by Linda Coles
“Please, take a seat. He’ll be along very shortly.”
Then the driver was gone, leaving Taylor standing alone in the silence as she waited. The faint sound of distant traffic could be heard but not much else. Outside the sun was not much more than a creamy glow, like the light from a candle, as the day wound down. She made herself at home in one of the comfy floral chairs while she waited. No sooner had she sat down than the door opened and a much younger man than she was expecting introduced himself.
“Hello, Miss Palmer. My name is Marcus and I work for Mr. Dubonnet as his assistant.”
“Hello. Nice to meet you,” she said, standing again and extending her right hand. He really was quite handsome, she observed. Tall and athletic-looking in his suit, he obviously took care of himself. A gold band on a finger of his left hand told her he was spoken for. His sandy-brown hair was styled with just the right amount of ruffle, and a light tan completed the look. The only thing that was missing was a personality, it seemed.
“Mr. Dubonnet has been delayed slightly, so he asked me to ensure you are comfortable while you wait.”
At that moment, a woman dressed in a maid’s outfit arrived carrying a tray of silver pots, which she placed on the table to complete the set-up, then left as discreetly as she had come.
“I wasn’t really sure what type of tea you drank, so I took the liberty of ordering chamomile as well as Earl Grey and Darjeeling. What can I offer you?”
“Darjeeling is lovely, thank you.” Taylor watched as Marcus expertly poured the perfect coloured brew into a china teacup. “Sugar? Lemon? Milk, perhaps?”
“Oh, as it is will be fine. Thank you.”
Even though she smiled, he didn’t. Why was he so austere, she wondered? For a man who looked to be in his early thirties, he was pretty rigid. He passed her the dainty cup and saucer and excused himself, saying Mr. Dubonnet would be along in a moment. Then the handsome but rigid man was gone, the door clicking quietly shut behind him. Sitting back in the comfy chair again to wait, Taylor took sips of her tea and wondered about the last few hours since she’d left New York. So much had happened – the older man she had met, the luxury she had travelled in, and now here she was, sitting in a swanky hotel waiting for him to arrive and give her some gallery contacts.
Taylor glanced at her watch. Since the handsome assistant had poured her tea, ten more minutes had gone by, so she topped her cup up for something to do while she waited. With each minute that went by, she began to feel more and more tired; the jet lag was clearly catching up to her. She sighed and leaned farther back in the chair; the room felt just a little warmer than it had the minute before. Was she imagining it? She didn’t think so, but she was powerless to do anything about it. Finally, unable to keep her eyelids open any longer, she allowed them to close, thinking about nothing whatsoever as she fell into a deep sleep.
On a monitor on the other side of town, the operator watched as Taylor drifted into a comfortable, deep sleep and a man dressed in coveralls entered the room. He was pushing an empty laundry trolley. The operator watched as the man lifted Taylor, placed her expertly inside the trolley, and wheeled it back out of the room. A moment later, another man, this time dressed as a waiter, entered the room and removed the afternoon tea party remains. A quick wipe round with a cloth, and any evidence that Taylor Palmer had been sipping tea in the room was now gone. And so was she.
Chapter Eleven
He awoke. Same time every day. The alarm clock on the bedside cabinet bleeped four times and he reached to turn it off. It always bleeped four times, and he was always awake to hear it. His internal alarm clock was in sync with his battery operated one; both alarms were there for each other should one forget. He knew exactly what time it was – it was the same time every morning – and he swung his long legs out of the bed, turning the bedding down over itself, letting air get to the sheets. It takes fifteen minutes for bed lice to dehydrate, for the moisture to leave their bodies, allowing them to die off completely, and this was an important part of his routine.
Don’t confuse bed lice with bed bugs: those little suckers are a whole different story and if you’ve got bed bugs, you have a problem. Everyone has bed lice. But Griffin makes sure his are dead every morning. His routine could be described as normal or mundane, though many would call it OCD. Every day is the same. Nothing deviates. He heads to the bathroom for ablutions, a shave and a shower, and that takes fifteen minutes precisely. Many parts of his life are slotted into fifteen-minute segments. When his morning bathroom routine is complete, he folds the bed linen back in place, smartening his bed for re-entry in the evening. His wardrobe is equally precise: rows of folded clothing, three piles each the same in content, stacked five high.
He dressed in his uniform, a self-imposed uniform of blue jeans, white T-shirt, blue hoody. It hid his secret nicely, a part of him he’d rather other people did not see, and something he hoped would be dealt with soon. But the hoody would have to do the job for now, until he raised the funds and found the appropriate outlet for the task.
He walked through the lounge, which was simple, inexpensive, and immaculate. Ikea had benefited from his wallet. All his flat-packed deliveries had been methodically constructed, neither a gap nor an overlap visible in their build, not a random screw left over. Built to perfection. A couple of neutral-coloured throw cushions on the sofa were the only soft edges in the room; even the rug on the floor was rigid. In the kitchen, he flicked the switch of the kettle that he’d pre-filled the previous night before bed, then poured cereal into a bowl that was already waiting on the work surface, sliced the waiting banana into it, and poured milk from the fridge. The milk was the only thing he had to get from somewhere else. When the kettle had boiled, he poured hot water onto the tea bag that was also waiting in the mug and left it to steep while he ate his breakfast in silence.
Eating finished, he drank his tea and took the little pile of supplements that also awaited him and washed them down in one knobbly mouthful. When he was finished, he placed his used breakfast cutlery and crockery neatly into the dishwasher and turned it on, selecting low wash. Precisely thirty minutes later, he left his flat in Croydon and walked the short distance to catch the train into London, white buds stuck in both ears and the Boo Radleys singing the same ‘beautiful morning’ song. He loved the beat.
Once he’d boarded the train, along with hundreds of other daily commuters squashed into the metal capsule, then and only then would he allow himself to break out a little before he reached his office. Sometimes it was with Elvis, sometimes it was with Guns ‘N’ Roses, and sometimes it was with Gershwin. He allowed himself a wide range of music depending on his mood, and the mood of the people in the capsule. Spotify had opened him up to a whole new musical world, and while he’d found it a little overwhelming at first to deviate from his routine playlists, he’d finally embraced the experience and begun to see it as part of his education. He wondered if perhaps the rest of his life would follow suit and he’d break out a little more, one day at a time – break away from the confines that restrained his life, break away from fifteen-minute segments. And perhaps one day he’d find someone to share his life with. But who would want him with his quirky routine? Or his issue? When he allowed someone to get close and they saw what he was hiding, the shock and repulsion on their faces was always obvious. And it hurt. People could be so cruel. And so, it was easier to stay as he was, for now. To stay away from having someone close. But when he finally had the money and had found someone to do the job to his standards and his budget, that would all change. He was sure. Until, then he’d continue working as a sports reporter by day, and searching for the perfect person who’d help him by night.
As the train pulled in at London Victoria, he changed his playlist, the crystal-clear piano notes of Gershwin’s ‘Rhapsody in Blue’ cranked up in his ears. Ironic, really, since the piece itself had first been conceived while George Gershwin himself rode the train into Boston one day. It had since become a
classical piece almost everyone would recognize. Griffin worked his way towards the tube entrance onwards to his final destination of Green Park. Thousands of other London commuters had gone before him already that morning to just another day at the office. Griffin himself would be behind his desk shortly – it would take him fifteen minutes precisely.
Chapter Twelve
“Morning, Griffin.”
It was Jan, editor in chief at the paper and general pain in the ass. Commonly referred to as ‘she who shall be obeyed,’ she was an ‘in your face’ type of boss who frustrated the hell out of most of the team. Including Griffin. He stared at her long red fingernails, chipped at the edges, and then at her folded arms, carefully averting his eyes from her heavily made-up face.
“Morning, Jan.” He didn’t need or want to say more. So he didn’t expand.
“Deadline’s eleven am. I trust you’ll be on time?”
“It’s ready to go,” he said, patting the laptop he was unpacking from his satchel.
I’ve never missed a deadline yet. It’s not what I do, remember?
“Glad to hear it. And I’ve pushed your review session back until next week. Hope you don’t mind. I’ll send you a calendar date when I’ve decided on when exactly.” Then she was gone as quickly as she’d appeared, the faint odour of stale cigarette smoke overlaid with her vile perfume lingering where she’d stood.
That’s not good. Why do you need to change it? What’s more important than a person’s performance review – my performance review? I like order. Remember?
Griffin stood to make his way to the break room, scraping his chair back noisily on the wooden floor. Anxiety started to boil in his chest. He’d spent time on his performance review and treated it with the importance it deserved, and that would all be wasted now. He’d have to do it all again. And wait for a time that was suitable to her. He stalked towards the small kitchen area and thrust a tea bag into his mug, covering it with boiling water from the heater on the wall. He stood seething as it steeped. It wouldn’t last long, this feeling. He’d taught himself how to handle change over recent years. At fourteen years old, he’d found a coping mechanism that worked for him, allowing him to get through his teen years largely unscathed. And that was where his fifteen-minute segments came in. It helped him to get through the anxiety, knowing it would pass soon, within those fifteen minutes. He stirred his tea and waited it out in the calm of the small room. Shortly, all would be well again in Griffin’s world. He just had to stand and wait it out.
“There you are.” It was Rob, a features writer at the paper and probably the only person on the team who took much notice of him. “Been looking all over.”
“Just catching ten before the mayhem starts and Jan starts flapping like a mad woman. I hate deadline day.”
“Know what you mean, bro. Me too. You’re all ready, though, aren’t you, Mr. Organized? I’d be surprised if you weren’t. Not like me, eh? Always on the last minute. I’d be late for my mother’s funeral I’m sure, never mind my own.”
Griffin poured the last tea dregs down the sink and rinsed his mug. “And look at the stress it causes you by being late. You’re the same every month. Don’t quite know how you manage it, or why. I couldn’t cope.” Griffin slapped Rob on the shoulder affectionately as he made his way back to his desk, his clean mug in hand. “If you really are stuck, let me know. I might be able to help you. I’m not submitting mine in until eleven am on the dot, just to bug her.”
“That’s not like you. What gives?”
“She’s postponed my review until next week, so if she thinks I’m not important enough, then I feel the same about her lousy paper. Stuff her.”
Rob watched with his mouth open as Griffin left the room. His friend was never one for outbursts, though Rob knew he sometimes struggled to contain things inside. And he usually managed to keep them concealed. Rob busied himself making coffee and headed back to his own desk a few moments later. As he passed Griffin, he noted that his colleague’s head was already buried in his laptop. Rob tossed a Kit Kat to him, payment for his help that he would undoubtedly need if he was to submit on time. Griffin looked up, startled, as it clattered down by his elbow.
“Thanks, but no thanks, Rob. You eat it. Too much sugar for me. Can’t eat it.”
“Ah – sorry, mate. Forgot about that,” Rob said, and swept in to claim it back. “May as well have it myself then.” He ripped into the red wrapper; small flakes of chocolate and biscuit scattered to the floor beside Griffin’s desk. “Damn, half of it is broken. Look at that lot – half of it’s missing!”
“Well, it’s on the floor if you want to get on your hands and knees and clean it up. If you don’t, I’ll have to.”
“Nah, you’re all right. Cleaners will get it later,” said Rob, his mouth full. And off he went, unaware of just how Griffin was fizzing inside at the new problem around his feet. Try as he might, he knew he couldn’t leave it there: the chocolate crumbs would grind under his feet. It would play on his mind too much. Stepping carefully around the mess, he made his way back to the kitchen for a damp paper towel to wipe it up with. Mess just never sat well, and that included around his workspace. It was better than the anxiety-riddled alternative. Jan’s voice interrupted him while he was on his hands and knees.
“Listen up, folks. Deadline has changed. Ten am, please. And no buts! So if you’re still working on it, get your own butt moving, pronto!”
Rob glanced at Griffin under his desk on the floor and rolled his eyes at Jan’s announcement. While it didn’t pose a problem for Griffin, he smiled as his friend mouthed ‘Butt out’ to her retreating back.
Chapter Thirteen
Griffin walked from Green Park to Victoria station that night after work. It really wasn’t very far, and although normally he took the tube to the station as part of his routine, tonight he felt like the walk. The air was still lukewarm, the remaining sun in the sky weakening as summer moved on to pastures new and autumn moved in in its place. He picked up the pace and headed in the direction of the station like he was on a mission. He was, kind of: to get home.
He’d been a sports reporter for a couple of years, though he’d only been into sports at all for a little over three. He had been diagnosed with type two diabetes at age twenty-two; his doctor had been worried about his general state of health, and ultimately told him that, weighing in at close to twenty-five stone, he had been on a fast track to organ failure. Luckily for Griffin, he’d made the right decision and got himself on the right track. How he’d ever got to twenty-five stone he had no clue. There was no abusive story lurking in his background, no family breakup to blame, no bullying to speak of save for the usual teasing he and others in his class had endured. Yes, his anxiety issues had played a part, but in general, the simple answer to his weight gain had been gaming. He just hadn’t moved enough to compensate for the calories he consumed daily. And so his weight had ballooned until his doctor had told him to get moving and change his bad habits. So he had: the doctor had told him to do it, and that’s all he’d needed. Direction was his friend. Now, although he was still a little heavy at thirteen stone, he’d lost almost twelve, with just another stone to go. And that’s when he’d got his ‘issue.’ Yes, it bothered him, what he kept secret under the hood of his own engine, but he’d get it rectified just as soon as he had the funds to do so. And found the right person to do the job.
The train was packed like a tin of sardines, and at the end of a hot day, and was just as pungent. But Griffin didn’t care. In thirty minutes he’d be back home, changed into his training gear and headed for the park and all the fresh air he needed as he walked ten laps around it to complete his ten thousand daily steps. He had a goal to aim for, and sitting as his desk for most of the day didn’t use up enough calories to move the final stone that he still carried. And walking was now a part of his routine. Routine, routine, routine. It kept him sane. Sitting in his seat on the packed train, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to think abo
ut having a special someone in his life. One day, he’d have one. What would she look like? How would they meet? What would her friends be like? Would she fancy him? Would she be the one?
He felt the train slow down and pull into a station, so he opened his eyes. He wasn’t sure where they were, exactly. That’s when he saw her. He briefly caught the eye of a young woman sitting almost opposite him. Briefly, but long enough to note she was pretty, with short, shiny brown hair cut into a smart bob style, thick-rimmed glasses very similar to his own, and a scattering of freckles across her nose. She looked almost like Velma Dinkley from the Scooby Doo comic strip, but without the pleated skirt. And she was pretty. After his brief analysis, he chanced a small smile, expecting her to turn away; they usually did. Nothing came back; no smile, no nothing. Just a fixed expression as their eyes caught. Perhaps she was looking past him, not at him at all, or maybe she wondered who the hell was looking at her.
He was just about to turn away himself, before the rejection pricked him in his chest, when her petite mouth lifted slightly at the corners and formed the smallest of smiles. Had he imagined it? Was he daydreaming? He tilted his head slightly as if that would give him a better view, to confirm that she had in fact smiled at him. Or had not. But to his astonishment, it was there, and he chanced another smile back in return. It felt awkward, but the nice thing to do. What would happen now? Would she stop smiling, get off at the next stop and never be seen again? Or would she look away and that would be the end of it?