Sirop de Vanille

I started writing this some time back…

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On a typical night, this bar required five bartenders, two glassies, and a host. The waiters flitted in and out to serve the snacks; they usually stayed in the kitchen. The host wasn’t expecting this to be a typical night and had asked only two bartenders to report. It could have been considered a risk by some, but then, she never took risks. Never.

The host, rather hostess, was dressed to perfection. She wore her usual – a full sleeves, backless dress and the perfect pair of Jimmy Choos. She also liked Chanel No. 5, but tonight was more of an Elizabeth Arden night. Provocative was perfect for the occasion. As a rule, she never carried a bag. She didn’t need touch-ups. She always went sans make-up. Always, except for the clear lip gloss she dabbed on generously before and after cigarette breaks.

As far as bars go, this was not quite the usual fare. The bar ran along the entire length of the room – in gorgeous black marble. The fireplace would have dominated the room, had it not been for the armchairs and the coffee table, where coffee had never been served, unless of course it was Irish. The rest of the bar had similar furniture, large, medium, or small tables depending on the number of armchairs or couches surrounding it. It was all very plush, very posh, and very perfect in dim lighting. Also, exceptionally comfortable, especially if you like feeling rich and spoilt and tight-lipped while sipping on scotch in crystal decanters, or munching on peanuts served in a beautifully polished silver bowl.

She surveyed the clientèle and smiled to herself. So far, so good. Now, all she had to do was wait.

He stood there, behind the daunting marble bar and smiled a bored but polite smile at Mrs. Kapoor.

“Darling! Pray, get me my usual!” she purred, while playing with her insanely expensive and obnoxious looking diamond pendant, which was attached to an even uglier gold chain. The perfect French manicure made him shudder.

“Are you sure Mrs.…” he attempted to ask her a question.

“Call me Anita. No need to make me feel ancient…” she never used the word old. It made her uncomfortable. Surprisingly, ancient, was acceptable.

He smiled at her and continued, “Gin & T? At this time of the day? Let me make you a nice drink. A cocktail perhaps?”

“Oh! Sure… sure…” she answered rather distractedly. He mixed the perfect Green Apple Margarita, the green matching Anita’s disturbing dress. She clapped her hands together and let out a throaty laugh for exactly 3 seconds before accepting the drink. She eyed him again and thought – such a waste.

The hostess dabbed on some more clear lip gloss as she spotted him making his way across the lobby of the hotel towards the bar. He was so flawed, it was impossible not to find him attractive. The scar on his right eyebrow, the crooked smile, and the very lean body, too lean. The only beautiful feature he possessed were his hands. A pianist’s hands. Hands you would want to caress, hold and worship. Hands you would beg to be touched with. She smiled at him, and he nodded. She led him to the table next to the fireplace and ordered his usual, Glenfiddich single malt, on the rocks. He studied her clear skin, and the symmetry of her face, and the change in perfume. He smiled, and leaned back as she walked away. The dress was perfect, it left a lot of room for imagination, and he liked that. He liked her legs. He made a mental note of finding out her name later.

The bartender watched the exchange and shrugged. He poured the Glenfiddich into a crystal decanter, and placed the ice bucked and water pale on the silver tray. He handed it to her, “So, you’re serving him?” She laughed and said, “If only…” He raised an eyebrow, and she blew a kiss in his direction. He shrugged again, and said, “You are such an idiot!” She feigned shock and asked him, “Jealous?”

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Now what do I do? It started off well, and then I was interrupted… I haven’t been able to take it further. So, help! What to do?!