The Gilded Lily was a bar that didn't have a sign, only a heavy brass door and a line of people that stretched around the block. Security guards with earpieces and stony expressions stood at the entrance, checking iPads with a clinical coldness.
Arthur felt the weight of the Leica in his inner jacket pocket. He had left the tripod and the GoPros in the Mustang, knowing they would never let him in with professional gear. But the Leica looked like a hobbyist’s tool, a rich boy’s toy. That was his angle.
“Name?” the guard asked, not even looking up.
“Arthur. I’m with the London press contingent.” he lied, his British accent doing the heavy lifting. He hoped the man wouldn't ask for credentials he didn't have.
The guard paused, squinting at his screen. “London? We weren't expecting any internationals until the New York leg.”
“Last minute addition.” Arthur said, leaning in slightly, projecting a confidence he didn't feel. “Beatrice’s team wanted some coverage for the UK market. You know how it is.”
The guard sighed, clearly not wanting to deal with a potential PR headache. He unclipped the velvet rope. “Fine. But no flash. If I see a flash, you’re out.”
Arthur nodded and stepped inside. The air was thick with the scent of botanical gin and expensive tobacco. The walls were lined with dark wood and gold leaf, reflecting the amber glow of the chandeliers. It was a world of whispers and clinking ice, a far cry from the dusty shoulder of the highway where he had stood twenty-four hours ago.
He moved through the crowd, his eyes scanning for the center of gravity. He found it near the back of the room, where a circular bar was surrounded by a swarm of photographers.
In the middle of the storm stood Beatrice.
She was smaller than she looked on screen, but her presence was twice as large. She wore a dress of dark emerald silk that seemed to catch every scrap of light in the room. Her hair was a dark wave over one shoulder, and she moved with a practiced grace, smiling for the cameras while her eyes remained curiously distant.
Arthur felt a pang of something more than just ambition. She looked exhausted.
He waited for a gap in the security perimeter. When a group of executives moved away to the VIP lounge, he slipped forward, positioning himself at the corner of the bar. He pulled out the Leica, checking the settings in the low light.
He didn't want a staged photo. He wanted something real.
He watched her through the lens. She was holding a cocktail, a pale pink concoction with a sprig of rosemary. For a split second, the smile dropped. She looked down at her glass, her shoulders sagging just a fraction of an inch.
Arthur clicked the shutter.
The sound was tiny, but in a momentary lull in the music, it seemed to echo. Beatrice’s head snapped up. Her eyes, a startling, sharp hazel, locked onto his.
She didn't look angry. She looked surprised.
“I told you, no press in this corner.” a voice boomed behind him. A hand gripped Arthur’s shoulder, spinning him around. It was a security guard, the size of a small refrigerator. “Give me the camera.”
“Wait.” Beatrice said. Her voice was low, with a slight rasp that the microphones always smoothed out.
The guard paused. “Miss, he was filming in the private zone.”
Beatrice stepped closer. The scent of her—something like jasmine and cold rain—hit Arthur like a physical force. She looked at the Leica, then at Arthur’s face.
“You’re not one of the regulars.” she said. “Where are you from?”
“London.” Arthur managed to say. “And I wasn't... I mean, I was filming, but not for the papers.”
“Then who for?” she asked, tilting her head.
“For me.” he said, honesty slipping out before he could stop it. “I’m driving across the country. I’m trying to find something worth seeing.”
Beatrice looked at him for a long beat. The photographers were starting to notice. The flashes were beginning to pop again, like a slow-motion lightning storm.
“You want to see something worth seeing?” she whispered, a sudden, mischievous glint in her eyes. “Then help me get out of here.”
Arthur blinked. “What?”
“The back door is behind the velvet curtain to your left.” she said, her voice barely audible over the music. “If we move now, they’ll think I’m just going to the restroom. Meet me in the alley in two minutes. Don't be late, London.”
Before he could respond, she turned back to the crowd, her professional smile clicking back into place like a mask.
Arthur stood there, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looked at the exit, then at the most famous woman in the room. This wasn't the plan. This was better than the plan.
He moved toward the curtain.
No comments:
Post a Comment