Of Mochas and Macchiatos

Part 11

The smell of coffee wakes me. But the first thought through my head is not why I smell coffee but rather the realisation that I didn't have any nightmares. Second night in a row. They'll be back soon though. They always return. After grappling with such thoughts I open my eyes and the first thing I see is a medium sized paper cup, thin tendrils of steam still curling out of it. It's a mocha. Regular milk. Thank god it's not a mermaid latte or something equally horrific. Picking up the cup, I notice that there's a scrawled note tacked beneath it.

Morning, Leger. New clothes for you in the wardrobe. We can still go shopping if you want, though.

I don't just like the clothes, I adore them. They're exactly the kind of thing I would pick out for myself had I the seemingly unlimited funds Rafe has.

All wrapped up in bags and boxes still. I spend ages unfolding them, running my hands over the exquisite material. I eventually decide on some tight Acne Studios jeans and a soft nautical blue cashmere sweater from Ralph Lauren. I decide I'll wrap a cozy Hermes scarf around my neck, and brave the cold when I swap the Off White thigh high boots 'for walking' (too ostentatious) in favour of the most gorgeous- and comfortable!- pair of black Chloé ballet flats. A few bags contain basic cotton Calvin Klein underwear. Unlined, and unassuming. But inside a bag is an envelope containing a very expensive gift card for La Perla. I appreciate that Rafe hasn't been so overly intrusive as to pick out some lace underwear or whatever for me. That would be too personal. I mean, I'm sure that he didn't pick these outfits out himself- probably had a personal shopper or stylist or someone do it- but the sentiment remains and I feel my heart warming towards him.

Then I remember that this is the boy who got me kicked out of the town library, the guy who'd either scowl at me and refuse to acknowledge my presence or snipe at me, the man who ditched me and our history project to sleep with some random girl and I feel my heart harden once more.

*

I feel so restless cooped up in the suite. And even though I know it's wrong. I decide to explore the place. Rafe probably has some camera set up somewhere and he'll catch me snooping and doubtlessly kick me out. But whatever. Curiosity killed the cat. Or perhaps, kicked out the cat.

Anyways. Rafe's room is neat, orderly, perfect. Too perfect. Where is his personality? The other room -my room- has so much more life in it. The only thing (in plain sight- I'm not so low as to go through his drawers) that gives me a glimpse into his personality is a pair of silver anchor cuff links that rest on the bedside table. And maybe, the colour scheme. Everything is an austere grey. From the Egyptian cotton bedsheets to the muted insipid damask wallpaper.

Also, I've noticed that Rafe's bed is folded with military precision but I can't imagine that room service has already come in. Maybe he's as much a control freak as I am? I don't enter his en-suite and instead I slink back to the living room.

Above the fireplace is a bookshelf. There are a whole line of orange-bodied classics, with The Picture of Dorian Gray neatly slotted in. I wonder if Rafe has actually read it yet. I wonder if he has read any of these books. Gazing about the room, I suddenly realise that there are no pictures on the wall. No sense of home. Even though I hated my dismal little apartment I tried to give it a sense of life. Hung up photographs, paintings, pressed flowers. I always gathered bunches of wildflowers, swept them into cut crystal vases so that a light summery fragrance always lingered in the air entangling itself with the scent of my favourite vanilla perfume.

It feels unutterably wrong to redecorate the whole suite -and anyway, not only is it a hotel room that doesn't truly belong to either of us but I'll probably be gone, back to my old apartment in a few weeks- but I return to my room and take out some of my photo frames. There's no way I'd ever hammer the wall of a hotel room so I simply prop up some of my photo frames atop the dresser so that they lean against the wall.