HIGH TEA

Transcript

High tea. Sev was a sophisticated producer. Johns, the house of yes.

And coming soon, slap her, she's French. Back then, I was easily enchanted by a role. Pretentious heirs or future heirs.

But it was his accent that lured me in. Meet me at the Beverly Wilshire. We'll have high tea.

The morning of, Henry said, be home late. Okay. He'd been having a lot of late nights at the tattoo shop.

And I had an audition for Toyota and high tea to think about. Freshly quaffed, donning my favorite floral chiffon, Bonnie Parker dress. The new lace trim of my slip, my bare breast, peeking out under the petals of a daisy.

Those dreamy Wolford stockings and my new Art Deco garter belt. I gave myself another once over on the way out. Not too bad, kid.

In the waiting area, I could feel their eyes on me. The stockings I'd spent too much on. I was nervous and in the fiddling popped one of my garters.

It was in the fixing that I felt the air shift. Eyes fixating on my pale skin. Awash with confidence and pheromones.

I booked the job. Pulling up to the hotel that made Julia famous and my old Dodge Coronet. Primer gray, no headliner.

The valet startled me and thought, I booked it. Play it cool, damn it. Handing him my keys.

Take it easy on her. She's a 383. Feeling my fire, I enter the hotel.

Its opulence. The scent of greed. Chanel No.

5. Bently leathered asses. Faces that don't smile anymore or can't.

The floor's mirror shine reflected the me under the dress. Well done. Making myself blush, ripe for the offering.

Following the subtle arrows along the wall, I arrive. The tea room was vast. A gold-trimmed, austere version of Versailles.

How splendid. In my 20s drop waist dress, I feel like I'm gliding, despite my repainted Mary Janes and their peeling edges. I try to breeze by the maitre d', lest I lose my nerve.

But he taps me on the shoulder. This way, please. My escort in tow.

A gaze shifts to the 1% tipling, $20 Earl Grey, nibbling on crustless fare. Their eyes in awe of my audaciousness and lack of diamonds. Oh, to be 23 again.

There he was with his arrogant nose, curly lips, pink custom button-down shirt, open one button too far. A little chubby for his pristine, broken-in jeans. But he'll do.

The waiter comes by. Tea for two, please. He looks into my eyes with a cunning confidence.

How charming you are. That's rich speak for pretty, but fuckable pauper. We banter over cucumber sandwiches and jammy cookies.

I linger over the clotted cream a little too long. And he touches my thigh under the table. Let's go for a walk.

But my car is here. It's not far. What's not? He grabs my hand, and Henry's late nights slide by my conscience.

It's only fair, right? Finding myself adrift in the pristine alleyways of Beverly Hills, I realize there's no friend's place. He kisses me suddenly, deeply.

Not bad for a snob. His eyes locking into mine. No resistance.

We're up against a pink wall by a dumpster. Am I into this? I have a boyfriend.

And I'm married. Then he slides my dress up over my ass. I spy my thighs tensing, stretching the belt straps across my muscles.

The stockings strain as my legs widen, and my foot finds the edge of the dumpster. My calves curved up around his waist. My eyes drift inward.

But my ears, a distinct sound of unbuckling, catching him tripping over the button of his trousers, giving me the look. You know the one, just before they find the top of your head. I giggle, stroking his cheeks gently.

Before guiding his head, I give him a kiss. How charming you are. And down he went for a closer look at my new garter belt.

To be continued.