I sit low, surrounded by dented cardboard and packing materials. My pulse is fast. I remove the eighteen-dollar Scream outfit and mask, and leave them inside one of the cardboard boxes along with my phone. Then, slowly, I raise my head above the metallic wall of the dumpster. Sirens, but no people, not in this alleyway. I climb out.
If you saw me walk to the Sofitel hotel you’d see someone in a white hazmat suit costume. You’d see a woman with red hair, another cheap souvenir-store wig just like the grey one I wore to Groot’s house, this time covered with a plastic Nixon mask secured at the back with elastic. I pass Jimmy’s cart, and the Bedfordshire Midtown Hostel. I pass the Algonquin and the Iroquois, and then I reach the Sofitel. I am getting turned on. The anticipation of Scott, his stubble, his sweat – but also the buzz in the evening air. Halloween. My skin is tingling and everyone is dressing up, ready to party. The city coming alive.
The entrance to the Sofitel is long and lined with sofas. Mood lighting, fireplaces and stacks of antique Louis Vuitton luggage. I wait for the lift. Elegant French tourists, not in costume, wait with me. They look at my mask but they do not comment. The doors open. I make a gesture of letting them all in, like I’m a grey-haired gentleman, as the mask might suggest, and they laugh and touch their keycard to the console and select floor seven. More people arrive and I hold the door open. They select floor seven and floor twenty-one. Then another guy says, ‘Hold the elevator,’ and steps in and says, ‘Nine, please.’
I hit number nine.
We exit together, the man and me. He says, ‘Have a nice evening, Mr President,’ and I reply, ‘Very good, thank you so much,’ in the best New Jersey accent I can manage.
He leaves to find his room. Maybe he has the same plans for tonight as I do?
Probably not.
I hold back and then I follow the signs to Room 919, the room I booked earlier.
My heart is beating so hard I can feel it.
New lacy underwear, moisturised skin, shaved legs.
Beat, beat, beat, beat.
Deep breath.
I ring the buzzer and the door opens almost immediately. Has he been waiting by the peephole? I think so. He’s standing right in front of me wearing a Sofitel robe. I can see his chest muscles and I can see his stomach muscles. He has damp hair. He’s holding a glass of whisky and he looks nervous and excited. When he sees the mask he smiles and gestures with his head for me to come in.
‘Nice place you have here,’ I say.
‘Why, thank you,’ he says, and then he drops his voice and whispers, ‘You sure this is OK?’
I nod and take off the mask and then he pushes himself to me and tries to kiss me but I pull back. ‘Easy, mister boatman. I’m not like those other girls.’
He snorts a laugh.
‘Go and get all the towels from the bathroom and lay them on the bed.’
‘What?’ he says.
‘Oils,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to lose my deposit.’
He lays the towels on the bed and then he sits down on them, drink in hand.
I take my time removing my hazmat suit costume, and then I slip off my shoes and socks.
He watches my every move, sipping his whisky.
I walk over to him and stand between his open legs. I drag the cord slowly from his robe and hold it loose in my hands.
‘We have the whole night,’ I say. ‘Check out at eleven a.m.’
‘I was going to a party after this,’ he says. ‘I think I might have to cancel.’
He tries to place his hand at my waist and I shake my head. ‘You wait your turn, boatman.’
He smiles and his teeth gleam at me.
I lean down so my lips are almost touching his earlobe and I breathe on to his skin. I don’t say anything for a full thirty seconds; I just breathe him in and watch him breathe me in.
‘Molly,’ he says, his voice low.
‘Shhh,’ I say, and then I move my face so I’m directly in front of him and I look him straight in the eye and I push my mouth close to his. He lunges forward to kiss me but I lunge back, maintaining the smallest of gaps between us. His breathing is heavy now. The room is hot.
‘Lie on the bed,’ I say softly. ‘Your head on the pillows.’
He complies. He doesn’t ask any questions.
‘You want Show A or you want Show B?’
His smile broadens. ‘Fuck – Show A. You English girls.’
I approach him with the robe cord and tie it loosely around his head as an ineffective blindfold. He wolf-whistles.
I say, ‘Safe word is Violet.’