Necktie

 I live in a hotel. I’ve been living in hotels since I got a shit load of money from the auction of my paintings and pictures almost ten years ago. I now occupy the penthouse suite of the Savoy in London; it’s mine for the next three years.  

 I have nothing against houses, it’s just that well, houses need to be chosen, decorated, kept and maintained and I have no patience for that kind of thing. And I got turned off from house hunting when I heard you can’t use the loo when you’re viewing. I mean come on, what kind of stupid rule is that? What if you really have to go?  

Which is not to say I am not domesticated. I make a mean mushroom risotto and chocolate strawberry pancake. I can wash and iron my own clothes. But I don’t have to anymore.  

A billionaire businessman discovered my art a few years ago and their prices took off faster a rocket to the moon.  

I was down on my luck then. I couldn’t find any work because no one would hire me for being a psychiatric patient. I was stable then and all and I have learned to accept my condition so I followed a religious regimen of taking medicine and going to my shrink regularly. But no one would give me a shot despite my credentials.  

I was drawing in a coffee shop, one of those franchise jobs, to pass a windy afternoon outdoors. He passed by and saw my drawings. I thought my work was crap because I was self taught and it was something that I did for myself. I draw to cope with my considerable emotional baggage. I come from a broken home, and my Dad, Charlie, who raised, me died. I still cry when I think of him, after all this time.  

I didn’t know who he was then, my patron. He asked me, “Are those drawings yours?” 

“I’m drawing them; whose do you think it is?” I retorted.  

He laughed and took out a business card from his wallet. He handed it to me.  

“Call the trunk line and ask for me. They’ll give you an appointment,” he was smiling. 

I read the card and my jaw dropped. I wished then the ground would swallow me.  

I gulped and said “Sorry,” in a small voice.  

I did call him and got that appointment. He bought one picture for each of his seven children and a photograph of a pulley for his wife. Then he hooked me up with the art dealers and the rest as they say, is history. I am not very prolific but the clients like my self deprecation and my off color jokes, which raised the value of my work a bazillion fold. I exaggerate, of course. But my agent says I have achieved cult status in the art community that my pink polka dot panties would fetch a good price on auction. They’re shitting me, I know. 

I have a pet Labrador. He’s a blonde and he’s been my companion since I got to where I am. He accompanies me to the Philippines, where I stay at the Shangri-la’s bridal suite during winters in England. 

Don’t judge me; it was the only available suite when my agent booked it.  

So I’m here. It’s January in Manila and the air is nippy. I was just bringing in Daisy (I’m trying to make it into a unisex name) from our walk around the villages that hedge the central business district. I’m preparing for an interview with a women’s magazine with my publicist in the coffee shop when I noticed him.  

He’s tall-ish, tall actually if you are five foot flat like me. He has salt and pepper hair, gold rimmed glasses and an aquiline nose that could cut butter. The first thing I noticed was that he wasn’t wearing a tie. He had an Italian suit on, and what looked like a Brooks Brothers shirt, but he wasn’t wearing a tie. This confounded me. I usually could place a suit by his tie. Silk says old money, blends say new money, and polyester says working class. I was intrigued. I watched him work the utensils on the table, and that’s when I knew he was old money. He moved like clockwork, everything was perfect. I focused back on my meeting.  

I knew better than to tangle with old money. I’ve read enough Victorian pulp to know that the nouveau riche was not regarded with respect by old money. It’s not inverted snobbery, it’s just that well, like the chauffeur dad in the movie Sabrina said, there’s a reason why there’s a window in between the front seat and the back seat. And we best respect the rule. But something about him drew my eyes to him. I’d be in the middle of a sentence and my publicist would remind me to finish it. Then once, he met my gaze with a faintly sardonic, appraising look. Then he frowned. I went back to my meeting.  

I saw him everyday for quite a while after that. Sometimes when Daisy and I would go out for our walk in the mornings and late afternoons, I’d find him in various spots of the lobby. During mealtimes he’d be in a table within my vicinity in one of the hotel’s three restaurants. This totally amused me.  

One day, I got up just enough nerve to come up to him and smile a really wide, goofy grin. He looked shocked for a millisecond, as if flabbergasted by my audacity. Then he smiled. My heart melted. I turned and ran to the elevators as fast as I could. I didn’t look back. 

The following morning, I saw him standing at the receptionist’s area. He had with him a pot of white orchids. Without saying a word, he handed them to me, smiled, walked away and never turned back.  

“What the…Hey, what’s your name? Are these for me?” I asked.  

All he did was to give me a short wave. 

It went on for a month. Every morning I would get a small, significant gift from him. Most memorable for me were the antique boar bristle brush, vintage cameo pin and a Beatles poster.  

I would take the gifts, puzzled at first but eventually liking the attention. 

At the end of the month, I packed my bags for the beaches in the South. He opened his mouth then.  

 “Going anywhere?” he asked. 

 “Somewhere,” I replied.  

 “Take me along?” he smiled.  

 I frowned, but I found myself nodding. Then smiling. This was crazy, I thought. He’s a stranger; he could be a serial killer. A million thoughts were running through my mind. I held out my hand. “Name?”  

 “Ahh… the tricky part,” he rummaged through his suit pocket for a calling card. Then he handed it to me. 

“Don’t laugh!” 

 I laughed anyway. I laughed so hard my sides ached. “Oh gosh…oh gosh…I will definitely take you along, Bluebell.” 

 You know the rest.