I was being told a story by a Nordic Scheherazade under the soft rustle of the budding birch leaves. A rhythmic thud-and-scratch of waves grinding at the beach provided a muffled, distant undertone. The city, its tall towered canyons and insistent brightness, felt very far away even as I soaked up her story of lust and power.
She had gathered her long blonde hair, retro-style, under a scarf decorated with a complex interleaving of vines, all brought out in a pale green that was well-matched with her eyes. The light on the porch was largely provided by candles in storm lanterns. It was a light that swirled as stray eddies of wind caused the flames to dance. It was a light that bathed her skin, normally so pure and so white, with the faintest tan-like glow of orange.
Her face was defined by high cheekbones, clear lines and lips that were softly pink, elegant with just a hint of plumpness. She was middling tall, athletic and as thin as she'd been in college, but the fitness did not come at the cost of femininity. Shapely legs met a rounded hip and rose to high C cup breasts that were straining against the embroidered top that spoke of India in the language of fashion. She had a far superior beach body to most younger women in their 20s or 30s.
I was leaning forward, like the Sultan in one of those classical Persian paintings, even as she sat back at her ease with one elegant arm, ever so slightly freckled, draped over the side-rest of her chair. Sir Richard Burton, adventurer and translator as he was, would surely have called her one who "had studied philosophy and the sciences, arts, and accomplishments; and she was pleasant and polite, wise and witty, well read and well bred". She told stories that required some patience. This story will require a little bit of patience.
Her story was told neutrally and almost softly, with a rolling lullaby-like modulation at odds with the sex and power of her narrative. The story had the power to grab attention. As she told her story, she kept mainly still, but her breath caused her breasts to rise and fall, straining against the outline of her shirt and her cardigan (the lightest two ply cashmere, Bergdorf). Her nipple had grown harder as she told the story and was outlined against the fabric. The rise and fall of her breasts was more than a little hypnotic.
The story had the power to grab. And to shock. I like to think of myself as jaded. This story happened during the first Age of Weinstein, but even after all the revelations it is had to deny that the power mash-up of Park Avenue law firm and Hollywood can startle.
She told me the story, and I will make it my story to you. Once upon a time there was a lawyer. A lawyer just like her. She was a beautiful and accomplished lawyer at a firm that billed its partners out at more than a thousand dollars an hour. She was a lawyer that focused on acquisitions, not entertainment. That is not to say that she wasn't entertaining. She was very entertaining and that was one of the things that made me fall hopelessly in love with her.
In her story she named a producer. A prominent producer but not a famous one. He had an office in New York and another in Hollywood. He had enjoyed success at the box office and success with the critics. This was pre-Weinstein, but his reputation was not like that of Weinstein. He wasn't known for being kind to cats and orphans. But it wasn't a reputation that would reduce a woman to apprehension merely by walking into the same room with him. Harry also had a habit of meeting people in offices, which is much more above-board than the hotel rooms so happily chosen for meetings by other kinds of producer. He was smart. He wasn't from nothing, but then he wasn't exactly from money either. He was the kind of power broker who ensures they are just famous enough to get a table, and to rely on their power and enough obscurity to be rated by those who mattered.
The producer has a name. She told me his name, but I won't repeat it to you because that would not be a wise thing to do. He has a name, but we'll call him Harry. Like Harry the prince (but this man wasn't a prince).
The story began in the early summer. Hers was a white shoe firm, but she didn't wear white shoes unless she was playing tennis. The city was warm, but not to the point of being hot. She didn't wear white shoes and, because it was warm enough for women who were European (like her) or who knew Europe to sport bare legs under their perfectly tailored A line skirts, she didn't wear nylons. Did I mention that she had fantastic legs? That she didn't wear nylons isn't really that important to the story, except to tell you that she was more free spirited than many of the people who had succeeded in those carnivorous law firms.
The part of Hollywood this producer controlled was buying some assets that had a corporate home in New York. She knew the seller. The seller was a well known fund, a good client for her, for the firm. A client from just down the avenue. A client that they wanted to keep happy and to keep producing fat fees.
Harry was the buyer. Harry was a nightmare to negotiate against. Not because of skill but because of his power to irritate and be unpredictable. He had lawyers, but he thought he knew better. Sometimes he didn't and deals blew up. Harry was famous for deals dying at the finish line.
In this deal price was not really the issue, and a deal should have been a simple matter to negotiate. It wasn't close to being a mega-deal: it didn't even cause the scale to top one billion dollars. So let's drop the voice-over and go back to something a little easier to visualise: a boardroom.
Now this is not yet erotic, unless you remember that our beautiful lawyer is in this boardroom who cannot help but ooze a buttoned-down sexuality. Actually, there is more than one attractive woman in the room: some are associates in their 20s, looking severe and tailored and determined to be partner worthy. Our lawyer isn't dressing to make partner, she is a partner. She isn't wearing nylons on those long, shapely silky-smooth legs. She taken off the decortique blazer, but she is still wearing a tailored dress from Margiela, belted. Her waist, lean, small, is bounded by a thin red and pink Spanish leather belt (two narrow bands of dark red bordering a line of pink). The red of her belt is much redder than her slightly plump pink lips. On the navy blue of the dress the belt sat slashed across in a bolt of color. The lecherous could imagine in that belt the reddened folds of an excited woman, red lips framing a pink gash. It would be truly lecherous to imagine that unless you were already thinking about it. There is a soft hum as the air conditioning keeps the temperature low, a soft and comforting hiss.
Now Harry drifts in and out of this meeting. His interventions slow things down.
When he's in the room, Harry stares at her a great deal. Some of it obvious, some of it less so. He walked to the end of the boardroom table to stare down the length of the table: was it to glimpse her legs (long, lean and silky-smooth)? Did he lean back when talking to see if she would lean forward, her breasts straining against the fabric of her dress. He certainly looked at her, even when other people were talking.
The meeting was inconclusive, but as it ended he suggested that they have a private meeting to resolve things.
Imagine it is another early summer day, the next day, a bit sunnier, a bit cooler. "What were you wearing?" I asked. "A black short sleeve ribbed dress, slightly above the knee, with button accents, nude suede pumps and a red Oscar de la Renta light peplum jacket." I observed she had a good memory. She smiled, as if to say that she'd just imagined a look to tell me, and that the reality was different, but let's hold that look in our mind's eye because it does set off that pale skin and blonde hair quite beautifully.
She was at Harry's New York office. He had part of a floor in a good building, his office set at the corner. Not too high, but a view through the canyon of towers to a glimpse of Hudson Yards and the river. The lobby was eerily quiet, but as she was shown into Harry's corner den the soundtrack became a murmur of traffic - grumbles, honks and squeaks - from the Midtown snarl thirty floors below.
The office was large and L-shaped. An enormous desk, black lacquer, faced the door at the apex. The open view lay behind his desk: building-bounded cloud and sky and river. Two large sofas, brown leather perfectly tuned to pick out the brown of the wavering cross-hatch in the hand-loomed carpet, occupied one side. A long table, for conferences or eating, the other. Behind the table was an open door revealing a dressing area and a bathroom and shower.
On entering into the office she noticed a couple of other things. Firstly, there was an assistant perched primly and erectly at the edge of the nearer sofa. She was a twentysomething woman with dark hair pulled back, silver hoops surprisingly large for an office environment, and prominent breasts. She was dressed fairly casually: cropped jacket, hip-hugging white jeans. The second was that Harry's eyes were fixed on her: our lawyer, the center of the story.
He was gazing intently. Hungrily.
"Was Harry in a tough mood?".
"Yes, or he began that way. I sat down on the chair facing his desk. He was doing th classic boss-man behind his desk routine. I crossed my legs. He looked at them and then gathered himself and grumbled that the purchase agreement that had been drafted 'fucked him'. He didn't like 'feeling fucked' and he'd be inclined to kill the deal unless he felt he got something that 'didn't make him feel so fucked'." He then looked at her in a way that even hungrier and even more intent.
I can see where this was going, and so can you.
She looked at Harry in silence. She held his gaze for almost thirty seconds, in silence. He broke first, which was bad, and probably made him feel weaker.
"So" he said " if I can fuck you then I won't feel so fucked myself."
"Oh Harry, you are a charmer. With smooth lines like that you must get lots of girls. Where did you learn your game?"
Harry actually stood and put his palms on his desk.
Now there was a bit of back and forth. Harry was Harry, I suppose her thinking was getting that notch on her belt and getting this deal signed would be interesting. It wasn't a great deal for Harry, and it was a major win for her. So she agreed. And she pulled the binding documents out of her bag. And for five minutes he signed them, because he really wanted to fuck her and it wasn't such a make or break deal and when you are rich enough other things matter.
The assistant moved for the first time, gathering Harry's copies. She then returned to her perch on the sofa and her birdlike watch.
"So tonight, Harry?"
"No, now."
"What if it's my period?"
"There are two other holes" and he smirked.
