“I will be attending a concert tomorrow night. I need some outfits – refined, elegant – something that a beautiful, younger woman would not be embarrassed standing next to. One formal, one semi-formal, and one casual.”
Andre beamed. He snapped his fingers and several other people appeared from discrete corners and concealed entrances, and hurried over. “With such short notice it will be expensive, sir, if you care….” His eyes widened as Nathan handed him his Centurion Black American Express card. “Cost is no object,” Nathan said, matter-of-factly. “Impeccable quality and perfect timeliness are all that matter.”
“Of course, sir,” Andre purred. Then he cocked his head slightly in polite puzzlement. “Pardon my saying so, sir, but you do look a bit familiar. Might I know you from someplace?”
Nathan gave him a wry smile. “That would be telling.”
On Saturday morning, Nathan got a limousine to take him several dozen blocks to an elegant structure set back from the road. The limousine dropped Nathan off, and he walked briskly through the silver and glass doors of Amanda’s Day Spa. The perfectly coiffed, perfectly attired receptionist, smiled perfectly enough for a sculptor. “How may I help you, sir?”
Nathan bestowed a bright, winning, smile on her. “I would like, very much, to speak to Amanda. I have an impossible task for her.” The understated confidence the stranger exuded persuaded the receptionist to stop asking questions and buck this stranger up to her boss. She spoke a few quiet words into her headset and then smiled at Nathan. “Please have a seat, sir.”
Nathan sat down, steepling his fingers in his lap and looking perfectly at ease. Several women drifted in and checked in at the receptionist, cast him curious glances, and were escorted to various pamperings in the back.
After two minutes, a tall, graceful woman of indeterminate age strode out of a side office and walked over. He stood as she approached, took her hand, and kissed it in continental fashion, his lips barely brushing the back of her hand and his eyes never leaving hers. “I am Nathan. And you can be none other than Amanda.”
“None other,” the woman responded, confidently. “Now what might this impossible task be; I admit to being a tad curious. And I do recognize you – and I have 100 dollars on you and Ariana to win. You wouldn’t care to…?
“Under no circumstances,” Nathan smiled. “I am here to present myself for your artistry. I must attend a performance tonight, and while I know that not even supernatural force could render me actually handsome, I believe in the depths of my soul that you can transform me into the best me that I can be.”
“For a performance?” Amanda murmured. About one in fifty of her clients were male, and they were actually easier to please and much more grateful – and tipped much more extravagantly – than her female clients.
Nathan leaned forward, and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “At this performance I will be meeting a Lady.” It took Amanda no imagination to hear the capital ‘L’ in ‘lady’; nor any to know that for this man, here and now, nothing was more important. “I do not wish her to be disappointed in me.”
Amanda examined him closely. She had actually seen him walk in from the parking lot, after being dropped off by a limousine. He moved with the presence of an ambassador, had the relaxed self-confidence of a martial arts master, and simply reeked of money. In her experience a lesser man would have the limousine wait in the parking lot. This man didn’t do that. His manner suggested that the limo would be there when he needed it.
“Please come with me.” She took his arm to escort him; and fought to keep her face straight. Even through the sport jacket and shirt, the muscle tone of the arm spoke of someone hammered out of iron. This might be easier than she had thought. She had seen more than her share of overweight, under-exercised, over-sixty, under-whelming men who wanted an overnight miracle so they could pretend that a twenty-something mistress could actually find them attractive. This was different. Men this – focused – had more serious goals in mind than trying to recapture an imagined youth or slide in an out of a bed. “And might this woman be… Ariana?”
“The Madri-Gals are performing in town tonight, and I was passing through and hope to get a chance to say, ‘Hi!’ I would hate to evoke memories of mud and sweat; I would rather leave a good impression.” His grin was self-deprecating. “Therefore I need your attentions.”
A thousand questions crowded her mind, but, tactfully, she could not ask any one of a new client.
That night, the Madri-gals were spectacular. Nathan knew that, because he sat as high up and far back as he could and still be thought in the same theater. He didn’t have to be close. He only had eyes for Ariana, and he enjoyed the anonymity. He had a phony birthmark on his cheek, completely different frames for his glasses, and a first-class simulated surgical scar on his scalp. People either stared at the scar or avoided looking at him at all. One of the little tricks Ariana had told him about during the long flights, along with teaching him some Gaelic and opening up about herself. He lingered a few minutes after the show and followed the crowd out. He wondered if his anxiety would permit him to get much sleep that night.
The Madri-Gals were coming down from the performance in Marie’s room. The troupe had all the rooms in one wing on one floor and there were discrete security personnel insuring privacy. Room service had cold beer and hot appetizers waiting, and the girls had unwound for two hours until Ariana had sent them off to Linnae’s room, worried the beer might cause her to slip, and holding vast relief at arm’s length that her iron self-censorship was nearly at an end.