in any version of reality, I’d find and choose her.
—Kiersten White
I’ve known Camilla before—how or where, I’ve no idea, but the notion persists.
“I’m an old soul,” she says softly, and stares.
She’s in her mid-twenties and I in my mid-forties. It’s insane this obsession for her—and yet, there it is. I’m captivated.
They say the last face you see before sleep is your soul mate.
Each night I see Camilla—I inhale the jasmine of her skin. I hear her voice softly whisper.
How do you like this?
It’s a mere phrase, spoken in haste—ostensibly referring to a portfolio—but I know and she knows it’s much more.
“What do you do in your spare time, Malcolm?”
Besides, think of you? I muse. The thought divides me, but I’m practiced in deception.
“Not much really—I read—frequent opium dens—you know, the usual, unusual.”
She laughs, but it’s more like notes on a piano scale, running up and down my spine.
“How delicious—you’ll have to take me sometime. Must I wear an eye patch?”
“No, but you must be dressed in black and veiled,” I sombrely intone.
“Then, I’ll be the mystery woman.”
You are my mystery woman, I muse.
She turns her enormous eyes on me.
My knees turn to jelly
"I must go to an appointment," I blurt out, fortuitously rescued from her charms.
“Mystery suits you,” I sing back to her, as I head out the door.
She stares after.
It's impossible this romantic fantasy of mine—she's twenty five but I'm two decades older.
We're thrown together by accident to handle the fashion section of The Times. Or maybe it's Fate. Does it matter?
I came by my position honestly having spent twenty years modelling Hathaway Shirts.
She, on the other hand, is the daughter of a famous entrepreneur—her knowledge of fashion gained mostly through her Parisian education and her career brokered by her father’s wealth.
Bur, I don’t begrudge her a privileged success, simply because it keeps her near me.
“She has good instincts,” Maury opines as if he needs to convince me.
We’re sitting in the lounge.
He’s my editor and sometimes my confidant.
We occasionally do, as we do now—have drinks at The Hyatt and bemoan our fates.
“She’s got good legs,” I say. He smiles good-naturedly and nods his head.
“She’s incredibly beautiful—as are all the offspring of money.”
A subtle admonishment and acknowledgement that we move in different spheres—but mercifully, no reminders of age.
Together, we gaze out at the jumble of Manhattan lights.
I’m seeing Camilla in my mind’s eye, but through a gauzy haze.
Maury’s warming to the scotch and also to the thought of her.
“I could see doing a whole spread on her—a through the keyhole motif—and she in the finest negligees.”
It pains me other men find her beautiful—I want her entirely to myself.
“I doubt Daddy would permit that,” I remind him.
“Ah no, but it’s a consummation devoutly to be wished,” he sighs.
Indeed, it is, I tell myself.
Indeed, it is.