When we finish—ladies first—we both lie back on the cream-colored Mulberry silk sheets and down pillows. We take deep breaths. I close my eyes for a moment. She pours more of the sparkling rosé and hands me a flute. I let her feed me a chocolate strawberry.
“We’ve met before,” she says to me.
“I know.”
This isn’t uncommon. Her real name is Bitsy Cabot. The superrich travel in rarefied albeit similar circles. It would be strange if I didn’t know most of the women. Bitsy is probably a few years older than I am. I know she splits her time between New York City, the Hamptons, and Palm Beach. I know that she is married to a rich hedge fund manager, but I can’t remember his first name. I don’t know why she’s doing this. I also don’t care.
“At the Radcliffes’,” I say.
“Yes. Their gala last summer was wonderful.”
“It’s for a good cause.”
“It is, yes.”
“Cordelia throws a good party,” I say.
You probably think that I can’t wait to get dressed and leave—that I don’t ever spend the night so as to avoid any attachment issues. But you’d be wrong. If she wants me to stay, I stay. If she doesn’t, I leave. Sometimes she is the one to leave. It doesn’t really matter to me. I sleep the same whether she is here or not. This bed is quite comfortable. That’s all that really matters.
She isn’t going to reach me by staying. She isn’t going to repel me either.
One major point in favor of the overnight: If we do stay, I often get a spectacular morning encore without the hassle of finding another partner. That’s a nice bonus.
“Do you go to the gala every year?” she asks.
“When I’m in the Hamptons,” I say. “Are you on any of the committees?”
“The food one, yes.”
“Who does the catering?” I ask.
“Rashida. Do you know her?”
I shake my head.
“She’s divine. I can message you her contact.”
“Thank you.”
Bitsy leans over and kisses me. I smile and hold her gaze.
She slips out of bed. I watch her every move. She likes that.
“I really enjoyed tonight,” she says.
“As did I.”
Another thing that may surprise you: I don’t have a problem with repeat engagements because in truth there are only so many fish in this particular sea. I am honest about my intentions. If I feel that they want more from me, I end it. Does this always work as cleanly as I’m making it sound? No, of course not. But this is as clean as it gets and maintains what I require.
For a few more moments I don’t move. I bathe in this afterglow. It’s two a.m. As much as I’ve enjoyed tonight, as much as I am certain I would relish an encore or two with her, I try to imagine spending the rest of my life only making love to Bitsy Cabot. To any one person, really. I shiver at the thought. I’m sorry—I don’t get it. Myron is married now to a stunning, vibrant woman named Terese. They are in love. If it works out as Myron hopes, he will never know the flesh of another.
I don’t get it.
Bitsy heads to the bathroom. When she comes out, she is dressed. I am still in the bed, my head propped in my hands.
“I better head back,” she says, as though I know where back is. I sit up as she says, “Goodbye, Win.”
“Goodbye, Bitsy.”
And then, like all good things, it’s over.
* * *
The next morning, I have a car service take me to the airport to visit my old FBI boss, PT.
I used to love to drive. I am a big fan of Jaguars and still keep two at Lockwood—a 2014 XKR-S GT that I use when I’m out there and a 1954 XK120 Alloy Roadster, which my father gave me for my thirtieth birthday. But when you reside in Manhattan, driving is out of the question. The borough is basically a parking lot that sways forward. One of the great things that money can buy is time. I don’t fly private or have a driver because I crave more comfort in my life. I spend the money on those items because at the end of your life, you will crave more of what the annoying experts coin “quality time.” That’s what private jets and chauffeur-driven cars allow you to do. I have the ability to buy time—and that, when you think about it, is the closest thing to buying happiness and longevity.
The driver today is a Polish woman from the city of Wrocław named Magda. We talk for the first few minutes of the journey. Magda is reluctant at first to engage—exclusive drivers are often schooled on not bothering the upscale clientele—but I find every human being is a tale if you ask the right questions. So I probe a bit. I can see her eyes in the rearview mirror. They are a deep blue. Blonde hair peeks out of her chauffeur cap. I wonder about what the rest of her looks like, because I’m a man, and at heart, all men are pigs. It doesn’t mean I would do anything about it.
Today’s vehicle is a Mercedes-Maybach S650. The Maybach brand gives you a wheelbase stretch of eight inches, so that your chair can tilt back forty-three degrees. The plush seat has a power footrest, a hot-stone massage setting, and heated armrests. There is also a folding tray/desk so as to get work done, a small refrigerator, and cupholders that can cool or heat, depending on your preference.
Come to think of it, perhaps I do crave the comfort.
Teterboro is the closest airport from Manhattan for private aircraft. I flew into Teterboro with Swagg Daddy after our night of quasi debauchery in Indianapolis. When we reach the well-guarded gate on the south end, Magda is waved through straight to the tarmac. We pull up next to a Gulfstream G700, a plane that hasn’t really hit the market yet. I’m surprised. The G700 is expensive—close to $80 million—and government officials, even top-echelon, clandestine ones like PT, are not usually that extravagant. Middle Eastern sheiks use the G700, not FBI agents.
I have no idea where we are going or when we will be back. I assume that I am to be flown to Washington or Quantico for my meeting with PT, but I really do not know for certain. Magda has been instructed to wait for me. She gets out of the car and comes around to open my door. I would insist on doing it myself, but that might be patronizing. I thank her, climb the plane steps, and step inside.
“Hello, Win.”
PT sits up front with a wide smile. I haven’t seen him in nearly two decades. He looks old, but then again, I guess he is. He doesn’t rise from his seat to greet me, and I notice the cane next to him. He is big and bald with huge gnarled hands. I bend toward him and stretch out my hand. His grip is firm, his eyes clear. He gestures for me to sit across from him. The G700 can hold nineteen passengers. I know this because someone is trying to sell me one. The seats are, as you might expect, wide and comfortable. We sit facing one another.
“Are we going anywhere?” I ask.
PT shakes his head. “I figured this would be a good spot to meet privately.”
“I didn’t know the G700 had been released yet.”
“It hasn’t been,” he says. “I didn’t fly in on this.”
“Oh?”
“I use a government-issue Hawker 400.”
The Hawker 400 is a far smaller and older jet.
“I’m borrowing this for our meeting because it’s more comfortable than the Hawker.”