~Almost the Main Character~
Bernard’s taste in women was impeccable. Or perhaps, their taste in him was what should have been complimented. All of his relationships had been with “the right kind of people,” women from well-established families, who wore pearls and had bachelor’s degrees in poli-sci or feminist studies, or entrepreneurs he’d met on the investment circuit.
He viewed himself as a shark in the financial spheres. “The ballsiest bad-asses on the block,” a fraternity brother once said about investment bankers, and Bernard agreed. He knew how to dress, what to drink, and from a mile off could sense the real power players in the room. Blood in the water. He had a talent for spotting which stocks would go south, and he never bought art because all of that was frou-frou, a matter of taste. An unreliable investment that could turn belly up at any moment: a castle built from banana peels.
But lately, the monochromatic whites of his apartment were drilling a dull hole into his brain, and he began to feel that he was missing out on something. There might be more.
He’d never been close to marriage. In his mind, it was because he’d never found the right woman to complement him, the salt to bring out the best of him. If he ever troubled himself to think back on how past relationships ended, he would find he didn’t know. They just, sort of, drifted away without him noticing, like flotsam on the ocean.
Bernard knew he needed to get out more often. When he was sent an invitation to a New Year’s Eve Party, black tie, he said yes. It was hosted by one of his company’s partners and it would have been gauche to refuse. He also saw the invitation for what it was: a recognition of his rising status in their ranks.
Cool white marble layered the foyer. He was handed a glass of champagne, little bubbles rising from the pale gold. Around him, men in crisp suits made dry small talk. The women were appropriately festooned with grey sequins, rose gold, and other expensive colors. Their fragrances perfumed the air with Parisian rose, Amalfi gardens, and money. The fermented sugar and yeast coated his mouth. Polished nails clacked on crystal, voices burbled politely, bouncing off the rims of glasses to create a delicate harmony.
A dash of color, orange sunset bleeding into pink, flashed through his vision. The air currents in the room diverted at once and the hairs stood up on the back of Bernard’s neck. Unconsciously, like a guppy to bioluminescent bait, he moved towards it.
It was a woman with dyed hair. She wove through the crowd, Bernard wove after her, entranced, and then she slipped behind a door and was gone.
Bernard stopped short. It was the kitchen door. The wait staff shuffled through balancing silver trays garnished with tiny concoctions of modern art. One pushed through just then with work No. 5: cracker, brie, fig jam dollop, and rosemary sprig.
Bernard didn’t think the woman with the vivid hair was wait staff; she hadn’t been wearing the starched white shirt. He craned his neck to see into the kitchen, but saw only a stainless-steel hall of trays, shelves, pots, and knives. The woman with hair the shade of grapefruit had disappeared like smoke among the savory scents.
Glumly, Bernard allowed himself to be pulled back into the ceaseless tide of conversation.
“What do you do?” An old woman asked. She barely came up to his chest and wore a silk beaded dress and layered jewelry. She, at least, knew how to play her part: old money. Wealth on display without being gaudy. His own suit cost over three grand. All employees were expected to represent the company’s high standards. Those with discernment would read Armani in the tailored lines of his dress. It was all about showing, without ever saying out loud.
“I’m an investment banker,” he said.
Bernard wondered what exactly his clothes were saying, since all the other men’s suits seemed to be saying the same thing. It was more like a uniform than anything.
Light jazz played a tapping rhythm, soft, a solid foundation for tasteful small talk. Bernard sipped at his champagne. It crumbled like gravel in his mouth. He didn’t have a sweet tooth, but suddenly everything tasted bland. He wanted something else, something with plenty of sugar, like a cupcake.
“Oh, that’s lovely,” said the woman. “What firm are you with?”
“Michaelson and Ross,” he told her politely, nodding thanks almost before she congratulated him, a trained response from the ritual of introductions. He knew his part in the play, networking with the wealthy, the movers and shakers. He was at the center of power, the center of the world for all practical purposes. He was in the room with the people who mattered most. Why, then, did he feel so dull?
Like trout on a fishing line, his head tilted up, over the crowd, to the balcony. There it was again: the hair like pink lemonade. Out of place, unexpected, a break in the script.
“Excuse me,” he said, interrupting the ritual and rudely moving past the old woman.
Bernard left a half-full glass of champagne on a table and climbed the polished marble stairs. They were a creamy white, burnt sienna trailing throughout. His eyes locked on the woman, and he flipped through his mental Rolodex of clients: heiress? Daughter of a wealthy investor? He did not recognize her, and he knew of all the wives of their patrons. She did not belong here. Yet, he had been waiting—hoping—for something to happen, and here she was.
She was talking with someone, smiling. Her dress was the tinted white of a daisy and left her back bare, held in place by a string around her neck. Around her waist, the pleated satin fell in fluttering in folded around her hips like petals. Bernard imagined the dress might be as soft as her skin.
He scurried around the corner of the upper level, and she was gone. He cursed and hurried to the spot he had seen her. The men were gone, too. What exactly would he do once he caught her, he finally asked himself. Ask her to dance? People weren’t dancing, it wasn’t that kind of party. Fine then, ask of her time, polite chit chat? Would she want to get out of there, find a party where they could dance? It was New Year’s Eve, after all, there had to be something.
Farther down he found another richly carpeted hallway. Paintings with thick gold frames hung on the walls. It was similar to the president’s floor at Michaelson and Ross, unsurprising given this was the Michaelson estates. He considered the hallway, wanting to check all the rooms for the mysterious woman, but what if he ran into one of his bosses? What excuse would he give? He let out a sigh and took a seat in a free chair overlooking the main gallery.
The men and women hobnobbed below, and he wondered idly how much collective net worth was gathered here tonight. Even once you calculated in debt and interest rates, it was a sizable sum. He was just so bored of wealth, bored of all the people who had cracked the code and lived inside their neat little lines. Bored of himself.
The wall behind him vibrated. Then there was a muted bang followed by a crash and the thwack thwack thwack of bullets behind his head. He lunged up and spun, feeling his scalp. Nothing, and no marks on the wall either. But he heard bullets, a gun. Was she—
He ran back to the hallway, uncoordinated in his stiff dress shoes and sliding on the plush carpet. He reached for the door handle, but it twisted, opened, and the woman with the tangerine-pink hair came out and closed it behind her. Her white purse swung heavily on a gold chain as she came up short, startled by Bernard.
He immediately straightened, and a goofy smile spread across his face.
“Hello.”
She arched one perfect eyebrow. Her eyes were winged with black, emphasizing her exotic look. She pushed past him without a word. He caught up with her.
“I’m Bernard.”
She took one look at his offered hand and kept going. Not a good start for him.
“What happened in there, is everyone alright?”
“Yes, just a little business conversation.”
Bernard laughed too loudly. She gave him a look, questioning his mental faculties.
“’scuse me,” she said, and hurried down the steps. Bernard kept pace with her.
“I’m in banking,” he said. She gave him a perfunctory smile, eyes scanning the mass of people. What was wrong with him? Why so tongue-tied?
“What I mean to say, if you ever need any help… on business matters I mean…I’d be happy to help.”
A waitress passed with a martini glass on a tray filled with a marine blue liquid and a cherry. Bernard didn’t see the woman with the vivid hair lift the glass, but the next minute she was gulping it down.
“That’s a neat trick” he laughed. “What’s your name?”
A cry went up through the crowd as someone shoved through. The woman passed Bernard her glass, whirling back in a ripple of satin. A huge man reached them, a security guard by the look of him. He was pulling a gun out of a holster, but the woman punched him in the jaw, jabbed her knee into his groin, and he crumpled to the ground. Bernard, still holding the glass, unconsciously backed away. The guard rolled over, pulled out his gun, and raised it, arms trembling, at the woman’s back.
Bernard shouted. She spun, pulling the gun from her purse, and fired two rounds. The crowd screamed and started running. She disappeared into the chaos. Bernard chased after her, out onto the grandiose front steps. She was just stepping into the waiting lime green Camaro.
“Wait!” he called. “I didn’t get your name.”
“It never would have worked, Bernard,” she said.
She got into the car and it sped away with a screech, spattering pebbles that bounced off his rented suit.
And......?
Was really getting into the story when it just ended. So do they meet again. Obviously he won't forget her and can't go back to his daily life. Will he ge accused of being in whatever it is that she is involved with since he warned her at the party? Is there more is this just the first chapter.