PART I
The elevator dings, a disturbingly loud tinny sound in the silent upper-levels of the Cheltenham building. The brass sheeted doors slide open, allowing me to step out onto the polished tile floor of the central hall. Through not late in the evening, the glass-walled offices line the hall and are dark at this hour, though computer screens still glow within, abandoned.
Moving into the hallway, my heeled shoes click against the polished tiles as I head towards the sole indication of life on this floor, a narrow strip of light glowing between the crack of the parted double doors at the end. I take a moment to ensure my nylon stockings are smooth beneath the skirt of my dark suit, and my hair is appropriately placed.
The stockings alone cost a remarkable sum of money. But it is more than just an affectation, it is expected. My executive clients pay well for my services, and image is of great importance – especially to them.
Once certain my attire is appropriate, I first check the clock on my smartphone before tucking it away and stepping over to the large double doors. I can hear a speaker within. With a light rap, I make my presence known, and a terse voice from within bids me to enter.
The chamber beyond is large, well suited for a business man of Mr. Cheltenham's status. Its decor is kept simple, austere. Fine art adorns the wood panelled walls, and a Persian carpet covers the polished tiles beneath the glass-topped desk situated at the back, in front of a large bank of windows that gaze out into the illuminated night life of the Old Town.
Two men are here, though one can hardly be called such.
The most senior of the pair is Mr. Cheltenham himself, sitting casually on the edge of his desk. The other has his back to me, seated in one of the large, high-backed chairs before the desk. I get a glance from the younger's sharp and curious blue eyes before they disappear once more behind the chair.
“Ah, Ms. Versailles. You are just on time,” the senior Cheltenham says, holding out his hand.
I smile, not much, just enough to let him know that the compliment is appreciated. Should I arrive late it shows to them that I am unreliable. Should I arrive early, I do not allow them enough time to put on the proper presentation of status – and that irks them more than if I would be late.
“This is my son, Edward,” he says, holding his hand out the boy in the chair. The younger man, realizing that attention is now on him, remembers his etiquette and suddenly stands. He is barely over twenty, skinny, with an unruly mop of blonde hair atop his head. Dressed in tan slacks and a white polo shirt, he seems like he would be more comfortable on a campus than in this stark office of business power.
He glances at me, then turns his eyes to the floor.
With the invitation given, I step away from the door and into the grand office – I am in their home, they are not in mine. I approach the boy, but he barely looks up at me, his hands clasped together in front of him. At the edge of my perception, I catch the shift in Senior Cheltenham's stance, he is displeased – though not with me. I do not look at him, but keep my focus on the younger man. The senior Cheltenham no longer matters, his part in this lies only in that he holds the invoice.
I hold my hand out to the boy, palm towards the floor, and wait.
“It is very much my pleasure to meet you, monsieur Cheltenham,” I say to him, prompting him. By birth, I am French, Marseilles to be precise, but I studied at Cambridge. My English is quite good, but many of my clients prefer to indulge in the accent.
He smiles slightly at me and soon takes the hint, as well as my hand. His grip is light, and the skin of his hand is smooth and soft. He bows to kiss the back of my wrist.
“A... uh, pleasure as well, Ms. Versailles,” he says in almost a whisper.
Senior Cheltenham shifts off the desk. He still bears the hallmarks of displeasure, but the crease in his brow has softened.
“I will leave you then in the care of my son,” he says to me. Heinrich at the desk has two tickets for the rendition of Carmina Burana at the National Theatre, and reservations await you at the Allegro.”
I nod to him, and smile a bit more warmly, “merci, monsieur Cheltenham.”
He then turns to leave. Edward watches his father's departure with a pained expression of remorse. I take the opportunity to study his face more closely. He isn't a bad looking boy. His cheekbones are strong, as is his jaw line – and his eyes are like the blue of a tropical ocean. But he just carries himself so meekly I could only see him as frail.
He glances my way. Mindful of my scrutiny he once again shrinks back into his defensive stance.
My smartphone chirps in the pocket of my blazer.
“Excusez moi,” I say to him.
Normally I would not check my phone in the presence of a client, it would not even be on, that is just beyond rude – but I was expecting the message and its pertinence to the matters at hand. Edward glances over as I check the two incoming texts. One is the results of a medical screening I had been waiting on. They told me what I expected. The second is of a more personal nature, and it makes me smile – a midnight dinner on the patio with a very special person.
I put the smartphone back into my pocket, and smile warmly at the young man. He smiles back, but it seems painful for him to acknowledge me long enough to bend his lips upwards.
I hold my hand out to him. He regards it for a long moment and shuffles a little, then relents, reaching out. I guide his arm into a hook and slide my hand through.
“Let us go, monsieur,” I say to him, “we 'ave a busy evening a'ead.”
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