[Completed] A U.S. expatriate is cast into a rainy, foggy corner of Europe. He went there on the pretense to work on his research, but he actually wanted to put as many miles as possible between himself and his ex.
The university he works for has fo...
Caught in the near-incapacitating embrace of a deep leather chair in the foyer of Lance & Marez, Art studied the receptionist from the corner of his eyes. She had told him to wait here. Short, black hair topped her head, and her face was hidden behind an armor of make-up and blood-red lipstick. The woman watched Art with the beady, calculating scrutiny of a bird of prey. She was perched behind the bulwark of a curved counter of polished, honey-colored wood.
A young man wearing a dark suit, a tie, a stack of files, and a preoccupied expression passed the counter in quick steps. Predator eyes followed his progress. His footfalls were swallowed by the expanse of dark gray carpet, the only sound being the subdued rustle of expensive wool. Executive silence returned after his passage.
In his blue sweater and jeans, Art felt underdressed, almost naked. He hadn't had time to dress for the occasion. Rudi Marez had been willing to see him right this Monday afternoon. Even if Art had had the time to visit his apartment before this meeting, his wardrobe mostly contained sweaters, t-shirts, and jeans but none of the textile armor required for survival in the jungle of business.
Wearing a sweater seemed appropriate because his hands were sweaty—more appropriate than the European designation of the garment, jumper, because he didn't feel like jumping at all.
This morning, his conversation with Rudi Marez had been brief. It had fallen on Art to do most of the talking. After having heard him out, the lawyer had handed him on to his secretary for scheduling an appointment. The woman had made it clear that her boss' only free time slot was today, 3 p.m. Art, not having a legal star's busy calendar, had obliged.
A subdued ping from an elevator to his left drew his attention. A petite redhead emerged from its opening maw and made a beeline for Art, smiling. "Mr. Sharpe?"
"Yes, that's me." With a grunt, he escaped the chair's intimate grasp and got to his feet.
"I'm Eve, Mr. Marez' secretary."
She offered her hand. Art shook it, wondering if the occasion called for him mentioning his first name, too. But before he could open his mouth, she detached herself from his grip and gestured towards the elevator's still open maw.
"Please."
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The silent ride took them to the building's top floor. The foyer there was smaller, and its desk was unmanned, or unwomanned. The secretary knocked at a massive door set into a wall beside it and, without waiting for an answer, pushed its fat, golden handle. Art followed her inside.
The room was large enough to house a small army of lawyers. But it held only one, Rudi Marez. The man got up when Art entered and navigated around his battleship of a desk.
"Mr. Sharpe!" His voice was as firm as his smile.
"Mr. Marez." Art strived to give his words volume, but they stood emaciated beside the stately greeting that had preceded them.
