Joachim smiled and shook his head. “No. Want to drop by my place?”
Had Jeffrey just swallowed a rock, or was that just how he felt? Joachim’s place? Was the issue all along his choice of venue? A thought ran through his mind—God, he would be in so much trouble if someone from the Claremonts found out what was happening—as he stared at Joachim’s glistening orange lipstick and broad smile.
“Don’t look so spooked, darling,” Joachim teased. “I don’t live in the slums. My place is a little more upscale.”
“We talking the Ritz-Carlton?”
“Close.”
Today Joachim broke routine, left the closing duties to his coworkers, and rolled out early with Jeffrey. He led his dinner-date to the lot directly behind the club, where it took Jeffrey a moment to comprehend what he was seeing. A huge silver box? Oh, a trailer house. The ten-meter-wide, twenty-meter-tall trailer lacked a towing vehicle and squatted directly on the ground, inert. Jeffrey recalled seeing something like this in the Wall Street Journal in an article on the urban homeless.
“Saves on the commute,” Joachim joked. He opened the door. “Welcome to the Ritz.”
Jeffrey goggled. The entrance of the trailer was graced by a blue chinoiserie vase, and glancing up, he saw a resplendent glass chandelier dangling from the ceiling. The silk bed-curtains, patterned with white flowers on a field of purple, would have made an elegant backdrop for a noblewoman in a Rococo painting. Meanwhile, a plush Persian rug—what else?—covered the floor. The finishing touch was provided by lithographs of women’s portraits scattered throughout the main room and the adjoining space—a bathroom, from the looks of it—like in any high-end hotel. Every item in the collection was a true antique or a convincing imitation, its grime wiped away, threadbare portions mended, and damage restored. The care with which they had been chosen was self-evident. Jeffrey had never seen such a glamorous, nor chic, labor of love in his life.
While he hesitated on the doorstep, Joachim brushed past him to sit down, legs crossed, on the “Ritz’s” sofa with a smile. The overstuffed claw-legged couch looked handmade and bulged in places. It swallowed Joachim in its plush.
“You gonna stand there all day, hon?” Joachim asked.
“…I’m just surprised.”
“I don’t show it off too often. It’s my castle.”
“Am I your special exception?”
“Yes, special. That’s the word. You’ve been a good audience to me.”
Jeffrey closed the door behind him. Joachim silently readjusted his legs, lay back on the sofa, and fixed his “audience” with a pointed look. At this angle, his stockings and garter belts did little to hide a sliver of slender upper thigh. Apropos of nothing, Jeffrey thought of La Grande Odalisque in the Louvre.
Joachim was the first to break the silent staring contest. He flashed Jeffrey a smile that had something of a regretful sigh in it, before rising, moving to the kitchen, and pulling out a Dr. Pepper bottle from a fridge designed to look like a lambskin-covered trunk.
“I don’t have any classy glasses, so bear with me and my basic cups. Hope you don’t mind hamburgers off the McDonald’s dollar menu for dinner.”
“Joachim.”
“Ooh, nasty! Half this tomato’s got mold.”
“Chim.”
“Oh, quit hovering and sit down already. I’ll have dinner out in a jiff.”
“I have an offer for you.”
“Hm? Is it a game of cards over a Dr. Pepper?”
Joachim looked back over his shoulder with the embers of emotion flickering in his eyes. Joachim could shrug off jeering customers with a smile and a wink, but this, Jeffrey realized, got his dander up. This produced an anger that Joachim could not hide. Deep down, Jeffrey was impressed. Happy, even—but like hell would he admit that.
Instead, he said, “Would you be interested in becoming the personal stylist of a businessman you might happen to know? Works in finance, early thirties, dresses mainly in high-end brands, interested in a playful touch from time to time. He’s happy to pay however you want. Cash, bank transfer, check—you name it.”
Joachim stared at him. His eyes seemed to demand to know what on God’s green Earth Jeffrey thought he was doing, but Jeffrey’s easygoing smile never ceased. Joachim turned back to the fridge. He picked up the half-rotten tomato, tossed it into a trash pail, and sniffed pointedly.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were describing Jeffrey Claremont.”
“That’s the one. British guy, disgustingly handsome.”
“I’ve seen paparazzi photos of him on fashion blogs, but most of his fits aren’t worth the media coverage.”
“You like reading blog articles about me? Oh, this idea is sounding better by the minute.”
“Only for fun. Fashion blogs with you in them aren’t worth taking seriously.”
“But with your help, we could change that.”
“I’m not interested in making more money.”
“I am, though. Lots and lots of money. That’s why I need your help.”
Joachim fell silent. His searching eyes were full of emotion, but Jeffrey turned them away with a smile. That emotion wasn’t pity or disgust. It was something deeper, and Jeffrey wasn’t ready to accept the ramifications of anything that serious. Not yet. He kept his smile shallow and cocked his head. “So? How ’bout it?”
“…I suppose there’s no harm in giving it a try.”
“Perfect. We have a deal.”
Jeffrey’s smile was all business as he extended a hand to shake…a hand Joachim never took. Nevertheless, the smile stayed glued to his face all through his one-dollar dinner, and after sliding Joachim his contact info, he said his goodbyes.
The terms of their agreement were simple. Jeffrey was to take photos of every item in his closet—not grouped together, separate—and send them to Joachim. Every single shirt, every single shoe. And, if possible, a shot of each garment in action. Joachim and Jeffrey agreed to count the first month as a free trial period, as neither of them knew the other’s taste in clothing. Subsequent work would be paid per assignment.
The results were instantaneous. As Joachim already had an approximation of Jeffrey’s style, every choice was perfectly suited to Jeffrey’s tastes. At times, he channeled the spirit of a tailor in a shop that had stood on Seville Row for hundreds of years. At others, he wielded his vast fashion know-how to compile the very best fits or offer style tips like an influencer plugged into the latest youth trends. Clothing was only one part of a person’s identity, but undeniably one that left a striking impression on the viewer. Jeffrey’s new wardrobe greased the wheels on talks with even the fussiest of business partners, and before long, he came to expect a shower of compliments like “Well, there’s a snappy dresser!” with every client he met.
Best of all, Joachim’s assistance saved him the time and effort of picking out what to wear. At the start of the second month, Jeffrey’s wardrobe pictures began to be accompanied by travel plans and other tidbits: the size of his suitcase, the weather at his destination, the proclivities of those he planned to meet.
“You’re incredible,” he gushed one day. “The paparazzi are having the time of their lives. You didn’t steal into my father’s estate to interrogate the servants about my clothing preferences, did you?”
“Pssh, who cares what the paparazzi think? I’m just glad you’re enjoying your new fits. By the way, this season’s collection from Hermes has a few accessories I think you’d adore.”
“I haven’t seen them yet. Send some pics to my email, if you would.”
“Aye-aye, captain. I’ll note which ones you simply must have.”
“Isn’t there anything you want?” Jeffrey might have asked, but didn’t. Joachim was clearly enjoying turning Jeffrey into a fashion icon, but he maintained a firm boundary between what was work and what was his own desires. Still, Jeffrey made monthly deposits into Joachim’s bank account that were sizable enough to buy several high-end accessories, with money to spare. He never mentioned it, but he was impressed that Joachim could combine burning passion with professional detachment, the secret to all long-lived business endeavors.