up behind me and begins patting me down. He’s brisk and businesslike, not to mention experienced. He’s obviously done this more than a few times. Finally, it’s over and I shoot him a pointed look.
“Can we go now?”
He shakes his head regretfully.
“Ma’am, just one more thing,” he says. “I need to check your purse. Please open it.”
I gape at him.
“My purse is about two inches big and doesn’t fit anything!” I sputter. “Why is this necessary? I’m not using drugs, trust me.”
But the man just shakes his head again, averting his eyes from my gaze.
“It’s standard policy and procedure,” he repeats again. “Please ma’am.”
And I can’t be mean to someone with such good manners. So heaving an exasperated sigh, I snap open the bejeweled clutch and hold it out to him. As expected, there are my keys, a credit card, and some breath mints.
“Satisfied?” I say wryly. “You couldn’t fit anything dangerous in here.”
But unbelievably Tom shakes his head.
“I’m sorry, but I need to check the lining as well,” he says. “Would you mind emptying the contents?”
“What?” I gape. “You must be joking. This has gone too far.”
But this time, the giant man says nothing, merely waiting patiently. And heaving another sigh, I pull out my things and hold the silk purse out to him.
“Knock yourself out,” is my comment. “But I promise you, there’s nothing there.”
Tom’s not listening because he’s slowly running his fingers over the jeweled exterior, as if examining it for unknown lumps and bumps. He opens the purse again, checking the lining and even looking into the tiny pocket to see if there’s nothing there. Of course, it’s empty.
“See?” I say triumphantly when he returns it to me. “Nothing.”
He smiles, nodding his head.
“I apologize for the intrusion,” are his words. “I understand this isn’t standard for a first date, but I assure you, it’s necessary. Now if you could follow me, Ms. Martin, I’m happy to take you to your location.”
And outside waits a black town car, totally indistinguishable from any of the other black town cars that zip around the city day and night. Tom holds the door open for me, and I lower my curvy form inside, looking around. Hmm, totally standard. A few bottles of water in the side pockets, as well as some magazines behind the driver’s seat. The smell of new leather wafts luxuriously, and I lean back with a sigh.
But then I see it. The tiny eye of a camera staring at me from the dashboard. It’s a mounted lens, and I gasp, lunging forwards.
“What is that?” I ask, pointing at the black machine.
Tom is unruffled, starting the car and pulling smoothly away from the curb.
“All of our cars have mounted dashboard cameras for safety purposes,” he says.
“Let me guess,” I say wryly. “Standard policy and procedure?”
“You got it,” he confirms, nodding slightly with his eyes on the road. “Now please sit back and relax Ms. Martin,” he says. “We’ll be at the location in no time.”
And idly, I watch as the Manhattan streetscape passes me by. At seven thirty, there are all sorts of people out, from corporate drones getting out of their jobs to sidewalk hustlers selling contraband purses and cell phones. Finally, we pull up in front of a non-descript apartment tower.
“This is it?” I ask skeptically, craning my head to look upwards. The building is huge, with a slightly shabby exterior that could do with a good power-washing.
“This is it,” confirms Tom, pulling the car to a stop at the curb. “Ma’am, I can’t park here so I’ll just drop you off. If you go in and tell the concierge who you are, they’ll buzz you right up.”
With another sigh, I get out, almost tripping on the curb. But a bellhop rushes over then, bowing and smiling.
“Welcome Ms. Martin,” he says. “Right this way please.”
And to my astonishment, once I’m in the lobby, there’s a woman waiting for me.
“Ms. Martin?” she greets, blonde hair pulled into a sleek bun. Her smile is professional and gracious, and she wears an elegant blue suit with mid-stack heels. “I’m Lavinia. Mr. Half is expecting you. Come with me please.”
I don’t even have time to say anything because within moments, we’re in an elevator that has only one button on the panel.
“We’re going to the penthouse?” I say, astonished, staring at the lights on top that show us whizzing past all the other floors.
“Yes, that’s right,” Lavinia replies pleasantly. “I trust the car ride here was satisfactory?”
I swallow again, nodding.
“Good,” she says with a nod. “Tom is one of the best. Ah, here we are. Follow me please.”
And with a ding, the elevator swooshes to a halt, the doors silently opening to reveal a hallway with only one door at the end. But a chill runs down my neck because the passageway is endlessly long, and I feel like there are cameras trained on my every movement as Lavinia and I walk along the carpeted path.
She stops before a large mahogany door and knocks, but doesn’t wait for anyone to answer. Instead, the blonde merely reaches for the handle and pushes it open, looking over her shoulder to smile at me.
“Mr. Half is waiting for you inside,” she says pleasantly. “This is where we part, Ms. Martin. Have a nice time tonight and don’t hesitate to buzz if you need anything.”
By now, I’m ready to scream because I feel like I’m in the movie The Shining where at any moment, I’m going to stumble upon a spooky pair of identical twins, or some monster is going to jump out at me from behind a potted plant. But what can I do? I’ve come this far, and there’s no way out. There should be an emergency stairwell somewhere because according to NYC fire code, all buildings must have multiple exit routes. But I don’t see anything, so I nod stiffly before pushing the door open further.
“Thank you Lavinia,” I manage before stepping inside. “I appreciate it.”
And with that, the heavy wooden slab swings shut slowly behind me. The foyer to the apartment is gracious and well-lit, with a crystal chandelier hanging over my head. It’s opulent in a stately and dignified way, with twin pedestals on either side topped with mirrors.
“Hello?” I call tentatively. “Robert?”
“In here,” growls a male voice. “Come on in, Bridget.”
Okay, this is freaky because I feel like I’ve heard that voice before. But where? He kind of sounds like my local barista, or maybe my seventh grade math teacher. Tentatively, I walk forwards and towards an archway leading to another room.
“Um, there was a lot of security to get here,” I call out, my heels clacking on the marble floors. “And I was expecting to meet at a restaurant, and not at your home ….”
But then my voice dies off because there’s a man sitting on the couch, relaxed and elegant, with a glass of wine in his hand. It’s not the expensive suit he’s wearing or the finely-appointed living room that takes my breath away. It’s the man himself. Tall and distinguished-looking, with black hair and blue eyes that can charm old ladies and babies alike. I recognize him immediately … because he’s the President of the United States, Robert Carter. Suddenly, my knees go weak and I collapse on the nearest couch, unable to speak.