The watch world is an intimate place that operates on the highest level of human sensitivities and emotional intelligence. Your child graduated from college, and you want to recognize them for all their hard work, so you gift them a watch. You are a newly appointed CEO who wishes to announce to the room that you have arrived, without having to say it. You’ve retired, you need to reawaken passion in your life, or watches help you connect with your grandfather, which pleases your father. Watches connect people on the highest level of emotional intelligence.
Like anything human in life, watches are not safe from corruption. For example, someone can gift a watch to guarantee intimacy with someone they desire. Or, they can grant access to a watch to curry favor for a business endeavor. Watches can be used to make transactions happen.
For the most part, the watch world is a fairly innocent place of knowledge, learning, and earning the right to owning an intelligent mechanism by getting on par with it intellectually.
But if you mix with the wrong players, it could get dangerous.
Take Marie, and what happened to her.
Part I
The Encounter
Marie gazed at the watches under the glass display. It was one of those rare rainy afternoons in L.A. She had ducked into the vintage watch store down the restaurant from where she worked.
One watch with a gold case glinted. The metal looked as smooth as butter. A sales associate, standing nearby polishing a mirror, placed it on the table unceremoniously. Marie caught sight of her reflection. The thirty-seven-year old’s sweet, puppy-dog eyes had developed crows-feet overnight. The failed model’s looks were fading fast.
Ignoring the rude salesperson, Marie looked back down at the watch and its protruding price tag. It would take years to afford it, and that was without rent or a car lease or any of the other bills her roommate shoved under her nose every chance she got.
Peering into the squarish-oval dial was like looking out of a ship’s window. Marie sighed. Beautiful things, like this watch, motivated her to keep trying in this disappointing city that she had left everything for. Her comfortable apartment. A guaranteed salary at her family business. Bernard, her handsome, albeit birdbrained fiancé. Marie had been convinced fame and fortune awaited her in volatile, moody, fickle Los Angeles, so she left them all. Fifteen years later, she still hadn’t found it. And yet, she could not return to the snobbish, small-minded town on the outskirts of Lyon, France. Her family, who owned a vineyard and criticized her for abandoning them, would never let her live it down. They mocked her every chance they got over Zoom, when she was in the mood for a verbal beating.
The sound of traffic blared momentarily, causing Marie to look over her shoulder. A man who appeared to be in his fifties entered the store. He was lean and had a fluffy head of curly black hair peppered with silvery strands. He was stylishly dressed in a grey cashmere hoodie pushed up to the elbows, revealing numerous gold bracelets and a gold watch. His navy blue slacks were tailored right to the ankle, a centimeter above his dress shoes. His eyes were electric blue, and seemed to sparkle like a cheerful little boy’s, while his bushy black eyebrows and hawkish nose made him look roguish. Coupled with his confident air, the newcomer commanded Marie’s attention.
The honks and bustle of the street outside disappeared once again as the heavy glass door sucked shut behind the man. He walked to the center of the room with his Air-Pod filled ears bent, talking fast. Marie noticed the salesperson, who had been slouching against the wall, was now standing at attention across from her at the display table.
Her cat-like senses pricked, Marie watched from the corner of her eye as the man stopped a few feet away from her.
“Thank you, Mr. DuFour, I appreciate doing business with you.” The man sighed, and put his phone away. Marie focused on one of the watches with a Tiffany-blue dial under the glass in front of her.
“Do you like it?” He sidled up next to her. He behaved as if he didn’t even notice the salesperson’s existence. Marie nervously glanced down at the watch, then back at him. She surmised that this was the store's owner, or someone equally important.
“It is beautiful,” she answered warily. The salesperson slunk off.
The newcomer ran a hand through his glistening crop of hair. Up close, his hands were abnormally small and pale. They reminded her of a sickly Victorian child. The rims of his eyes were red, with grey bags, as though he hadn’t slept for days. Grey stubble covered his narrow chin.
“Are you into watches?” He drawled. Local L.A. accent, Marie noted. It echoed a perpetually bored cadence.
She didn’t know the first thing about watches. The room was so silent that it seemed even the walls were listening. The salesperson, now buffing the glass on another display case nearby, glanced over their shoulder at her.
Marie joked, “I’m not sure I can answer such a personal question to someone I just met.”
The newcomer let out a guffaw. As the tension slipped off his face, he looked years younger. Rubbing his stubble, he said, “Finally, someone funny. I’ve been with lawyers all day.”
Crossing his arms, he asked, “What brings you here, into my little shop?” For a split second, his eyes flickered to her body.
Marie kept her tanned arms hanging casually at her sides. Even in a T-shirt and jeans, she was used to drawing attention with her tall, athletic physique, large (albeit fake) breasts, and shapely behind. The cosmetic enhancements to her lips and fillers to the rest of her face needed a touch-up, but overall, she turned heads with her big brown eyes, naturally high cheekbones, and chiseled features.
Marie replied, “The rain. I work in the restaurant down the street …” She looked out the window, noticing the rain had stopped. The busy street was bright, and sunny again.
“So, you’re in hospitality!” He smiled.
“Actually, I’m doing a master’s in journalism,” she corrected him proudly. “Hostessing is something I do to pay for school.”
His smile widened. His phone began to ring.
He said, “Take my card. You ever want to talk watches, or … report on watches … I’m here.” The man nodded in his employee’s direction. The sales associate trotted over and handed over a small, white rectangle.
Perking up, Marie took the business card. In this city, she learned—the hard way—never to say no. You never knew where opportunity lurked.
She replied, “Thanks, maybe I will.” She read the card. The name Armen Sahakyan was embossed on it in gold lettering. She added, “Nice to meet you, Armen. I’m Marie.”
The owner gave her an approving stare, before answering his phone in a clipped, authoritarian tone.
Marie left the store with a new spring in her step, tentatively excited for her new connection.
*
Part II
Lunch at The Ivy
The Ivy was buzzing with activity and friends conversing. Smartly dressed waiters were almost colliding into each other trying to service their tables, and yet even they smiled and laughed as if in perpetually good moods.
The restaurant in the leafy belt between Beverly Hills and West Hollywood was decorated in a warm, Spanish style. Ivy covered the walls and potted plants covered the surfaces. The energy echoed that of the fun, successful, and lively clientele.
Marie was wearing a strappy yellow dress that cut off right below the knees and had a low yet tasteful neckline. She fully intended to return it to Nordstrom -they were notoriously lax with their policies- when she was done with it.
The budding journalist was envious of everyone around her. They looked at home, whereas, from the moment she sat down, she felt like a fraud and regretted calling Armen and accepting his invitation to meet him for lunch at one of L.A.’s celebrity hot spots.
She took a demure sip of her wine.
“I’m glad you called, Marie,” Armen said, taking a swig of his glass. Unlike Marie, who was holding the stem like a dainty pencil, he was cupping his glass like it was a goblet. He was dressed in a black V-neck t-shirt that showed off a sculpted chest. The veins on his tanned arms stood out, like he worked out a lot, and his jeans looked like they were made for his slim, muscular physique. What mostly stuck out was an enormous gold watch clamped on his wrist. It looked different from the gold watch he was wearing at the showroom. Again, his wrists were covered with numerous gold bracelets and fashionable silk threads with diamonds attached.
Armen saw her staring at the watch. “Royal Oak, Chronograph. Rose Gold. You’ll learn to spot the brand as we go. I’ll teach you about the complications, too.”
“Thank you for taking the time to give me professional advice,” she said. Marie was nervous. His wedding band, which she had missed during their brief visit in the store, was standing out in a blaze of gold on his finger. She reminded herself that even if there were anything nefarious going on, which there wasn’t, they were only a dime a dozen in this city where older rich folks regularly wined and dined their Lolitas and Ganymedes under all kinds of guises.
Which Marie wasn’t, she reminded herself again.
“So, you are considering becoming a watch journalist.” Armen finished the glass of wine and rested an elbow on the table. His crinkled eyes were watery, and he had a silly but charming smile.
“I have this independent study this semester, it would be great to get some interviews, see how I feel about it. I guess I should approach collectors and watchmakers, depending on what side of the industry I want to focus on.” Marie flushed. She had done her research, and by the way he had started laughing, he could tell.
“I’ll put you in touch with both. I’m friends with collectors and watchmakers. Hell, half the CEOs of all the big brands would kill to get at my client list,” he said, pouring another glass.
He caught her staring at his hand, where the gold band on his ring finger glinted.
“Separated. I wear it for the kids.” His face suddenly sagged, and for a brief second, he looked like exactly what he was: a tired man.
“Armen!” Yet another group of beautifully dressed and cosmetically kept people who knew Armen stopped by their table. It was incredibly awkward, especially the way they kept asking him about "Rebecca” and looking at Marie in fascination.
Finally, like the other three parties that interrupted their lunch, they bid their goodbyes with their eyes already on other people they wanted to greet and floated away towards them.
Armen turned back to her, elbows on the table, looking even more exhausted. “We haven’t announced the separation to our friends, for the kids. It’s excruciating when they ask about her.”
“I’m sorry,” Marie apologized, not knowing what else to say.
“That’s alright, I have so much support from my friends. My real ones, not these social climbing fakes. And my wife—she’s …” He trailed off. “She’ll be fine. More than fine.” Marie detected an edge. Was that bitterness?
“Would she have an issue with you meeting me here …?” Marie gestured around her awkwardly. She was a direct person. It was partly why she failed to get certain modeling gigs that could have changed her life. No social finesse. And no tolerance for hand job requests in the back of limousines.
She could have sworn Armen’s face lit up for a split second. Like, he was actually happy at the thought of someone spotting them and telling his wife.
“I'm not sure why there would be an issue with us meeting. You called me for advice.” Armen raised his eyebrows. Marie became mortified. “I’m so sorry. I meant … how it looks, er …” Her cheeks burned. She was so used to being the object of men's desire that, without realizing it, she assumed Armen was another one of those men.
Armen started laughing. “Relax. Man, you look like you’re about to cry. I know what you mean, don’t worry. A married man sitting with a beautiful woman. People could talk, and let her know they saw me with you. Reality easily gets twisted, especially in this bored-ass town.”
Marie relaxed, relieved.
“But either way, she doesn’t care what I do. She’s barely in the country- she’s what they call a motivational speaker.” Ok, now Marie knew he was bitter, from his overtly sarcastic tone, and by the way he was waving his refilled glass of wine in the air.
“Armen, my man!”
Marie could not believe her eyes. It was The Rock. He was standing right at their table, with his enormous hand clamped on Armen’s shoulder.
Armen’s face flipped into an excited little boy again.
“I promise you, Richard just called, just now right?” Armen looked expectantly at Marie, who nodded in bewilderment.
“I got you man, I got the RM027 for you. It’s ready. Meet Marie, my new best watch journalist friend. Watch out, she’s going to interview you soon- and finally get you to reveal your collection to the world.”
Marie couldn’t help but preen under the Rock’s admiring gaze.
“En Chante, Marie. Armen, don’t mess with me, bring me that watch tonight. You are welcome as well, Marie.”
Marie couldn’t believe her ears.
Armen kept nodding, clapping his hand on the Rock’s hand, and eventually, the Rock walked away through a swarm of energy, mutterings, and craned necks.
Marie felt dazed.
“You look like you just won the lottery!” Armen chuckled. Marie quickly rearranged her features. Surprising herself, she replied smoothly, “I was a huge fan of WWF as a kid! Can’t help it!”
The look of amusement on Armen’s face was replaced by respect. “So you liked wrestling as a little girl. What else is there to learn about you, Marie?”
Marie took a gulp of her wine. She never usually lied to impress someone. She didn’t know why she was doing it now. Taking another gulp, she began to feel a pleasant buzz.
“Why are you helping me?” she asked, emboldened. Armen’s cheerful expression faltered. He leaned back against, the iron chair screeched a little, and shrugged in a way that Marie thought was a bit put on.
“Honestly? I like your energy. If I can open a few doors, it’s no skin off my back, especially if you end up being good at what you do. Make me look good. Whatever, all that bullshit.” He shrugged again. Marie made a noncommittal noise, not convinced. Armen blinked his innocent blue eyes, and sighed. Once again, he looked like that tired older man in need of a good night’s sleep.
“I met with you today because I needed to get out of the office, and you’re the first person I've met in a long time who’s asking for something I enjoy giving, and that’s my knowledge, my knowhow,” he said.
Marie folded her arms and smiled politely. One of the first lessons she had learned in L.A. was no one gave anything away for free, especially things they enjoyed giving. No one successful, that is.
Armen had obviously sensed her skepticism. He picked up his wine glass and, with vigor, seemed to throw the liquid to the back of his throat. “I need to get out of this tiny world where I’m my wife’s husband!” He stretched his arms, and let out a growl, as if he had been cooped up for ions.
Marie nodded. That made sense. She was a distraction, and a beautiful one, because despite what he had said earlier she had felt him looking at her throughout their meeting.
And she didn’t mind. This man was offering to help her. Far be it from her to look a gift horse in the mouth. If she could make him feel better with her attention and company after his apparently famous wife bruised his ego, it was no skin off her back, either.
Armen slapped the marble table top and said, “Ok, I better get back to work. All I can say about this watch business is that you’ll learn as you go, Marie. You never know where certain paths will take you, so keep an open mind.”
Marie kept nodding, as Armen had with the Rock as if they were old friends.
“Do you want to come tonight?” Armen glanced at her as he paid the bill.
Even though she knew exactly what he meant, Marie asked, “To what?”
“To what! You’re funny.” Armen guffawed as he pushed a black Amex across the table towards the bill.
“Let me!” Marie scrambled for her purse, but a waiter already swooped down upon them.
“Thank you. Er, The Rock’s place?” Marie hesitated. She locked eyes with Armen. With his sparkling, naïve eyes, he was an open book of just niceness and someone looking for a good, easy time. Her unease lessened.
Marie thought, for once, just do what you want. Stop worrying. He’s a nice guy going through a hard break up, and he’s offering to help your career.
Live a little.
“I’ll pick you up later tonight.” Armen smiled genuinely.
As they walked through the crowd to the Uber he had insisted on ordering for her, he put his hand on her back to help guide her. Elated, Marie thought, things were finally looking up.
*
To be continued …