Flight of Aquavit (33 page)

wish to make upon checking in, and select your air-

plane wardrobe accordingly. So, although I was

sharply dressed to make my first entrance into a

swanky New York City hotel, with the best acces-

sory of all, Sereena, and though I had the strong

desire to walk in like Joan Collins in an episode of

Dynasty
, I’m sure I appeared as the worst of

tourist trash, stumbling along behind her like a

poorly trained poodle, gawking at the muralled

ceiling, priceless paintings and intricately tiled

floor. And of all the glory, the most curious to me

was a door. It was on the right as we entered the

exclusive sanctum of The Sherry-Netherland. The

door was curious because of how completely out

of place it appeared in this ornate palace. It was

just a door. No adornment whatsoever, just a plain

old door. So plain it seemed to hope not to be

noticed.

“Members-only club,” Sereena commented as

she swept by. “Want to slip in for a drink? And

that,” she nodded towards another, better-marked

doorway next to it, “is Harry’s. Of course we’ll

have dinner there one night.” I later learned

“Harry’s” is Harry Cipriani, a supposedly famed

Italian/Venetian restaurant.

“Ahhhhhh…I guess we should check in first?”

I answered although she didn’t seem to be waiting

for it.

“Yes, yes, let’s do that,” she said, already at the

front desk.

The woman at the counter was officious and

efficient and deferred to any comment made by

Anthony Bidulka — 261

Sereena like a peon would to a queen. After

receiving our room keys and being told our lug-

gage had already preceded us to our suites, we

were directed to Alfred, the hunched over, octoge-

narian elevator man who patiently awaited the

pleasure of our company. We entered the golden

cage and all was right with the world until, as

Alfred pushed the appropriate buttons and knobs,

I had the sense of being watched. And in the

instant before the doors closed I thought I spotted

the prying eyes of a dark-haired woman standing

by the revolving doors of the hotel. She was look-

ing right at me as if she knew me—in a city of 7.5

million strangers.

Chapter 14

WHEN THE ELEVATOR STOPPED on Sereena’s floor,

Alfred announced the floor, courteously held

open the door with his white-gloved hand for her

departure, and as she sashayed past, he said,

“Good afternoon, Ms. Ashbourne.” Ms.

Ashbourne? I was sure I saw Sereena’s three-inch

heels break stride but then the door slid shut and

she was gone.

“I’m sorry,” I said to the old man, “but do you

know my friend?”

“I know everyone who has stayed at The

Sherry-Netherland during my time here—more

years than I care to count,” he answered pleasant-

ly.

“But you called her Ms. Ashbourne. That’s not

her name.”

He looked at me strangely and almost grateful-

ly shifted away when the elevator thumped to a

halt and he announced, “Sixteenth floor.”

Although I should have stayed with Alfred to

pursue the matter, I got off. Sereena and I had

agreed to meet back in the lobby in an hour and I

wanted to make a few phone calls before then.

As the door closed he said, “I was obviously

mistaken, sir. My apologies.”

Using the phone number given to me by his

mother, I had called James Kraft before I’d left

Saskatoon and set up an appointment to meet

with him. Despite the attraction of the destination,

Anthony Bidulka — 263

I wasn’t about to travel that distance on my

client’s dime (and some of Sereena’s) without

some assurance I’d get what I was going for. I’d

told him I was a Canadian talent agent visiting

New York and had been impressed by some of his

work (which I could recite from the handy resume

on the back of his photo). He seemed excited to

meet. When I got to my room I tried the number

again to confirm our appointment for the next

afternoon but only reached his voice mail. I left a

message repeating the details of our meeting and

telling him where I was staying and the room num-

ber in case he needed to contact me. I then used my

SaskTel calling card and dialled my home number.

“Ya, hello?”

“Mom, it’s Russell.”

“Oi, ees everyting alright? Vhere are you?” she

sounded worried.

“I’m fine, Mom. I’m in New York. We had a

good flight. Did you get home from the airport

okay?” Mom had volunteered to drive us to the

airport in her van. She’s not overly confident with

city driving, particularly in the winter and,

although she seemed to do well getting us there, I

was concerned about her getting back home with-

out our navigational aid.

“Oh ya, uh-huh. I drive slow and get here.”

“Oh, good. Is Kelly coming over today?”

“Ya, ya, she call. She come for supper.”

“Oh good. Okay, I just wanted to check in,

make sure you’re okay.”

“Ya, ya. You haf safe treep, I pray for you.”

Back at ya.

264 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

After a quick shower to freshen up from the

journey and a change into one of my “New York

State of Mind” outfits, which was basically an

over-priced, stretchy top with my wonderpants

and a cozy leather jacket appropriate for New

York winter conditions, I headed back to the ele-

vator. When the door opened I joined a new ele-

vator man—considerably younger and less dried

out than Alfred—and a wizened gnome of a

woman hidden beneath a beehive bouffant and a

sumptuous chinchilla coat. The Sherry-

Netherland, in addition to being a hotel, was also

home to a number of owner-occupied suites and it

was from one of these I guessed this interesting

creature had emerged.

“Main floor,” I told Hunky. His name tag said

“Seth” but I preferred Hunky.

“Yap! Yap! Yap!”

I looked down at a something that could best

be described as Chewbacca sperm. Its two front

paws grazed my shin and its two rear paws rarely

touched the ground as it hopped up and down

like a furry wind-up toy on amphetamines.

“Oh Shelby, stop flirting with the man,” a voice

made of gritty sauce slithered out from some-

where in between the bouffant and the chinchilla.

This was flirting? I smiled at the pile of hair

and then down at its spawn. The dog kept on yip-

ping and looking like it was about to hop into my

arms and chew my nose off.

“Oh really, Shelby, such manners for a lady!”

More gravel from the woman.

Under the spell of some crazed compulsion, I

Anthony Bidulka — 265

leaned down and reached out for Shelby.

Wondrously the movement seemed to appease the

dog-like thing and she shut her trap as soon as my

fingers made first contact. But as my hand ran over

her quivering body I could barely conceal my sur-

prise. She was…crunchy, as if she’d been shel-

lacked or covered in…hairspray. Her owner, in

preparation for a walk in the windy park, had hair-

sprayed her dog’s hair! I looked up at the woman’s

own hair and realized the styles and colour were

not dissimilar.

As I straightened up the elevator came to a

stop and the woman and her Mini-Me dog

stepped out. As they scuttled away from us I over-

heard her chastise her pet, “Shelby, you are such a

slut.”

I looked at Hunky who appeared unfazed.

A New York moment I’d say.

Sereena was a vision in head to toe cranberry-

hued leather as we made our way across Fifth

Avenue at 59th in a swirl of feathery snow that

had just begun to fall from a cotton-batting sky. It

wasn’t particularly cold out, but she’d pretended

it was to rationalize a must-stop at the Plaza’s Oak

Bar for an Offley Port. She expertly led the way

through the maze of horse-drawn carriages,

movers and shakers and hawkers and gawkers

that littered the area in front of the hotel. And

although no less awed than the tourists outside, I

tried my best not to be waylaid by the grandness

of the interior of the hotel when we marched

266 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

smartly through the foyer, as if we did it every

day, and down a corridor or two to the unassum-

ing entrance of the bar.

After soaking up ambiance and pricey port at

the Oak Bar we buoyantly walked arm in arm to

West 54th Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues

where Sereena (and The Sherry-Netherland

concierge) had managed to get us a table at

Aquavit, reputably the grandest of New York’s

Scandinavian restaurants. It claims to raise the

level of eating Swedish food to an art form. And as

my entire experience with Swedish food consisted

of cheese fondue (or is that Swiss?) from Safeway,

this was bound to be a treat for me.

After relinquishing possession of our coats, the

maître d’, a charming man with an unpronounce-

able name and matching accent, seated us at a

lovely table for two near a wall of water cascading

in shimmering sheets from an enormous height.

In no time our server, with the very pronounce-

able name of Joyce, came by to chat. She was

friendly and sincerely thrilled (good training) to

have a New York first-timer (me) and Aquavit

first-timers (both of us) in her restaurant. She was

so knowledgeable about the menu and how each

dish was prepared that we eventually put our fate

in her hands and requested she bring us her

favourites. And drinks.

Normally I wait until liquor is served before

bringing up serious topics, but I couldn’t stand it

anymore. Except for the tree trimming party

where little of substance was discussed, what with

all the zoo animals in attendance, I had spoken lit-

Anthony Bidulka — 267

tle or not at all to my friends who were at Diva’s

the previous Saturday night.

“I’m worried about Anthony and Jared,” I

began. “I almost feel like it was my fault. If it was-

n’t for my client…”

“What’s that? What are we talking about?”

Sereena quipped back.

“Diva’s…Anthony and Jared…the whole

Anthony-sleeping-with-my-client thing?” I shook

my head. Not much got by Sereena. I didn’t know

why was she playing so dense.

“They were sleeping together?”

Duh. “Sereena…you know this. You heard it

too.”

“They had sex, Russell, they weren’t sleeping

together. It wasn’t an affair, was it?”

I sat silently. Sereena’s eyes moved over my

shoulder to someone or someones trying to attract

her attention. She pasted one of her famous mirth-

less smiles on her face and nodded at a table of

diners she obviously knew—or who knew her—

and quickly returned her full attention to me. At

first she said nothing, seeming to concentrate on

the topic I’d brought up as if she’d only just recog-

nized it as worthy of thought. After a few seconds

of that she said, “What happened was unfortu-

nate. Surprising to some, awkward I suppose to

others. But is this a big deal, Russell?”

Of course it is! “Don’t you think so?”

Her head moved slightly from right to left, her

bright eyes intently resting on mine. “It had no

effect on me whatsoever. Except that it prematurely

ended what was a rather pleasant evening—that

268 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

was unfortunate. The rest of it—well, that’s none

of my business.” She stopped short of saying, “Or

yours” and instead said, “What do you think?”

“They’re friends of mine. How can it not affect

me? And as a friend I should care and worry

about what’s going to happen next. Isn’t that what

friends are for?”

“Not always.”

At that point Joyce returned, balancing a tray

so large I’d have thought it was impossible for one

human to do so. I was grateful for her appearance.

I definitely needed a drink. Like a magician

pulling rabbits out of a hat, Joyce revealed her

enticing delicacies with a dramatic flair.

“I know you’ll want wine with dinner,” she

said, “but first, as an aperitif you must have a

Flight of Aquavit, a house specialty.” She placed in

front of us two small, metal-and-wood racks, each

containing three glass containers that looked like