“Gemma Marshall,” I said on pick up.
“Carla Duke here. Mr Lucas wants a meeting with you. Tomorrow eleven o’clock, come up to his office.” Certainly not a request but an order; she made the directive clear in her voice.
“Sure. Err why?” I asked. My heart was thumping. What did I do wrong?
“He wants you to bring your laptop and show him the software you’ve been using.”
Oh, thank the lord! I slumped in my seat with relief.
What did he want to see me for? Silly thoughts out of my head now!
“I’ll be there,” I said brightly, attempting to sound unfazed.
I was planning on going for a drink with friends that evening. In the end, I decided I needed my beauty sleep before such a tumultuous meeting. Not that sleep came to me as all night I tossed and turned while lying on top of my bed. I made a solitary figure laid out in my t-shirt and knickers, my increasingly wet knickers – I could not stop seeing blue eyes and blonde hair.
The dying summer heat lingered in my apartment and the resulting humidity appeared to have concentrated in my bedroom. I had lived in the unappealing place for over three years. The rooms had grown increasingly shabby and tired with the wallpaper peeling off in the hallway and the bedroom carpet threadbare at the edges. The cupboard spaces were crammed with my things. My untouched neglected hobbies and interests stuffed into inadequate storage facilities. Books shelves stacked with well-thumbed romantic novels, textbooks and self-help books. The latter I had ceased to read as they were of no help whatsoever.
Though cluttered I kept my little flat clean, very clean. I had been conditioned to clean regularly and I had not lost the habit. At least I did not use a toothbrush. I smiled as the ludicrous memory remerged briefly. Only now I was following a train of reminiscences and they were going in the wrong direction. How I wished the blurred images could be readily dismissed, back to where they lay buried and one day may be eliminated. The sudden arrival of unwanted recollections put a dampener on my pathetic arousal over an unavailable executive.
I was screaming. The terrifying sound was in my head. I did
not think I actually was screaming aloud. I was drenched in sweat, soaking cold damp perspiration. I could not remember the details of my nightmare and the moment I sensed the screaming I buried the fear and repulsion. Looking about the room, as the street lights flooded through the gap in the curtains, I calmed down. The darkness did not scare me. It was being alone which hurt and frightened me. I was very alone, not just physically, but mentally I was solitary and empty.
I lay there on my bed and pined for a life long gone, a happy-go-lucky Gemma Marshall, who had enjoyed the company of others, who had shared herself and was confident in her abilities, her special skills. That Gemma Marshall I feared was destroyed. Tears, the silent unfulfilling kind, streamed down my face wetting my ears and then down on to the pillow. My career was all that was left now, my refuge from madness.
Next day I was quaking inside. My inner strength, the one I had tucked away, came to my rescue and I looked outwardly confident, as I knew I could look. The lift took me to the top floor where Mr Lucas reigned from on high. It seemed he occupied the entire floor, which included an expansive lobby with potted shrubs and polished white tiled floor. My heels clicked and echoed around the open space. No carpets to hide somebody’s approach and I felt as if I was walking the stone cold floor of a cathedral nave. I walked through the glazed double doors into the inner sanctum where Mr Lucas’s Personal Assistants presided over his appointments and correspondence.
He had three Personal Assistants and Carla was the chief. Her demeanour demonstrated her status as his gatekeeper, first point of contact and filter of timewasters and annoying trivial matters. Set back from her desk were two others. Melissa, a slightly timid looking woman who did the legwork for Carla and, I had been told, was under Carla’s thumb. Whether it was true or not, I could not tell, but she did glance up and give me a welcoming smile. Next to her, with his head buried behind folders and files was Oliver, Mr Lucas’s researcher. Andy had told me the man was tasked with finding out anything Mr Lucas needed to know with regard to business, finance or legal issues. A demanding role I decided.
“You can go straight in, Miss Marshall,” Carla Duke stared up from her desk looking me up and down and not hiding her leering gaze. She was attractive with long dark hair tied back and braided. Her extravagantly long fingernails must hinder her typing abilities. However, after a cursory glance at me she returned to her keyboard and preceded to type at a galloping pace.
Mr Lucas’s office was vast, as you would have expected from the owner and managing director of a significantly sized company. There was a large, unadorned oak desk with monitor and keyboard set to one side, documents organised neatly across the other side. There was the necessary conference style table with six modern, unfussy straight-backed chairs set around it. Elegant abstract pictures lined one wall to the left of his desk and behind the desk a wall of glass with the blinds drawn to hide the bright sunshine. The other wall had a door and two rows of shelves. No books on them only a series of small African styled figurines in naked poses.
Mr Lucas rose from his desk as I entered. He looked almost welcoming and indicated we were to sit at the meeting table. I had decided to keep my eyes off him as much as possible.
“Thank you for coming, Miss Marshall,” his voice had changed from yesterday, gone was the harsh edge and instead more softy toned. It had not lost any authority though and I responded positively to its timbre.
“Please it’s Gemma.”
I smiled my radiant curly lipped version as I aimed for the personal touch – did he expect me to call him Jason? I laughed inwardly, no chance of such informality. I placed my laptop on the table and opened up the lid. Before I left my desk, I had checked and rechecked the battery level, not wanting to face the embarrassment of a power failure.
He sat next to me as I fired up the software. He edged his seat closer so he could see the screen and I felt like the lid of a seductive chemistry set had been lifted up. He was perfumed and it was the pervasive odour of manly cleanliness: shower gel, after-shave and minty breath. I desperately tried to remember what I had sprayed on my body earlier in the morning. Had my own perfumed aromas survived a day of crowded buses, office air conditioning and the smoked salmon sandwiches I had made for lunch. I was tempted to whiff my armpits and again I reminded myself the exercise was pointless - what did he care?
“Talk me through what you did,” he leant forward on his elbows, chin resting on his hands.
My attempt at dismissing my meandering thoughts were useless as I could hear his breath and sensed his body warmth.
My skin tingled – breathe and focus – I repeated.
Stow it Gemma, I yelled to my wayward psyche as she nudged from her hiding place and then I put my work brain into gear.
I explained my methodology and was pleased my hands did not tremble on the keyboard. He asked really incisive and good questions, far more insightful than my boss did at the meeting. A couple of times I squirmed trying to come up with the best answer. Then he sat back and arched his back, hands behind his head.
“I’m sorry, Gemma, I forgot to ask if you wanted a drink,” he turned to face me and not the laptop.
“That’s fine, I’m not thirsty.”
I kept my eyes on screen, as I did not want to look at him even if it seemed rude. Definitely too handsome to observe him closely and I knew I had the potential to unravelled right before those incredible eyes.