Page 20 of Mr. North
Seven
Beth
I textRaphael the next day at four, just before I go into class.
M e : Please don’t send Nate to pick me up today.
R aphael replies almost immediately.
R aphael : Why? What did he do?
M e : Nothing. He’s been great. I’d just prefer to ride the subway.
R aphael doesn’t answer. I turn my phone off when I enter my lecture, and I bury it at the bottom of my bag. If I don’t, I’ll be checking it every five seconds to see if I have any messages, and I’m already fighting to pay attention to my workload as it is. My contracts law lecture is so dull I have trouble staying awake. Once it’s finally over, I quickly head to the bathrooms and get changed into the light, fairly casual dress I neatly folded into my bag before I left my apartment this morning. I trade my Chucks for some pretty suede boots with a kitten heel, though the effort is wasted really, since I’ll be leaving them in the elevator. Still, they complete my outfit. I apply a tiny amount of makeup, some blusher and some mascara, some lip-gloss to add a bit of extra color to my face, and then I hurry to the subway. It’s packed, but I’m so used to traveling this way now, that the sea of people all crammed tightly together in the narrow space doesn’t bother me anymore. A busker is playing jazz on a trumpet somewhere, but sound travels so strangely underground here; it’s impossible to know which walkway he’s playing down. A guy with salt and pepper hair taps his foot along to the rhythm as we wait for the train. When it arrives, people pour out of the carriages, talking into their cell phones, heads down, lost in their own private worlds. I take a seat, and I allow myself to check out for a minute. My eyes skip over the countless ads displayed on the walls of the carriage, my mind wandering. The Lion King ; Wicked ; The new David Baldacci book; A pharmaceutical advertisement for depression; A fifty percent off sale at Kingston & Bradshaw Mattresses.
Twenty minutes later, I’m off the train and walking through packed streets toward the Osiris Building. It occurs to me once I get there that I’ve only ever accessed the penthouse through the private elevator in the parking lot. Damn. I dig out my phone, about to text Raphael to ask him if there’s another way up, but he’s already messaged me. Twice.
R aphael : The subway isn’t safe. It’s Nate’s job to collect people on my behalf.
I didn’t checkmy phone after class, so I didn’t get his message. He obviously expected me to acquiesce and let Nate pick me up. Does that mean Nate went and waited for me at my apartment? I really hope not. The second message reads:
R aphael : Go to the front desk. Tell Oliver I’m expecting you.
I don’t knowif his tone is irritated or not. It’s so hard to tell on a text. Shit. Oh, well. What’s done is done. Can’t be helped. Now that I’m not getting paid for this, I feel a little less anxious about the whole thing. I head inside, straight to the front desk, and I’m about to ask for Oliver when I notice the guy standing in front of me is wearing a name badge bearing that very name. He smiles politely. “Can I help you, Madam?”
“I’m here to see Mr. North,” I tell him. And then, “I’m expected.” I’ve always wanted to say that. Feels very professional. Oliver’s smile amps up to a thousand watts.
“Oh, yes, of course. Beth, correct? Please. Follow me.” He leads me through the lobby of the building, skirting groups of people dressed in suits and ties, briefcases clutched tightly in their hands, until we reach a door marked “private” with a polished brass plaque. He opens the door with a key and ushers me through. I find myself in another small waiting area like the one down in the basement, with another private elevator.
“You’ll see yourself up, Beth?” Oliver asks. “Mr. North prefers us to remain down here in the lobby.”
“Oh, yes. No problem.”
Oliver hits the call button, bows ever so slightly, then leaves me alone to wait for the elevator car to arrive. When it does, I get on and remove my shoes, secreting them away in yet another hidden closest. I check my watch: 6:47. Nearly fifteen minutes early again. Instead of ringing the bell, I walk over to the window opposite, and I stand there, taking it all in. Raphael was obviously upset that I was early last time, so I figure I’ll just wait here until seven rolls around.
The view really is phenomenal. The Osiris Building is so tall that the other buildings on the horizon all seem dwarfed by it. I never realized how many helicopter pads there were on the roofs of the buildings in Manhattan. To the east, I can see the water in the distance, a flat mirror that stretches on into nothingness. The Hudson River winds its way toward the sea like a shining ribbon of grey silk. I can’t hear a thing. This high up, the sounds of the sirens, the traffic, the chatter—they have all disappeared. A solid, tangible, weighty silence fills my ears instead.
It’s almost feels like I’m observing the city from space. Everything feels so far away, like I’m untouchable here in this penthouse.
“Surreal, isn’t?”
The voice at my back startles me. I didn’t hear the glass door open. I didn’t hear Raphael step out into the anteroom, or approach me from behind. He’s wearing a black button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a pair of black pants. His shoes are a burnt brown color—incredibly expensive looking leather. His dark clothes, coupled with his almost black hair, make the green in his eyes all the more vivid. He slides his hands into his pockets, taking a step toward me.
“Does it make you feel small and insignificant? Or does being so high up, being able to see so far, make you feel powerful, like you own it all somehow?” he asks quietly. The Raphael North Intensity Spectrum seems to be hitting an all-time high this evening. He stalks towards me, head slightly tilted down, looking up at me from under his perfect, dark brows, and it feels like a hand strokes down my spine, directly between my shoulder blades.
“Small,” I tell him. “It makes me feel small. How does it make you feel?”
He looks past me, his gaze briefly flickering over my shoulder, out of the window, before returning to me. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On my mood. On the day.” He takes another step forward. There’s something animalistic about the way he moves. Leonine. Predatory. His eyes rove out of the window again, but I still know he’s really watching me and nothing else.
“What about today?” I ask.
He smiles softly. Stops in front of me, barely two feet away. “Today? Today, the view is making me feel powerful.”
His eyes never leave me. I get the feeling he’s not talking about the bustling city through the glass anymore. I feel like he’s talking about me. I am the view. “I didn’t want to ring the bell until it was time,” I say, shifting from one foot to the other.
