Then December 25, 1973
Then
The seven-piece band has just finished a live set featuring a series of disco hits that got the whole dance floor bouncing. The Loft, which is on the floor above the dining room, is full of relaxed guests enjoying the music, along with coffee and cognac after Christmas Day dinner.
Monica has never seen so many beautiful dresses in one place. The singer is in a cyclamen-pink sequined outfit that must have come from Paris.
Imagine wearing such a creation! Standing in the center, soaking up everyone’s admiring looks.
Monica would give everything she owned to experience that, just once in her life.
This evening she has jumped in and taken a late shift in the bar, which is famous for its Viking-inspired ceiling paintings with bold, stylized figures. It is half a staircase up from the Loft, with endless views over the landscape.
Monica scurries back and forth carrying trays laden with glasses and coffee. The atmosphere is amazing, the ladies’ perfumes mingle with cigar and cigarette smoke. It is well below freezing outside, but in here the temperature is soaring.
“Miss!” a voice shouts from one of the round tables. “Miss?”
When she turns around, she sees the stylish gentleman she served on Christmas Eve—the one who looks like Sean Connery. He is with the other man from yesterday, but there is no sign of their wives. Maybe they’re taking care of the children.
Monica goes over to the table.
“What can I get you?” she says politely, almost with a little bow.
He gives her a smile, so charming that Monica goes weak at the knees. He really does remind her of the famous movie star. “I’m afraid we have an emergency situation,” he says, pointing to his empty brandy balloon.
“You’d like another drink?”
“Indeed we would—Martell for both of us. Doubles.”
His eyes sweep over Monica’s body, and she can’t help blushing.
“I’m wondering if you have any other treats on offer?”
His friend laughs loudly at the joke, but the guest who resembles Sean Connery is looking at her in a way that she has never experienced before.
As if she were beautiful and desirable. As attractive as the singer, sparkling in her sequins at the microphone on the stage.
As if Monica belongs, like the elegant ladies who are guests at the hotel.
“You’re very cute,” he says in a quiet voice, meant for her ears only.
Monica reaches for the empty glasses to hide her confusion. When she leans forward, she feels his fingertips brush the side of her breast, his touch as light as a feather. It happens so fast that she doesn’t realize what’s happened until it’s over.
“Two Martells,” she says, and hurries away.