Base Notes, page 7
“You’re always welcome to leave.”
“Yeah, well, you pay better than babysitting my cousins. Barely.” He gave me a funny look—not quite a smile, with his face screwed up like that. “I won’t say that it’s good to have the old Vic back, but . . .”
“Go home, Barry.” I capped some clary sage and rubbed my streaming eyes. When I had blinked the tears away, he was gone.
I wondered briefly if Barry liked me. I couldn’t think why he would. But I have never cared much about being liked; still don’t. I expect the deeper we get into all this, the less and less you’ll like me. I’m not bothered. That’s not the point.
What is the point? We’ll get there, if you can stick it out through the foul bits. Think of it like a dry down: to experience a perfume fully, you have to let it work through every note.
By the time I had everything put away and cleaned up, it was going on seven fifteen. From the unfortunate part of the Lower East Side where the lab was located, it was going to take me twenty minutes to reach the party. I stopped for a cheap steamed bun just outside East Broadway and ate it waiting for the uptown train. No time—or cash—for anything fancier. At least the pork and carbs were filling.
On the F train, I withdrew a five-mil spray bottle from my folio: a sample of the batch of Trophy Kill we had decanted today. The first Bright House I’d ever smelled, back in London, in that little shop in South Bank. The thing that hooked me, bound me in chains. Nothing else had smelled like this—nothing else conveyed such disdain for the traditional profile it perfectly fulfilled. Luca Turin and Tania Sanchez had given it a coveted five stars in their seminal guide to perfumes. Jonathan wore that laurel with insouciance, as he did all the praise that came his way.
Trophy Kill was a riff on the classic fougère, the favorite accord of Victorian gentlemen. Fig and violet shifting to a base of oakmoss, musk, and mildewed leather. Dark, toothy, unexpected. Close your eyes and you could be lost at dusk in the kind of fairy-tale forest the Grimms never cleaned up. A fox hunt ending in blood. A strong stirrup cup, and shadows. A riding habit wrenched above the knee.
Other favorite pastimes of the Victorians? Spanking, caning, kink. It seemed appropriate. The conservatism of English tailoring could be sexy: a constraint within which all kinds of perversion contorted itself to fit.
I got glares for applying Trophy Kill on the subway, but at least I wasn’t singing or dancing or telling a sob story. Putting on perfume isn’t quite as intrusive as showtime.
SoHo was a rugby scrum, as always, and the throng of tourists set my hackles high. It didn’t help that these were Jonathan’s old stomping grounds. Thankfully, my route didn’t take me beneath the gaze of his windows. I didn’t know if it would be worse to see a light behind them or to see them dark and wonder if the loft was still vacant, or undergoing a remodel, or held by some absentee owner as a tax shelter. I couldn’t stand the idea of anyone but Jonathan in there. Or me.
I had lived there, after a fashion, for about a month. Now I knew that, if I could have stayed longer, I might have gained another precious ounce or two of absolute. But the process was not even in beta then. It was a lucky prototype. Besides, the mortgage came due and there was nobody to pay it.
It had been a very strange month, a sort of half-life of luxury. I slept in his bed, on his Swiss sheets, drank his Scotch, and took sponge baths in his cavernous kitchen sink. The bathtub was otherwise occupied.
It is crass and disingenuous to say that this brief tenure whetted my appetite for the high life; I had begun to salivate long before then. But the solitude, the sanctuarial quiet . . . I could not even hear the downstairs neighbors or the cars in the street below. The soundproofing was expensive. The bed was large and comfortable. There were no roaches; there were no mice.
For the first time in my life I felt at ease in a space. Even in the house where I grew up—especially in that house—I had never felt this luxurious uncurling, this freedom to simply be. That is what wealth can buy. And what I have never been able to afford.
Upsetting, on my way to a party I had hoped would buoy my spirits, to feel the sharp slap of reality on a spot already too sore with its sting.
His spiritual successor I might have been. I had wrested from the lawyers the intellectual property, the lab lease, the tragic corporate bank account. All on the strength of my history with the company and my success as his protégé. Any number of ex-employees could testify to our close creative partnership. But without a mention in Jonathan’s will, I was entitled to nothing beyond the business. I wish I could say I’ve gotten used to the feeling, since I’ve had plenty of opportunity. But I have a high opinion of myself, and it never fails to surprise me when others don’t feel the same.
There was a list at the party. I was not on it. Another blow, this one nearly fatal. I clenched my jaw and turned away, debating the merits of heading home. I had come here ready for victory, assured of success. I knew this scene, and knew how to sneer at it. I had not expected it to sneer back.
Since breakfast, I had eaten nothing but the pork bun and was now powered purely by spite and coffee. It had been a long day. I had actually done work, for the first time in forever, and my back and feet and headache were reminding me.
That full day of work was all riding on Eisner’s deal. I wanted nothing more than to forget about him and the whole ghastly bargain for the evening, but I needed that money, and to get it, I needed Beau on board. So I slouched against the glass storefront and sent a text, conscious of the partygoers mingling on the other side of the window. I must have looked pretty pathetic: turned away, now desperately texting the person who had invited me.
No answer, for minutes on end. I sighed and lifted my eyes up to the lowering sky. Flaky fucking New York artists.
As I thought it, a cab pulled up to the corner and Beau burst out, an explosion of apple-green overcoat and red leather shoes.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, opening his arms for a hug and surprising me with an only mildly affected kiss on the cheek. “Why didn’t you go in?”
“There’s a list,” I said, unable to keep the chill out of my voice. “I’m not on it.”
He flicked a dismissive hand. Jewelry jangled. “Neither am I. Just say you know Katie.”
Of course. Jonathan always had a name to drop as well. In a pinch, he could pull one out of a hat—the odds were good that whoever he knew was already there, or on their way, or the host hoped so badly that they would show up that any friend of theirs was welcome.
Standing slightly too close to the woman with the clipboard, Beau gestured at me, pointing inside. Within seconds we were past the red velvet rope in the middle of a crowded corner retail space, windows on two sides, heavy curtains hung in opulent swags along the walls. I smelled gin, sweat, leather, frankincense. Conversation was a rush of sound above shimmering electronic music, and I sank into the noise like a diver into deep water. Hungry Manhattan luxury hunters: my milieu. No matter the party’s theme, I knew my way around this kind of social scene. And this party’s theme was familiar as my own fingerprints pressed into someone else’s skin.
The lights were low, with the exception of bright spots fixed on mannequins in smoking jackets, suits, and dressing gowns, their heads wrapped in skintight gimp masks made of patterned silk reminiscent of neckties. On well-lit white plinths, like museum pieces: riding crops embellished with silk tassels, schoolboy paddles in exotic wood, and what the casual observer might have mistaken for equestrian tack. A pleasant departure from black pleather and chrome, these gags and restraints were sewn from cordovan in chestnut, Havana brown, and burgundy. The buckles and bits were brightly polished silver, and gold that glowed with genuine warmth. Drifting closer to a jewelry display, I saw cuff links and cigarette cases with precious inlay in obscene patterns.
Of the guests who had dressed on brief, half had worn conservative suits in the English style, beautifully tailored. The other half were squeezed into latex, locked into chastity belts, or being led on the ends of leashes and wearing very little else. But the majority of the crowd had made only minor concessions to the theme—rhinestone dog collars, handcuffs dangling from one wrist—and had largely decked themselves in unadulterated Fashion. I didn’t feel particularly underdressed in my black turtleneck and Chelsea boots. In fact, I felt free from the Best in Show contention engendered by the costume party. With a haze of Trophy Kill hanging in the air around me, I was turned out better than a lot of the people.
“Drinks,” said Beau, aiming for the bar, where a brand rep was pouring cocktails. “I’ll be back.”
In his absence, I tucked myself into a corner by the DJ booth: a protected vantage point with good command of the room and its over-the-top inhabitants. The alien creature at the soundboard rubbed eyes irritated by scleral contacts, then deftly segued from Billie Eilish to the Ink Spots.
As the distorted opening chords of “Do I Worry” made the speakers hum, a draft brought me the barest hint of citrus and vetiver, Proraso and Barbicide. I caught a familiar flash of brilliantine in the crowd, a pale center part dividing dark waves.
“Giovanni?” If the music had been any louder, he might not have heard me. As it was, he turned but didn’t immediately mark who had called. I repeated his name, half lifted my hand, and his confusion became surprise.
“Vic? What the hell are you doing here?” There was a jocularity to his tone I had never heard before—maybe he only wore it outside business hours, away from clients. Or maybe it was the free booze. He transferred a sweating plastic cup from his right hand to his left, and we shook.
“I’m here with a friend,” I said. “As a matter of fact, you might know—”
“Metzger, you motherfucker!” Beau burst into our conversation, lifted a cup of his own, and induced Giovanni to toast. His green overcoat was gone, and I was relieved to discover he wore a suit of Black Watch plaid rather than a leather thong and nipple clamps. His skull-shaped bolo tie was done in scarlet cloisonné. If I were judging the costume contest, I would have given him favorable marks.
“Mr. Singh,” said Giovanni, with an ironic twist to his formality. “Nice to see you. How do you know Vic?”
Beau handed me my own cocktail with a bow and a flourish. “My new friend was sent to me by an angel.”
“He means Jane,” I said, and sipped my drink. The bright berry smell of juniper cleared city stink from my sinuses. “What are you doing here?” I didn’t want to say it wasn’t his scene—what did I know about him, after all? Except the scent of his aftershave, and his ever-moving hands.
“I’m friends with Katie,” he said, inclining his head toward a Saint Andrew’s cross at the front of the room. The woman hanging upon it wore a pink hunting jacket over a fishnet bodysuit. Flash photography lit her like a strobe light. “It’s not really my thing, this stuff”—he made a circle with his finger—“but you know, I came out to support her.”
Given Giovanni’s receptionists, I should not have been surprised. But in those days, it seemed he was full of surprises. And then, as if dwelling on surprises had invited one, I looked over his shoulder and froze.
Should I have anticipated Eisner’s presence? In retrospect, perhaps: it was the sort of party a wealthy gay man with illusions of edgy taste would drop by to say hello. He probably knew the tailor, or the model, or more likely the investors. Perhaps he was one. I never asked.
In the moment, his appearance in the midst of the crowd I had so happily sat back to judge doused my good mood like a bucket of ice water, and froze me just as stiff.
I had been having such a good time. But this was a reminder: while this commission hung over me, Eisner would be everywhere I went, in spirit or in person. My brief ride on the high horse had come to a sudden and painful end, and I wouldn’t be getting up again anytime soon. Embarrassing that I had only realized it now.
“Vic?” asked Giovanni, suddenly concerned. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Just a client. Would you gentlemen excuse me for a moment?”
But before I could slip away to join Eisner, he saw me staring and made straight for us.
The gin, which had landed on my nearly empty stomach, was by now well at work. I tried to remind myself that Eisner had no reason to look askance at my meeting with these two men. So far, my plot existed only in my mind.
What would he do if he found out? Nothing good. He wasn’t the kind of man who liked his dirty laundry aired in public. At the time, I tended to agree. I have since learned there is utility in transparency, in more ways than one.
“Vic,” said Eisner, extending one thin hand between Beau and Giovanni. I saw it coming like the claw of Nosferatu in a silent film, and like the heroines thereof, I was entranced with terror, unable to escape.
“I didn’t expect you at chamber music,” he said, smiling as we shook, “but I’ll admit, this seems right up your alley.”
I disliked that he knew in which alleys I lurked. I hadn’t been out to play much in recent years—my amusements had been mostly private since Jonathan died. I didn’t remember running into Eisner anywhere, but would I have noticed then? More likely, he had just done his research. No matter that I had never been much online—that didn’t stop mouths from running in the analog fashion. Where there were rumors about Jonathan, there were often rumors about me. Though oddly, never the obvious one.
“Are you here alone?” I asked, knowing that he wasn’t.
“Oh, my friend Javi’s around somewhere.” He flicked bony fingers over one shoulder. “Who are your two handsome escorts?”
Standing between them, small and pale and trapped, I introduced first Beau, then Giovanni. Suddenly I was glad of the gin’s effects; it made me speak slowly, carefully, and kept my voice from shaking.
Eisner said small pleasant things to each of them, asking the obvious questions: What do you do? Oh, interesting. And how long have you been in the city?
Beau had come up after graduating from Northwestern, years ago. Giovanni, I was unsurprised to learn, was a lifelong New Yorker, born in Queens, reluctantly relocated to Jersey. Eisner skillfully elided any information about his childhood, but admitted to a stake in New York real estate and other assets. Stilted conversation and smiles all around.
Beau asked him who made his suits, and he laughed. “Oh, not Jerome, I’m afraid. He’s a little too fussy for my taste. Javier’s a friend of Katie’s. I shot her, you know: last year. She was such a treat to work with.”
“You’re a photographer?” asked Giovanni.
The false modesty of Eisner’s smile was so thick it was spreadable. “I dabble. I’ve even done a few group shows.”
“Cool,” said Beau, noncommittal. I clenched my teeth.
Before he took his leave, Eisner turned back to me and asked, “Any progress on our arrangement?” Then, to my companions: “Vic has taken on a very complicated commission for me, and I have to say I’m salivating for the results.”
Only by dint of fingernails to the base of my thumb did I keep from glancing at either Beau or Giovanni. “I’m making strides,” I said.
He smiled that smoker’s smile. “I’m pleased to hear it. I’ll be in touch.”
We shook again. My palms had begun to sweat. Eisner’s expression told me that he noticed, and I hated myself and him. Once his back was turned, I wiped both hands on my pant legs and polished off my drink.
“Shit,” I said, to no one in particular.
But Beau said, “What?”
And Giovanni, perhaps noticing my pallor, asked, “Vic, are you all right?”
The Ink Spots faded into Roy Batty’s Blade Runner monologue, stilted speech over the shimmering Vangelis score. I remembered a piece of apocrypha: that Rutger Hauer had ad-libbed the whole thing. If only I could think so quickly on my feet, so well.
“Who was that guy?” asked Beau.
“Nobody,” I said. “He’s . . .” I swallowed past a dry tongue. How dare Eisner make small talk with my . . . my tools. How dare he ruin my evening. How dare he know Katie too. Was there nothing of mine that was safe from him? The moldy dry down of Trophy Kill caught at the back of my throat and made my breath hitch. “Fuck.”
“Hey, really.” Giovanni’s thick eyebrows made a concerned vee above his nose. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” I said, and willed myself to believe it. “Everything will be . . . fine.” My voice came very close to cracking. I willed my statement to be true. It had to be. The money I had spent on supplies, the day’s long labor, were all Eisner’s game. I had been able to forget him, sunk into meditative mixing and dilution, riding high on excitement about the party. But he had not forgotten me. Nor would he.
“Shit,” said Beau. “I’ve had some bad ones in my time, but nobody ever knocked my feet out from under me.” With his good eye, he glanced over his shoulder to check for eavesdroppers; for Eisner in particular, I assumed. “You wanna talk about it?”
I almost said I didn’t. Except I realized that with these two, I did.
“Not here,” I said.
“Right,” said Beau. “I know a spot. I’ll get my coat.”
Giovanni nodded. “Lemme say bye to Katie.”
They left me sitting miserably by the window, feeling fragile and absurd. I caught Eisner’s reflection in the bank of windows perpendicular to mine: laughing, with his arm around a much younger man in a black harness and a puppy hood. He had never been less worried in his life. Where I was only comfortable looking on, aloof, he had everyone at this party in the palm of his hand. He stood to lose absolutely nothing if this perfume didn’t pan out. Or at least, he only stood to lose a few million, and his pride. Both things that, as far as I was concerned, he could afford to lose.
Meanwhile, I’d be absolutely fucked.
7
Notes de Tête: Black Pepper
Notes de Cœur: Jasmine, Ambergris
Notes de Fond: Asphalt, Oak, Vanilla
