It Had Been Years (41 page)

Around the same time Robert was catching his breath Vincent was stepping off the elevator and out of the front door on to 47
th
catching Broadway and winding up to Central Park, a morning run after a night of nothingness.  He would return to the hotel an hour later, gulping water and waking
Nadrea
, Donna still was sleeping soundly in the darkness of her own bed on the comfort of her own pillow top mattress, the XM radio playing alternative and metal tunes quietly in the background.

Nadrea
had planned a taxing day, beginning of course with spa time on Lexington, A manicure, a pedicure and a rejuvenating facial.  This was to occur before a stop at Barney’s, the requisite dip into Tiffany’s just to look of course before the real abuse was to begin with a personal shopper service at Bloomingdales.  Mix the day in with Sushi for lunch and a childhood friend to share the day with and it was to be a perfect and full day. 

Vincent had been invited to participate but only for parts of it the separation of girls only time was easily accomplished by scheduling him for a facial, a 2 hour massage, and sea salt scrub all of which started later then the ladies spa time which would allow for a minor diversion to the sexual underside hidden away in Manhattan,
Nadrea
wanted to just a little shopping that was edgy and stimulating to her in so many new ways  So Vincent would wonder along to join the adventure  at the spa at 9:30 when the girls had arrived an hour earlier to begin their pampering prior to shopping, lunch.
and
whatever other play time would ensue.

Nadrea’s
accomplice for the day was Stella, they would meet in the lobby of the W at eight,  
Stella
was an artist of some talent but spent far too much time writing things in a poetic tendency and of no particular acclaim or note. Stella stood in the lobby her too long board straight dirty blond hair and pale skin blended nicely with a pair of tong sandals, the canvas and the soul both uneven, tattered and worn, which matched her entirely too faded jeans with frayed pant legs where the length had been dragged through the streets of the city a hundred too many times and white
cammi
top covered by a half buttoned wrinkled pastel striped blouse. Stella lived simply in a nice loft on the lower east side.  She did not do so to a lack of means but because of a lack of desire to spend time worrying about all the things that the city can make one worry about.  In stark contrast to
Nadrea’s
heels, midnight blue designer denim, shiny dark mane, and perfectly pressed blouse.  Stella was a flower child, a wonderer
who
would live in a one room apartment in Paris for a few months just for the inspiration.  She once lived for six months
in a shack of a villa in the dolomites of Italy because she loved the spring time green and summer was simply too pretty to leave.  Unlike so many despite her family wealth she lived her own way, her spirit was not only free but it was her own.  She used some of her trust fund to buy her loft years earlier, and occasionally for a charitable donation but for the most part it sat untouched just growing except for once a year when she would take out two hundred and forty thousand dollars for the year for things.  Food utilities, taxes, clothes, travel, whatever, any other funds she had she got by selling the occasional poem to a publication for fifty dollars here or a few clothing designs at a art fair somewhere around the city’s boroughs .  Stella always took the train or walked she didn’t take cabs,  they were an indulgence she had no desire to partake in,  they were devoid of stimulation and  interaction that she found so inspiring but could never quite capture on paper properly to express what she felt.

Nadrea
sat tensely at the spa as her hands soaked, the anxiety built as her nails were buffed and shaped, her cuticles trimmed and finally the moment of truth arrived
Nadrea
would be faced with the choice of nail polish color.  Oh how she dreaded that, it was one of those things that truly worried her, not that the choice was permanent it was of course infinitely changeable and the was what was maddening,  Stella who had bounced to the manicurist before
Nadrea
had finished sipping her teas and sauntered back for her treatment called out “make her match.”  The Manicurist held out for
Nadrea’s
approval a sparkling cobalt blue nail polish with dark blue glitter in it.  She shook her head in approval saying “fine” knowing that it was not worth arguing against Stella’s choice of color pallet, it would only prolong the inevitable, cobalt blue nails.  So why fight it. 

Soon after the pair were soaking their feet and as
Nadrea
actually began to relax and enjoy herself as Stella talked incessantly to everyone
with in
ear shot as long as they were willing to talk back, or at least occasionally attempt to utter a syllable or two in agreement before Stella would continue to rattle on merrily.  There was something calming to
Nadrea
about Stella’s frenetic energy and constant
distraction,
the pair had been friends since middle school. 

Vincent entered as the pairs toes were about to be adorned in the same electric monkey shit cobalt blue with glitter nail polish as their hands.  He was in his classic weekend look of worn jeans, battered shoes this time they were English tan Kenneth Cole Reactions, complimented by Armani shades and a simple t-shirt that that proclaimed to the world “
Pimpercrombie
and Bitch” an obvious play on the elitist fashion Mecca for
wanna
be suburbanites.

“Stella this is Vincent.” 

Vincent smiles as she greets him with “Bonjour,
Missour
” Stella greeted him playfully in a French accent, so perfect that a native frog would be unable to tell that she wasn’t native.  He offered his hand in the typical white bread greeting to shake hands which led Stella to jump to her feet bouncing toward him greeting him with a kiss on one cheek then the other before returning to the first.  Vincent just played along not yet knowing if she was fake, eclectic or perhaps even French. 

“
Bonwee
madammoiselle
.”
His was speech not nearly as perfect, but without hesitation and more than adequate. 
Nadrea
learned yet another thing about Vincent as the pair stood there, he spoke fluent French.  As Stella prattled on now in her second language and Vincent not only followed but replied and contributed to the conversation.  

Stella then drifted into a heavy New York accent you would expect to find coming out of the mouth of a round little
bubbla
  “
Oooh
and he’s big too”  her current tone much closer to her actual lineage of being a Russian Jew than a Frenchman or anything else for that matter. 
Her accent still intact turning to the cosmetologist escorting Vincent to his treatment room.
“You take my facial honey, I’m going to go run my hands all over his body
”  She
giggled “ I mean scrub his skin with salt to make him even more beautiful.” 
Nadrea
never knew exactly what to expect chimed in her words mixed with laughter “
Stell
!  Leave him alone and come sit back down
”  She
knew that Stella was only starting and could have cared less what she wanted.

Vincent was a man who loved a woman’s
attention,
he flirted with everyone from grandmothers on down, playful and adept in his conversations.  Stella was a joy.  He was expecting an uptight uptown bitch not a complete lunatic.  He much preferred the lunacy.  He laughed adding “OK, bye.  See you in a bit” 

Stella looked at
Nadrea
“He’s going to show me his bits.  Are they impressive?”  

Nadrea
just rolled her eyes and Vincent disappeared into a treatment room where the attendant drew a long thick taupe linen curtain.

The difference between
Nadrea
and her oldest friend were obvious but what was not so obvious was that
Nadrea
saw the world as stoic, with images that were crisp and most often contrived.  Each thing had a specific purpose, her desire to move and manipulate her surroundings while being worshipped and adored by them. 
Nadrea’s
world was highly eroticized and each thing that she did notice fit into her version of reality, if it didn’t it was rarely paid attention to.  To Stella the world was full of shapes and colors, she noticed texture and tone,
movement
and flow intrigued her only slightly less than the utter stillness of a building or a mountain and when the two were combined in her frame of vision it was delightful and inspiring.  Everything around caught her eye even if it was only for a second.  To
Nadrea
Vincent was a sexual diversion, erotic and full of so many possibilities.  He was a plaything when she first saw him and he had proved to be far more challenging than to seduce than she had anticipated a delightful challenge but a soul she had seemingly little influence or control over.  She realized that Vincent was much like Stella, on
their own
schedules and filled with their own ideas.  Stella saw Vincent as a work of art, an image to behold.  Vincent was a collage of textures and images from his statuesque build, large powerful rippling muscles. To his wide easy smile that revealed movie star white teeth and his under stated looks that was a mix of high end fashion left out in the elements and frat boy humor.

“Naked yet big guy?”
  Stella called across the room. 

“Really Stella, stop it.” 
Nadrea
wishing she could just melt into her chair. 

“Not quite,” he called back tossing a shoe over the top of the curtain, the second following shortly after that. His T-Shirt followed shortly after then his jeans pockets still filled with his wallet, money and keys hit the floor with a muffled thump and wind filled clang. 

“Stella” Vincent called
“ I’ve
misplaced my pants could you bring them to me if you see them.” 

“Be right there love.” 
Nadrea
again had become a back drop for Vincent’s amusement, she sat going from moderately relaxed to amused to
annoyed
at him yet again.  It took her back to how he infuriated her so much so.   Stella picked up Vincent’s
things ,her
arms filled with a pair of balled up pants, a t shirt draped over her shoulder and a shoe in each hand.  Her flip flops could be heard as she approached Vincent’s treatment room, he pulled the linen curtain open quickly hiding to the side to be out of plain sight.  She walked in and he stepped quickly into the opening drawing the curtain behind her
Nadrea
getting a quick flash of his powerful arms and upper back as the curtain drew closed again.  Stella giggled manically as Vincent pulled her to the side.  She dropped his things and sprung up into his arms like a relieved bride at the end of a long wedding day, giggling the entire time.  The day continued in much the same way. 
Nadrea
fumed, she wanted things a certain way and her lover and oldest friend doing whatever they damn well pleased.  After the spa the girls headed out shopping, Stella with Vincent’s underwear tucked in her pocket, well it was in her pocket until she gave it back to him in Barney’s in front of their sales person.  It was a long and laughter filled day that ended with a quite dinner and a series of Martini’s.

The Mirror of Ones Soul
.

Nadrea
for once woke before Vincent, her mood foul and worsening with each passing second.  Her first stop of the day after getting out of bed was at the bar in the
room,
a drink was made and sipped even before the shower was started.  She sat gazing out on the city streets, streets stacked with trash, cars and Taxi’s passing one at a time signally down otherwise deserted, obscure and rarely silent streets.  The cars
each traversing
a jungle of dismal gray concrete, unheated, uncaring and cold that we build our cities upon.  She just sat at the table by the window, wearing only yesterday’s nail polish and a barely tied white robe that spent the night on the floor next to the bed.    Her long beautiful hair was still tussled from the night before draping over her shoulders and unpainted face. 
Nadrea
was as naked as she had ever been in times like these
,  not
physically though the obsession with self presentation rarely lapsed even for a moment it was times like these that she was most vulnerable, her soul troubled with genuine concern , her thoughts not filled with concern only for herself or superficial things but with things that she actually could feel.  Once many years ago when asked why she didn’t like country music she in a telling admission said “because I don’t like that it makes me feel things”  the truth was that all the graphic and lurid music of her choice pounding away with intense rhythms made her feel angry, it was a feeling she could hide behind, it made her feel sexual, a feeling that she placed far too much importance of her own self worth into, but country music made her feel real things, worry about loss, the lack of love, and even the pain of the relationship she had with her mother, none.  Her feelings toward her own father, the anxiety, the dread, the teenager like flip remarks and blunt answers were all by products of the issues she had with her mother.  So much so that she rarely discussed or inquired to how she was doing.