About Face (9 page)

Lose the fucking sneer.

And remember every second it's been replaced with unmatched resolve.

I hit the button on the door and the window goes down. I can feel Cobus looking at me.

“Warm,” I say, my attention still outside.

The tinted glass disappears. The city comes to life. The sounds, the smells—it all rushes back in through every pore on my body straight into the core of my soul. Pizza place, dry cleaners, Starbucks, bank, McDonald's, hardware store, yogurt joint, nice-looking restaurant—the city passes by, block by block, same today as it was when I left, albeit with a bunch of new franchises and what seems to be a whole bunch more of them locationwise.

Whatever broker's representing Starbucks in this city must be killing it, I can't help thinking.

As we make our way uptown, I look up at the office towers, the skyscrapers. I feel like I'm being reunited with old friends. I want to reach out, slap them, like we're high-fiving. I sense the buildings feel the same way, like they want to pat my back, tussle my hair. And say welcome back.

As we turn left to head west through Central Park, Cobus also puts his window down. The crisp, fall air flows freely through the car.

“So? What do you think?” asks Cobus, both of us still focused on the city as it passed beyond our respective windows.

“About what?” I respond, my eyes still on the passing gray stone wall bifurcating the park for Sixty-Sixth Street to run through.

“About New York City?”

What do I think? I think the best burger in Manhattan is probably still Corner Bistro on West Fourth Street.

“Big,” I say. “And just as busy as I imagined it would be.”

Soon we roll up to Fifteen Central Park West.

“Beautiful,” Cobus says, looking up at the limestone façade tower. “Supposedly Mr. Spencer lives in one of the finest buildings in Manhattan.”

Mr. Spencer is Gary Spencer—one of the two principals of GlassWell. He's a seventy-three-year-old titan in the real estate world, and between his property and other investments, one of the wealthiest men in the United States. As far as the building he lives in—fine is an understatement. Fifteen Central Park West is one of the most prestigious residential addresses in New York, if not the entire world. The property is separated into two buildings connected by a glass-enclosed lobby—a nineteen-story tower on Central Park West known as “The House” and a forty-three-story tower on Broadway. Finance moguls, actors, athletes, diplomats—residents include or have included the likes of Denzel Washington and Bob Costas to Russian oligarchs and Sting. Only the most fortunate in life ever even sniff a building like this.

We pull into the private driveway, an amenity of the building designed to keep paparazzi out. Once inside, the lobby is gorgeous. White marble under foot, brown-and-white swirled marble columns line the English oak panel enclosed space.

We step off the elevator on one of the penthouse floors, into a small, white foyer. There is a small, contemporary, brown table. On it is a glass cube holding water. Floating on the water is one huge brown rose. Next to the table is a solid white door. No number. Apparently, Mr. Spencer's apartment is the entire floor.

The door opens, and we're immediately swallowed by luxury. The foyer flows into a monstrous living room overlooking what seems to be the entire island of Manhattan. One wall of glass faces Central Park, another faces downtown. As the sun sneaks away, the sky resembles one continuous, panoramic sheet of cobalt and violet marble. The wood flooring is wide, diagonally intersecting Peruvian walnut planks. A portion of the floor—underneath the glass coffee table and surrounding plush, white couches and chairs—is covered by a huge, white area rug. Three striking contemporary pieces of art hang on the walls. The closest one to us upon our
entrance immediately grabs my attention. It's a large picture—it has to be at least eight feet tall—with what looks like four black-and-white photographs of older Chinese women in geisha garb scattered about. Under the photographs are Chinese words. Covering the piece are streaks of blue paint.

“Julian Schnabel,” says Ryan Brand as he approaches us. “In fact, all three of them are,” he goes on gesturing toward the others. “Guess you've done something right when you have three Julian Schnabel pieces hanging in your living room.”

He extends his hand to me. We firmly shake hands.

“Ryan, nice to meet you in person,” I say. “I'm Ivan. And this is Cobus de Bont.”

Ryan Brand is sharp as the edge of a piece of broken glass. He's taller than I remember—then again, I don't think I ever stood this close to him. He's got long, thick, slicked-back salt-and-pepper hair. His facial features are well proportioned and strong. His eyes are hazel, his skin is well tanned and implies long stretches of time in beautiful weather. He's most certainly not an off-the-rack guy as the stitching on his navy suit, as well as the precise fit, tells me Ryan only goes custom.

Brand takes his hand from mine and moves it to Cobus.

“Mr. de Bont. It's fantastic to meet you.”

“Please. Call me Cobus. The pleasure is ours.”

“So, Cobus, Ivan,” Brand goes on, “we've got work to do. The goal is to close this up and ensure the Freedom Bank Building is your firm's first property on American soil. But that's for tomorrow. Tonight, we enjoy ourselves. It's not every day one gets to mingle with Gary Spencer's inner circle at a dinner party in his home.”

Brand looks into the room, which prompts us to do the same. Upper-crust guests are floating around, as are white-gloved servers with trays of hors d'oeuvres. Lots of suits, lots of slim, beautiful, over-exercised and underfed women in knockout cocktail dresses, lots of gems shimmering from the combination of interior lighting mixed with remnants of the day's sunlight coming through the glass as dusk sets in.

Across the room, telling a story to a few of his guests, is Gary Spencer. He's a slender man no taller than five foot seven or eight, dressed so tight I feel like the large, perfect knot in his silver tie must be impairing his breathing. He looks younger than his years, like a man who takes pride in taking care of himself. Ryan takes us over and introduces us. The meeting is quick. It's like he's Mick Jagger or the president and we're promptly, subtly, ushered onward.

“Follow me,” Brand says, “the bar was set up in the kitchen. You boys have had a long day. My guess is you could use a cocktail.”

We follow Brand out of the living room and down a hallway. I've seen a lot of impressive New York City apartments in my day, but this place is simply off the grid. Both to my right and left, what seems like every ten or twenty feet, there's another door leading to another room. A dining room, a large den, a study, bathrooms—seriously, between the living room and not yet even the kitchen, I feel like I've seen three bathrooms—a small den, a library, a—

“Is that entire room a humidor?” I ask.

“It is,” Brand responds. “Gary is quite serious when it comes to his cigars.”

You think? The humidor is bigger than many Manhattan studio apartments.

Finally, we get to the kitchen. The floor in the kitchen is hardwood like the living room only the planks are linear and lighter in color. The walls are white. The cabinets all have borders but are glass in the center as to be able to see what's inside. All the appliances are top shelf—Viking stove, Sub-Zero fridge—like the liquor bottles standing at attention on the black, marble surface covering the huge island in the center of the room.

Behind the island, tending bar, is a man in a tuxedo. But it's the woman he's pouring champagne for who captivates me. I see her from the side, just her profile. She's tall, probably five foot nine but at the moment easily over six feet because of the sky-high heels of her Sergio Rossi patent leather platform pumps. The shiny shoes are beige, the color perfectly matching the tight, predominantly viscose form-fitting Alexander McQueen dress she's wearing. The
perfect combination of classy and slinky, the tea-length dress beautifully hugs her body then flares at the bottom. It has a jewel neckline and cap sleeves. She's tall and thin, bordering on too thin but not quite there. Her skin is light, as is her long straight hair, which is pulled back in a ponytail. Her cheekbones are high. Her nose, though I'm only seeing it from the side, is perfectly sized for her face and nicely rounded at the tip.

“Ahh—one of the people I wanted you both to meet,” Brand says. “Cobus, Ivan, meet Julia Chastain.”

I immediately recognize the name. Julia Chastain leads the team that oversees all GlassWell leasing for five of the firm's Manhattan properties—one of which is the Freedom Bank Building. We've spoken a couple times over the last few months. She's been directing the forwarding of all sorts of documents to me at Brand's direction from the building's current leases to Midtown occupancy/vacancy reports to updates on negotiations with tenants whose leases are soon turning over. Just as she takes a swallow of the champagne, Julia turns to greet us. When she does, I'm struck all over again.

On the left side of her face, the side I hadn't been able to see, is a red-wine birthmark. It starts at her hairline. It doesn't extend very far into her face but is a few inches wide and runs straight down covering her ear, the top of her jawbone, the side of her neck, then down into her neckline where I imagine it also covers a portion of her shoulder. Its shape reminds me of the country Chile.

Shit—I think I'm staring. Not because of the birthmark. Because Julia Chastain is one of the most beautiful women with whom I've ever been in a room.

“Julia Chastain,” she says, extending her hand to Cobus.

Her voice is a bit raspy, sophisticated, sexy.

“Cobus de Bont.”

“It's nice to meet you.”

“You, as well.”

Her eyes move to me.

“Ivan,” I say. “Janse.”

She moves her hand to mine. She has long, slender fingers with perfectly French-manicured nails. Her shake is firm.

“Of course. Nice to meet you, Ivan. I always enjoy putting a face with a voice.”

We both pause. I could swear we each just sucked in a breath. Our eyes are locked, as if we each see something we didn't expect to see.

“I appreciate your attention to our requests,” I say to keep us moving forward.

“Of course,” she quickly replies, withdrawing her hand from mine.

“I know it's a lot, but we like to be thorough,” I add.

She now addresses all of us, not just me.

“Please, it's our pleasure. Mr. de Bont, I understand this is your firm's first acquisition in the U.S.”

“It is.”

“Exciting,” Julia goes on. “Are you current in terms of all you need from my team, or is there anything else you're waiting on?”

Cobus turns to me.

“Ivan has really been the point man on this deal, in terms of all due diligence. Ivan?”

I look at Julia.

“I think we have everything at the moment.”

“Um, Cobus, I actually wanted to ask you something about the European market for a moment if I might,” Brand says, grabbing Cobus's attention.

Brand and Cobus break into their own conversation.

“So what are you drinking, Ivan?” asks Julia.

I look at the bartender.

“Belvedere on the rocks please. Twist.”

“This must be exciting for your firm,” Julia says, “your first foray into the American property market. De Bont seems to have grown quite fast. And you seem to have put your stamp all over that growth.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I do my homework, Ivan. I always find it helpful to know all I can about who I'm—who GlassWell—is dealing with. Cobus de Bont is one hell of an impressive man. But it is hard not to notice the more articles you read surrounding the explosive growth of these last few years, the more your name pops up with regard to acquisitions and how de Bont handles property as a whole.”

“Is that right?” I say.

“It is.”

“Well, I admire someone who understands the true value of information,” I say, as I nod thank you to the bartender handing me my cocktail, “almost as much as I admire someone willing to use words like ‘foray' and phrases like ‘explosive growth.'”

Julia giggles.

We clink glasses.

“To closing,” I say.

The corner of her mouth, ever so slightly, turns up.

“To closing,” she mimics.

We each take a long sip of our drinks. Damn, that cool vodka feels and tastes good sliding down my throat.

“Long journey to the States?” Julia asks.

Talk about a loaded question.

“You might say that,” I reply.

Julia takes another healthy sip, almost completely draining the flute.

“Bit of a long day on your end as well?”

“This time of year is always crazy as we move toward year's end. Now throw in the sale of a building on top of that to an overseas buyer who needs an inordinate amount of hand holding—”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Kidding,” she says before I can even answer, revealing a smile that shows her perfect teeth. “I actually have a couple deal-related questions. Why don't we freshen these up and head out to the terrace? It feels a bit stuffy in here.”

New drinks in hand, I follow Julia through the apartment toward the terrace that is off the living room. Watching her from
behind is a sight every man should be allowed to experience just once. Her shoulders are a touch broad, perfectly complementing her flawless posture, making for a commanding, model-like presence and gait. The dress is so clingy I can see certain muscles in her back. Her thin waist runs seamlessly into her exceptional ass. Her legs are long, perfectly contoured. There's a knot in my stomach. The more I admire her exquisite form, the more I think about Perry. Even though she's been removed from my life for a couple years now, I still miss her, and love her, every day.