“It’s just down the block,” he replied as we set off down the street. “This time next year, anyone who’s worth knowing will be drinking here, if they aren’t already.”
As much as I appreciated the value of networking, this suddenly sounded more intense than the relaxed introduction to Manhattan I was in the mood for. “It’s not the kind of place with a dress code, is it?” I hadn’t even bothered with heels, just trusty leather flats I’d owned for years.
“Relax, Nocturne belongs to my buddy Carter, I got a couple shares in it. I’m, like, family there. You’ll be fine. This way.” Ralf grabbed my hand as we crossed the street to an industrial-looking tenement building. He didn’t let go of me as we headed to the end unit, where a queue had already formed outside an imposing matte black door. There was no signage, just a man dressed head to toe in black, the only clue towards his employment an oversized silver ‘N’ brooch pinned to the lapel of his exquisite jacket. Ralf led me straight to the front of the queue, whereupon I could feel many eyes raking over me, assessing me, my clothes. I gulped and pretended I didn’t feel each and every eyeball burning holes into my skin.
Without saying a word to us, the bouncer gave Ralf a nod, then the door behind him a thump and it swung open, revealing darkness and a faint bassline of unidentifiable music.
“After you,” Ralf said, gesturing me forward.
I took a deep breath and entered. My eyes began to adjust as he whisked me down a dim corridor that I could just about make out had gold-embossed logos on the floor and thick red curtains either side. Then, by unseen hands, the curtains opened.
Wow.
The place was exquisite. Maybe it was the soft amber-hued lighting, or the ponderous jazz played at just the right volume. Maybe it was the gleam of the mirrored wall behind the premium selection of liquors above the polished wooden bar orthe oversized, heavily cushioned booths full of beautiful people. Whatever it was, it was the most stunning bar I’d ever seen. It was edgy and cosy and effortlessly chic all at once.
“Remember I told you about dreamers and doers?” Ralf said. “Well, this is a place for doers.”
A woman who looked like she should be gracing catwalks appeared at our side. “Mr. Fisher,” she said. “Wonderful to see you again. Will you and your guest be requiring a table, or do you wish to stand at the bar?”
“We’ll take a table please, Kate.” Ralf cupped my elbow and guided me in front of him as we followed the hostess to a table. It was a smaller booth, tucked away in the corner but with a great view of everyone in the room.
“Will you just be drinking, or can I interest you in some small plates?” Kate asked, as a busboy discreetly placed fresh coasters and a carafe of water in front of us.
“We’ll need two of your jalapeno fig martinis, to start,” Ralf said, much to my discomfort.
After she walked away, I turned to him. “I’m not used to men ordering my drinks for me.”
He pouted. “I promise you, they’re delicious. Would you like me to cancel the order?”
Despite my major case of the ick, I relented. “No, it’s fine.” Judging by the décor alone, I suspected it would be the best drink of my life.
Ralf smiled in relief. “You won’t regret it.” He grinned. “So, tell me. When a man takes you for a drink in London, what do you normally order?”
“Depends.” I briefly thought about the last time I met a man in a bar and what I let him do to me in his bed. Revulsion trickled up my spine at the thought of doing such things with Ralf – no, this was definitely not a date. “I like red wine. A cold IPA in summer.”
“IPA?” He beamed with approval. “I invested in a startup brewery out of Colorado this past year.” He rattled off some stats that I had no hope of understanding.
“You invest in a lot of stuff?” I asked.
He nodded confidently. “Oh yeah. My dad got me into it. You gotta make your money work for you, you know?”
I didn’t know. I was a thirty-one-year-old woman with a bank account that frequently slid into the red. Our drinks arrived then, large martini glasses full to the brim with a pinkish, cloudy liquid and what appeared to be gold-flake-flecked salt around the rim. Ralf picked one up and inspected it closely before handing it to me.
“All right.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Enough shoptalk. Cheers!”
I took a sip of the cocktail. My mouth was instantly full of flavor; the silken, sharp taste of the gin instantly cut through with a figgy softness then chased with the sour heat of jalapeno brine. “Oh my God.” I took another gulp. It was unlike anything I’d tasted before. Ralf and I chatted; he told me about his childhood in Boston, his love of sailing and his passion for investments. It was hard to keep up – it seemed like Ralf knew anyone who was anyone and had no time for no ones. So I had to wonder, what was he doing withme? Before I knew it, I’d downed two of the cocktails and another one had magically appeared.
“I’m not sure I should,” I said. I already felt light-headed.
“Yeah, American measures are infinitely more generous than British measures,” Ralf said. “Shall I get you some water?”
“No, no.” I pulled the cocktail towards me. “But maybe I’ll leave it at three.”
“It’s fine, I’ll get you some water,” he said and jumped up to the bar. As I waited, I took in the room, trying to act cool when I saw a few familiar faces from TV relaxing in some of thebooths. I itched to take pictures to show off to Bex, but there was a very clear (and tasteful) sign up by the bar declaring no pictures or autograph hunting.
As I worked on my third drink, I glanced over at Ralf scanning the crowd as he waited for my water. I’d spent the last hour hearing all about his life, but I still couldn’t say I knew what made him tick. On the face of it, he was a gentleman, and a generous one at that; these cocktails would not be cheap. Yet, after all our conversation, our connection felt tenuous at best and I had the strangest feeling that was how Ralf wanted it, like he was maneuvering me into position for something.
Great, now I sounded like Elliot. But then, how had Elliot, with all his sensitivity and depth, ever called Ralf a friend? There had to be more than what Ralf had disclosed to me about their time at NYU, I just knew it. But what?
