Chapter Text
The DJ’s set had reached the point where Lieselotte could no longer tell apart the sounds- the throbbing, the screeching, the beat, if you could call it that- and in fact began to think she had ruptured her eardrum. Or, perhaps, it was the half-finished Cherry Bakewell in her hand that dulled her senses. This one, or its many earlier siblings. The bartender had looked at her curiously, pierced eyebrows raised, until Marianne had winked and put the money on the counter. “She discovered it in London, it’s her little affectation!”
This…club was hardly an upscale cocktail bar. A pop-up, Marianne had said. The building was a former boxing gym over two floors, the interior accordingly spartan. In a few weeks’ time it would probably become an art installation about the effects of cryptocurrency on the hemp industry.
Lieselotte just about ducked a punching bag as she tottered down the stairs- why people thought it appropriate, or safe, to dance on the stairs, she did not know. She wanted a cigarette- and her mother’s voice in her head, aghast, said wrinkles, darling, yellow fingers- and then she wanted to find Marianne, drag her off whatever creature she had lured to the gender-neutral inclusive bathroom, and go home to bed.
She slipped a step in her elegant black heels, very expensive and a little too tall, not worn since her last performance at the Conservatoire- her fall was broken, however, by a knot of people, most of whom were clearly on substances and oblivious, the remainder annoyed that she had broken up their conflab and almost spilled her drink on them.
“If you will cluster here,” she snapped, her own voice distant to her, in as much as she could even hear it; she tried to cling to the handrail and right herself as the stair-dwellers argued rather incomprehensibly and, more importantly, failed to get out of the way. “Would you move- ouch- move at once or I will- I will—”
What would she do? Her mouth was rather dry. Her head was beginning to spin. She sank towards a crouch.
A hand firmly grasped her upper arm and pulled her back upright.
“That’s not fuckin’ safe,” said a voice in her ear, clearly merry, but reproachful. She tried to twist around and find the speaker, feeling his body rather sweaty and solid against her back through her thin dress.
“Oi! Get the fuck out the way! Off the fucking stairs, idiot!”
They parted, some slithering and stumbling, in the face of this barked order. It came in a strong Berlin accent, rude and clipped to Lieselotte’s ears.
“Thank you,” she said, absently, as the stranger guided her descent. He had his arm around her, his hand cupping her elbow. Miraculously her drink was intact; she took a large sip before turning, finally, now that they had room to move.
“You’ve got the survival instinct of a Pomeranian, lady.”
He was blond- vividly, glowingly white-blond, like he had come straight from the salon, only the rest of him was just as pale, even his eyes, a greyish colour- not that the strobing lights in the darkness aided in seeing them. But she noticed them light up as he got a good look at her, darting subtly down her little black dress- at least a size too small and rather low-cut, borrowed- and up to her loose hair, no doubt now tangled and sticky where it had been sleek down her back. She shifted her weight, taking another gulp of her drink.
“Well, I don’t make a habit of this—”
“Eh?!” He leaned in, deafened by the noise. Up close his aftershave was pungent, though clean and pleasant. He wore all black- of course- immaculately presented, a very fitted t-shirt to show off rather incredible arms, and the requisite baggy trousers with the pockets and straps and all sorts. A number of silver chains, set with oddments like bottlecaps and nuts and bolts, hung from his neck.
Truth be told, he looked a little too old for this nonsense, but he had the kind of face that just passed among younger people, on account of being so—
“I said,” Lieselotte shouted, cupping her mouth as if it would help, “I don’t normally come to this sort of- I said, this sort of place—”
“Listen,” the man yelled, in a friendly sort of way, right in her ear. “Where’s your boyfriend, hah?”
“What?”
With much effort she understood him, and at once made a face, shifting around. “I haven’t brought one of those.”
The stranger’s eyes lit up again. He had a likable face, sharp and hungry, but always smiling, creased around the eyes- and not in a false way, but rather raw and unrehearsed.
“You’re not by yourself!” he crowed, as if in disbelief. Lieselotte shook her head, and through mime explained that she had come with a friend, and her friend had gone to the bathroom and never come back and now she didn’t know where to find her—
“Where’s your damn phone?! Call her! Listen- let’s go outside—”
Where was her phone? Or her bag, for that matter.
“OUTSIDE!” the stranger was saying, pointing, miming a phone call, and Lieselotte gave in and let him usher her out to the smoking area.
If she had lost her bag, then she had lost her cigarettes. Damn it all.
The patio, or rather the dismal little street-side yard, was crowded. A cloud of smoke hung over it, menthol, clove and half a dozen fruit flavours mingling unpleasantly with the otherwise fresh, damp night air. The Neoclassical stone façade rose behind them, the city blocks around them, the outside lights casting a glowing halo in the summer mist. The relief from the humidity indoors was palpable.
The stranger gestured to a space by the wall, and she duly occupied it, his rather taller form providing a sort of barrier from the other patrons.
In the light, Lieselotte could finally get a better look at him. He was searching his pockets, for a vape pen, as it soon transpired, which he drew deeply on, eyeing her before he blew out a cloud of- candyfloss, or tutti frutti or whatever it was. He had almost a full sleeve of tattoos on his left arm, she dimly registered, rather Gothic in style, like he had slapped part of Cologne Cathedral on himself. A few silver piercings lined his ear.
He was really rather good-looking despite all this silliness.
“So,” he said, and his voice, when not screaming over the music, was less deep than she had thought, lively, with a rasp to it. “Lost your phone as well, hah? Christ, if I had a friend like you, I’d check you in with the coats before I took my eyes off you!”
True to his word, he watched her, unblinking, before he offered her his vape.
“No thank you,” she said at once, unable to veil her disgust even through her intoxicated haze. “What a terrible habit. Don’t you have a cigarette?”
“Wha- and this is a terrible fuckin’ habit?!” He laughed, incredulous; there was a hiss to it. “Alright, twist my fuckin’ arm, I was tryin’ to quit- where’d I put ‘m- where’re you from, Munich?”
He produced cigarettes- menthols- and a hot pink disposable lighter; Lieselotte daintily took one, and he, whatever his name was, politely lit it for her. It wouldn’t have been her preference, but nonetheless, the first drag soothed her muddled mind, and she tilted her head back, blowing smoke long and slow into the sky, willing her head to clear.
“Vienna- well, I grew up partly in the Tyrol,” she said, and the man made a noise of interest. “But I’ve been living in Paris…you are local, then.”
It wasn’t a question, his voice gave him away- marked him as one of a dwindling number of native dialect speakers in an increasingly global city.
“Born and bred,” he said, with some pride. Typical. To her surprise, he plucked the cigarette from her fingers, and she watched him put it in his mouth, leaning on the wall, close in her space. There was a cherry-cola stain where his grin met the white paper. Lieselotte brought her manicured fingers to her smudged lips. Even her makeup was lost with the purse.
“Hate to think of you getting cancer,” he said, breathing smoke at her. He closed his eyes for a moment, rapturous. “Shit. I’m never gonna fucking quit, am I?”
“I am only a social smoker,” Lieselotte said, growing a touch bewildered. What was happening?
“Drunk smoker,” the stranger corrected her. He thrust the filter towards her lips again, and she almost dropped the remains of her drink in taking it. “You must be pretty fuckin’ drunk off those- what the hell is that?- if you’re out here sharing smokes with some grotty guy you found in a club you never go to.”
“Cherry Bakewell,” she said, strained, and she thrust the hated plastic cup into his hand. Her face felt hot; she turned away and took in the air, sucking in as much nicotine as possible. “I don’t know what makes you think I am above sharing a cigarette—”
There was that laugh, unbridled and raucous. “Are you kidding?! The Tyrol- you sound like you have horses at home—”
“How did you know that?”
He laughed all the harder. “It was a fucking joke! A hick with money, you sound like! Horses, really? How many? Who’s your daddy? Does he have a vineyard?”
“You sound like a typical Berliner, no manners,” she cut in, narrowing her eyes at him through the smoke. He seemed to like it. “I did think you were assisting me.”
“I am,” he insisted. He threw back the rest of her drink, made a face like he was assessing it and finding it either too strong or too sugary, and placed the cup neatly on a windowsill. “Remind me to toss that- gimme that.” He helped himself again to the cigarette. “Since we’re getting to know each other, what’s your—"
“You’re not in a gang, are you?”
He looked at her like she had two heads. Ah, so she had said it aloud. Her mind and eyes had wandered. The nicotine wasn’t helping.
She gestured to his arm, and quite without meaning to, brushed it with her fingertips, her long nails glittering as they touched the black lines of a baroque cross.
“Y’know this was done by the best artist in the city? I was on a waiting list for four fucking months! Five sessions, so far!” He pulled up his already short sleeve, turning his arm, showing her the graphic black linework that covered his muscles, necessarily moving close to her. She duly examined the- to her- mess of imagery, the archangel’s sword in roiling flames, the spire, the weeping Virgin, the black wings.
He bristled at her squinting.
“No, I’m not in a fucking gang.”
“Catholic?”
“My grandfather was a Lutheran!” He slumped against the wall, now bumping up against her. “Don’t tell me you’re a bible basher, in that dress!”
“Certainly not.” She had begged off Mass for decades now. She had ticked off a few of the old venal- venereal- er, venial sins and didn’t feel like talking about them. “What’s wrong with my dress?”
“Nothing,” he said, with a sly grin. “Your friend lend you that?”
She jolted. “Why—”
“Your zip’s undone,” he said, in a stage whisper. One hand, almost separated from the rest of Lieselotte’s body by the fizz of brandy in her brain, fumbled towards the side zipper, her eyes wide on the stranger’s face, but he was quicker.
His arm had encircled her, the slow encroachment upon her marches now complete. He tugged her zip- for a second, downwards, and then firmly up, until the lines of her dress vacuum-sealed to her body again, tight across her lower belly, almost taking the breath from her lungs.
“Oh,” she said, dully.
He had his hand on her waist. He stubbed their cigarette out on the stone sill.
“Bet it looks better on you anyway,” he said, in a voice he must have believed to be alluring.
Oh.
Even she in her addled state knew this song and dance. It crossed her mind that it was, perhaps, unwise; crossed, waved, and walked away entirely, because, after all, she would likely never see this man again, didn’t even have her phone to take his number, and in any case, she had already considered this turn of events about, oh, ten minutes prior.
She put her hand on his chest, one long finger plucking at the collar of his shirt- go on, then.
He needed no encouragement to kiss her, arm around her waist pulling her hard against him, unhesitatingly forward. He had subtly turned her, so that her back was to the wall, and he in front of her was a shield to prying eyes- if there were a sober pair of eyes to see- and either way she didn’t seem to care, her hands crawling up the sides of his neck to just rest in the fine down of his hair. It spurred him, and she felt him grasp her tight, scandalously low, now a little harsh with tongue and teeth.
Lieselotte melted into him. Her knees felt embarrassingly weak. This she had not felt in a long time—
“Listen,” the stranger (what on earth was his name?) said into her ear, kissing her lips, her cheek, her jaw- and if her makeup hadn’t been smudged before, she shuddered to think. “If your friend’s not comin’ back, h-how about we, uh—"
She dodged the inevitable question by kissing him hard again, scratching his scalp so that he crushed her against him, an interesting noise in his throat. Now she would just need to figure out how not to go home with him. Stall, woman.
It was quite a conundrum, but she was saved the effort by a small commotion by the doors, heavily accented and broken German- not through lack of ability, but through snobbery; she came up for air, and saw over the heads of some of the smokers a golden coiffure, rather close to falling out of its pins.
“I’m looking for my friend,” the woman was saying, irritable, impatient and utterly drunk, stumbling on her five-inch Louboutins. Stupid girl. “My?! Friend?! ‘Allo, Monsieur Videur? Dark hair, big tits, have you seen her? Absent expression? Looks like she could fall victim to a human trafficking scam?! Which she will, if you don’t fucking help me find her, you cretinous son of a—”
The doormen evidently did not enjoy the abuse and a minor scuffle seemed to break out, other considerably more impaired patrons seeing Marianne as a sort of beacon, Liberty leading the people.
Lieselotte put her hand on the strange man’s face to ward off another session.
“I found my friend,” she said, weakly. “I really must go before the police are called. It was, er…”
The two looked at each other for a long moment, the jeering and squabbling of the crowd in the background rather muted in Lieselotte’s head. The man’s face was thoroughly flushed. His lips were smeared with her lipstick, glistening. At length he brought a hand to wipe his mouth, flustered.
“W-Well that’s great,” he said, eyes darting around awkwardly. “Maybe she has your stuff, I uh…I hope you get home okay, I mean, I could walk you guys—”
“Oh- we will take a car,” Lieselotte said, now beginning to tactfully disengage from him, but she found he was holding her hand. “I mean, a taxi. I won’t drive, haha. I-Imagine doing something so silly. It was- it was very nice to meet you, er—”
“Gilbert,” he blurted, and she looked at him, boggling. His parents must have had him late in life. “M-My pleasure- say, what was your name again, you on Insta?”
“Oh- I don’t—”
“There you are,” said a harried voice. Marianne had staggered from the throng at the door, somehow unscathed. She kicked off her shoes, dangling them from her fingers and smoothing her wild hair back in some attempt to regain both dignity and sobriety. “Get over here and get in the fucking cab before I puke. Leave that boy there as well, you minx, unless you want to share.”
In the confusion- the stranger, Gilbert, now squinting at Marianne, magnificent in her tiny little top and ultra-wide black trousers- Lieselotte skittered away from him and towards the curb, where an eager driver had pulled up from the rank across the street.
“I’ve had the absolute worst time,” Marianne was saying, trying to grasp the car door handle and failing three times before she managed. “I’m not coming to this wretched town again. You need to find a job in Paris.”
“It was your idea, you idiot, where in God’s name have you been?”
“Wait a minute,” Gilbert said, hopefully, sort of jogging towards them, but Marianne was pushing her into the back of the taxi. It was all Lieselotte could do to lean back out as Marianne clambered (fell) over her, a wistful sort of feeling overtaking her, and she waved, smiling a smudged smile, at the young man she would probably not have occasion to meet again.
And that was for the best, she thought.
The door shut, and he was half-forgotten in the rearview mirror. The two women lolled against the seats, queasy, groaning.
“You’ll get caught, you know, one of these days,” Marianne said, with a laugh that said she’d never be the one to tell. That was probably why they were still friends after everything else she’d done.
“Be quiet. Where have you put my handbag? I thought you had it?”
“Christ only knows. God, I feel sick as a dog! Driver! Watch the fucking curb, you clown, you can’t miss it, it’s that big grey stripe!”
“For heaven’s sake.” Lieselotte had only just figured out half the settings on that blasted phone.
-
Gilbert sat at the bar. Alone. It was five in the morning.
The DJ had moved on to some euphoric trance, something light to ease towards sunrise. The last crowd of pill-poppers were blissed out of their minds on the dancefloor.
“Gimme a water,” he said, as the barman passed, eyes closed, head bobbing.
“Why, what are you on?”
“Nothing! My mouth is fucking dry from being in this shithole for seven hours! Hey, weren’t you working at that old power station last weekend? That was better than this!”
“I don’t pick the venues, man.” The kid raised an eyebrow- Gilbert was surprised it didn’t jingle- and nodded at the little black purse Gilbert was fiddling with, shaking his shaggy wolf cut. “Who’d you rob?”
“No one- my friend left it, mind your fuckin’ business!”
It had turned up under a barstool in the end, a real stroke of luck. Inside the dainty bag was a very feminine inventory. A lipstick, in a sleek little gold bullet- Dior, even he could recognise that name, and he fumbled it open to look at the pretty dark red he’d wiped off his face. Then there was a golden compact, like a seashell, a bit worn like it had lived in the bag for too long, and a little atomiser of perfume Gilbert immediately sprayed on his forearm, sniffing deeply. Vanilla, cherry, maybe something else he wasn’t sophisticated enough to name, although the glass bottle looked sort of cheap, the cap lost. There was a packet of expensive cigarettes, half-gone, no lighter. In the bottom of the bag there were several wrapped candies, a hairclip, a receipt for some bakery, and a single pearl earring that was, he hoped, plastic.
There was absolutely nothing in the way of cash or cards. Just a smartphone, a Galaxy, neither the latest model nor especially old, in a very clean white case.
Furtively, Gilbert touched the screen.
The display lit up.
It wasn’t asking for a passcode.
“No way.” A swipe, and there it was. Everything- whatever her name was, Uptown Girl, saw fit to keep on her phone. It wasn’t much, actually- banking, a bunch of luxury shopping apps, emails- a quick glance at those told him she had put her details into every site she’d come across, and her texts were bunged up with the same spam. But there was her call list- the last twenty all from “Mimi” not three hours before- and there were her photos, but he would save that for later, a sudden embarrassment creeping up his neck, shame finally stopping his rampage of intrusion.
Until he saw Instagram, that was, and immediately opened it.
Her feed was a jumble of the usual stuff, pictures of people partying, alluring holiday destinations, and a number of concert videos- not popstars, certainly not techno shows, but classical recitals. He hit her profile- lotte_doll_, was that her name, Lotte? Leaving aside the kitschy handle.
The profile picture was some artsy black and white photo of a piano, but the first post had been made just that evening- there she was, in that little black number, sat on a hotel bed drinking champagne, her face artfully neutral, her hair immaculate. There was a selfie too with her friend, blurry in the bathroom mirror. In person she was sexy, beautiful, weird; in pictures she was angelic.
Gilbert scrolled furiously.
Pictures of croissant breakfasts and schnitzel dinners, stages with velvet curtains and pieces of sheet music, indulgent cakes, cocktails, shopping bags- and in between, photos of her, mostly taken by others, at a variety of venues, none of which looked like they were in Gilbert’s price range. Her account was private, he noted. That explained the occasional drunk-looking selfie, sometimes with the blonde (and did he know her from somewhere?), sometimes a cute brunette, and sometimes—
“Who the fuck is this guy?”
Now she had him talking to himself. There was a man in some of these pictures- solo, sat at restaurant tables opposite her, or else with his arm around her. Gilbert zoomed in on the most recent, where they stood before a sunset over the sea, and she was leaning into the man’s embrace, shy, but comfortable.
“25th of April?!” It was the 14thof June- no, the 15th. That was uncomfortably recent. Gilbert flicked haphazardly between posts, bringing the phone right to his eyeball, looking at dates, peering at the girl’s hand to look for a ring, but not finding one. That didn’t matter, this was clearly- obviously- her fucking boyfriend.
And he was outrageously big and tall and good-looking. Tanned. With a fucking man-bun.
“Jesus Christ!” Of all the things he had expected- that she wasn’t really that interested in him, or that she was a rich girl slumming it and looking for the genuine messy club experience- this wasn’t one. She, somehow, didn’t quite seem the type.
He would hand this in to the cloakroom, he thought. Let them know a girl had lost it and that she might come looking. Whether she got it back or not wasn’t his problem. She was spoken-for, after all, he had no reason to go tearing across the city, Cinderella-style, looking for the girl who fit the pearl earring and the cherry lipstick. Hell, she might have gone back to her country house in the Tyrol. She probably already had the latest €2000 phone out for delivery. She wouldn’t give him the time of day if she saw him in the street.
The trouble was- some part of his undeveloped lizard brain took all this as a challenge. Even the six-foot-four boyfriend.
When he finally dragged himself out, while he grabbed his jacket, while he smoked with the doorman, he had every intention of handing the bag in.
It left the club with him, phone and all, tucked into his inside pocket. It rode all the way home with him on a rental bike to his shitty little flat right off Grüntaler Straße, where he clucked his tongue at the ugly tags all around the front door and banged the wall to let his neighbours know it was sunrise, actually, and it was time to let the argument go. He thought about scrolling through her- Lotte’s?- photos, sheepishly hoping that there would be something exciting- realising there probably wouldn’t be- shoving the whole bag under his ugly coffee table and smoking himself to sleep. If the building burned down with him in it, so much the better.
He had work the next morning, after all.
-
The Cavalieri Group building was all style and no substance. The full glass frontage gleamed beautifully in the sun; it was scorching hot behind those windows. The lobby was done in tasteful white, soft couches, clean counters, and never a receptionist around if you forgot your badge. The vending machines were tricky and there was no onsite canteen. Why was it called the Cavalieri Group? Apparently there were offices scattered across Italy, and this was just a satellite. Apparently.
Every floor of the six-storey block was rented out to other businesses, all but the fourth, where Gilbert made his way in the elevator promptly at 07:52. At first it had chafed him that most of his colleagues trickled in at nine or later, but he soon came to appreciate the quiet hour where he could actually work without having to take stimulants. The only other person on the floor was usually the one Japanese guy who, enthralled with European work culture, took every opportunity to leave before 4 o’clock.
“Good morning, Gilbert.”
“Happy Monday, Kiku, my man! Good weekend? Been partying again, huh?!”
He had never been partying, it just amused them both to say it.
It took a good forty minutes of roundabout conversation across their neighbouring banks, Gilbert deep in emails from the Baukammer and the district, Kiku in his spreadsheets, before Kiku finally said:
“Did you know about the new HR person?”
Gilbert looked up, face scrunched. “New? HR person? Shit, I didn’t know we had HR.”
“You remember,” Kiku said, seriously and insistently. “The young lady with the blonde bob. She looked a bit…”
“Oh, yeah.” Gilbert scratched his head, leaning back in his seat, picturing the bubbly girl who had left, oh, six months or so ago. He had hardly seen her at the time. “Looked like she was still in fuckin’ college. Someone’s younger sister? What, and we’ve been without anybody ever since?!”
“Well,” said Kiku, steepling his fingers, “of course, the elder Mr Cavalieri-Vargas is the official Head of Personnel. But he is based in the Naples office.”
“Oh yeah, yeah, him. Naples, my ass. Have you actually seen any fuckin’ evidence of a Naples office, Kiku? ‘Cause I haven’t, but I saw that Romano kid on a jetski on Insta last week—”
“It is difficult to say,” Kiku said, diplomatically, polishing his glasses. “But- rumour has it- that the new person is highly qualified.”
Gilbert squinted. “What, like- they went to school? Not Cesare’s cousin this time? What does that mean?”
“They sound like a serious person,” Kiku said, and he seemed, for him, slightly concerned. “There may be some changes. For example, they may tighten up on breaks, or performance reviews may start up again—”
“Bullshit,” Gilbert said, his chair creaking as he put his weight back on his desk, accidentally deleting an email, and deciding not to recover it. “Never gonna happen. Stop worrying. You know this place never changes! Half the directors don’t exist- Cesare never fucking comes here—”
It was almost nine, and it was at this point that a number of people trickled through the office doors, with hurried good mornings, clutching travel mugs and backpacks.
“Stand by your beds, lads.” Arthur Kirkland darted into the bank of desks in the corner and took his seat next to Gilbert, looking hassled in his slightly creased shirt and off-centre tie. “Big boss incoming. I just beat him coming up the stairs.”
“Shut the fuck up!”
“I’m telling you,” he said, as Gilbert craned his neck towards the doors, and Kiku subtly moved behind his monitor, “he’s coming, and he’s got a woman with him. She looks like she’s from the bloody UBA.”
Kiku ducked his head out again. “It must be the new person.”
“What new person?”
Kiku launched into his explanation again. Gilbert tuned it out, looking through the glass walls with interest as the managing director- unusually, the actual majority shareholder of the so-called group- approached the room. He was dapper, the old man- well, not so old, maybe just under sixty, still dark-haired and strongly built. His suit was impeccable, if a little bit dated, very Italian in light stone. The jaunty red necktie with the gold clip and the crusty old gold rings took it over the top.
He held the door open for the other figure accompanying him. And what a figure it was. She was half-turned in conversation with old man Cavalieri, hard to see well with a large plant pot and several monitors in Gilbert’s eyeline, but she was smartly dressed in a white pencil skirt and a pale green blouse, no jacket. When she moved, and the monstera blocked her a little less, Gilbert noted a considerable fall of dark hair, elegantly pinned half-up.
Well, that was a hell of a coincidence. That was—
He blinked three times, hard.
Nah. No.
Arthur’s hissed questioning was nothing but a fly’s buzz in his ear.
“I need to piss,” he said, throwing his chair back and getting up so suddenly Arthur swore at him. Without looking at the door, he bolted directly for the men’s toilets through the back.
That was how he came to walk into the meeting room, late, with sweaty palms and shirt in disarray over his black t-shirt, having narrowly avoided a delayed-hangover eruption in the gents’. A few people looked at him funny as he sidled to the back of the standing section; they were used to him entering a room in more bombastic fashion, but his head felt completely empty.
There, standing a touch awkwardly at the front beside a beaming Cesare, was the cherry lipstick girl from the club. Her face was composed, almost dour, far less made-up, no less beautiful.
“Our new Human Resource Executive- ah, ah, what am I saying? Personnel, Personnel Executive, that’s what it’s called now, yes,” Cesare was laughing, playing the silly old man to the hilt, and part of the gathered workforce laughed weakly with him. “I’m absolutely thrilled to have her on board, and I personally hope you will all give her the welcome she deserves- this is Lieselotte Fenrich-Edelstein, everyone.”
There was a chorus of murmured greeting, a few brighter welcomes from the more exuberant types. Ordinarily Gilbert would be among them, but he stood with a sort of rigor mortis about him, as Lieselotte, lovely Lieselotte, his weekend friend, his new paymaster, nervously scanned the room, returning reserved smiles and nods, like she didn’t quite know how to interact with other humans.
Her dreamy blue gaze fell on him, unknowing for a long second. His throat went dry. He wanted nothing more than to leap over the table and crash through the glass wall.
From the suddenly frozen line of her already-reluctant smile, the red glow in her face, the twitch in her eyebrow- the feeling was something close to mutual.