“And who is this?” Blake said, as his grey eyes fixed on me.
This is going to sound kind of corny, but of nowhere, I felt like I couldn't breathe.
“Oh, this is just Jessica, my assistant for today,” Marianne explained, waving a dismissive hand in my direction. “Don’t worry about her. She’s only here to take notes. So … shall we get started?”
Marianne took a seat at the large table, but Blake remained where he was, his gaze still fixed on me.
“Pleased to meet you, Jessica,” he said, in a slow, hushed voice, like it was some sort of secret between the two of us.
And this is gonna sound even more corny, but when I shook his hand it was like an electric shock passed right through my body.
Wow.
I wasn’t expecting that.
I thought things like that only happened in the romance novels I used to sneak out from my mom's bottom drawer, but here I was, completely unable to move as I felt the sparks from his handshake pulse through every little part of me.
“Fabulous view Blake, just fabulous,” chimed Marianne, suddenly reminding me that we weren’t alone in the room.
“Shall we?” Blake said, nodding over at the boardroom table, a strangely suggestive, conspiratorial tone in his voice — as if he too knew just how annoying Marianne was, and how much of a chore this meeting was going to be.
I nodded back, desperately willing myself not to blush, as I realized we were still holding hands.
I felt a flash of relief when he finally broke the handshake, turning and heading towards the table, and I couldn’t help steal a quick glance at him, at the athletic broadness of his shoulders, so visible beneath the flimsy white cotton of his shirt.
Now I was definitely blushing.
It was so unlike me to check out guys, especially entitled assholes like Blake Matthews — and after all, he really wasn’t my type.
What the hell are you doing?
You have a boyfriend, remember?
A sweet, funny, sensitive guy who would do absolutely anything for you …
And with this whirlwind of thoughts swirling around in my head, I made my way over to the table, my Mary Janes clicking softly on the polished wooden floor.
We sat down, and Marianne began to immediately launch into her vision of Blake’s penthouse apartment, once she’d had her way with it.
“I was thinking … terracotta paint for the walls? I’ve brought some samples for you to look at, and for the floor in the main room, something daring, masculine … How about black wood, and then … for the curtains, we'll go bold. I know the perfect thing. Leopard print …”
I hung my head, trying to look as prim and unobtrusive as possible, just as Marianne had asked, but underneath my bangs I couldn't take my eyes away from Blake’s face, which shifted slowly from boredom to, at her suggestion of leopard print, a faint trace of a smirk.
Marianne was losing him, and fast. Her interior design ideas were becoming as outdated as her Versace blouses. The company was getting by with its rota of incredibly rich, ageing clients. But we were struggling to bring on board anyone new.
“And then, how about a white sheepskin rug as a kind of centerpiece? I know this great place in Italy. Get this: they massage the sheep, daily. The wool is super soft ...”
Blake’s gaze shifted lazily across to me, his eyes landing on mine as the corner of his lip tremored in a smirk. “A sheepskin rug,” he repeated, a note of sarcasm now entering his voice. “Sounds really stylish.”
“I just knew you'd love it!” Marianne continued, delighted, completely oblivious to his sarcasm.
At this rate, Blake would have us out of his office before coffee had even been served.
And it was then that I felt it.
Oh no.
It’s happening again …
You see, I got this feeling sometimes: as if there was someone else inside my body, taking control; someone much stronger and more decisive than the usual me, someone who, yes, was definitely opening her mouth and taking a deep breath, ready to speak, ready to interrupt Marianne ...
“Or, if that’s not working for you, Blake, we could try something fresh …”
I’d actually said that.
My words were out there in the room now with no way for me to take them back.
Marianne stared at me, shocked into silence. She looked like she wanted to tear me, limb from limb, but there was no way she could rock the boat in front of Blake, so she had to let me finish.
“How about we go for a more minimal approach?” I continued, shakily. I’d been working on some design ideas of my own, in spare evenings, but I’d never actually spoken them out loud before. “We could strip the walls back to the bare brick and celebrate the building's industrial heritage? I was doing some research, and it was actually pretty exciting to discover that your building was originally a factory. They built some of the earliest radios here! Also, I’ve been thinking a lot recently about the work of Le Corbusier, and I think his clean masculine lines would really suit your style.”
Oh my God.
I just couldn’t stop talking!
Did I really just say all that?
By the reaction of Marianne — her eyes narrowing to two mean slits, her mouth pursing up in a trembling venomous snarl — I must have.
There was the longest, most dreadful pause, my heart drumming so hard against my ribs it felt like it might burst out of my chest at any moment.
To my surprise it was Blake who finally broke the silence.
“I love it,” he said sincerely, his mouth curling warmly into a smile. “Tell me more.”
“You love it?” Marianne murmured, flustered. Then louder, “Well of course you do, that was my second design scheme, I don’t know why Jessica has shot ahead to it so early, but yes, if you want, let’s move on to my second idea. Jessica?” And here she turned once more to me, fixing me in her gaze, her anger at my interruption barely concealed. “Fetch me a glass of water would you, darling?”
I nodded and got up from the table, heading over to the water jug and glasses in the very farthest corner of the room. I could hear Marianne behind me, carrying on with the pitch, practically repeating what I’d just said, stealing my ideas and claiming them as her own, and I could feel the anger rising and my heart drumming and something else too.
He’s watching me, isn’t he?
I can feel his eyes.
And as I poured out the water, I wondered just what exactly Blake Matthews might make of someone like me; whether he thought me too prim and plain, my black pencil skirt and fitted blazer too conservative and boring, the way Marianne was always hinting.
And when I turned around to carry the glasses back to the table, I realized with a shiver that sure enough his eyes were on me, not Marianne who was chattering away regardless.
§
It felt like the meeting would never end, but eventually Marianne pushed the portfolio towards me to carry, and Blake walked us back through to the elevator, pushing the button for us with a bronze, tanned digit.
“It’s been so good to see you again, darling,” Marianne cooed as we waited for the elevator to arrive, leaning in to kiss him on both cheeks. And as she did so, Blake caught my eye over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow, a knowing smile on his face.
I had to look away to stop myself from bursting out laughing, taking a deep breath to contain myself.
Keep it together, Jessica.
Just then, the crisp electric ping of the elevator rang out behind us, and the sleek, brushed chrome doors swished open, signaling our departure.
“I’ll be in touch,” Blake said, as Marianne waved him goodbye.
And one last time, his eyes locked onto mine, holding my gaze until the doors slid closed.
Once we were alone in the elevator, I realized the full consequences of my actions: there would be hell to pay for my unplanned interruption of Marianne’s pitch.
I’m in deep shit now.
This was
n’t the first time I’d had one of these ‘out of body’ experiences, as I called them.
In fact, it had been a similar instance of unexpected, out-of-character confidence that had landed me the job at Marianne’s consultancy in the first place. Last summer, my bachelor’s degree in Interior Design had got me as far as selling $400 throw pillows in Barneys, and Marianne came in to choose fabrics for a client’s curtains. I was only ever paid to chirp, “How may I help you today, madam?” but before I knew what I was saying I'd launched into an unplanned monologue on how to improve her color scheme and found myself on the receiving end of a business card, with instructions to call her sometime if I got bored of my cashier’s position.
Which was how I ended up, just three weeks later, fetching her dry cleaning and organizing her diary for a living.
But now that I knew Marianne better, there was no question that this little interruption of mine would have pissed her off, royally.
We remained silent the whole way down in the elevator — but I just knew that that there was no way she was going to let this slide. Whatever was in store for me sure wasn’t gonna be pleasant.
Still, I couldn’t help but feel weirdly pleased, too.
Pleased and flattered at just how much Blake had liked my ideas, even if Marianne had quickly claimed them as her own.
And as I heard his low sonorous voice, “I’ll be in touch,” echoing in my head, I remembered the heat of his hand and a silly old proverb my mother used to say flashed into my head:
Warm hands, cold heart.
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