Giselle loved Lottie. She had plans for her, and the news of her death must have blown her away. The first video clip finishes with her saying she had the interview.
I go back to my map. I mark Westminster where Davian lives. How does Davian feel about this? I dial his number, but the call goes straight to voicemail. I think about going to his apartment but I change my mind.
Chapter Five
Lottie’s Recordings. Clip two
I was forty-five minutes early; the building wasn’t far from the Leadenhall Building. I found a café called The Breakfast Club. That’s also my favourite movie, so, I took it as a sign of good fate. I sat by the window and ordered a cup of coffee, browsed through the menu, although the thought of food made my stomach flip. The place wasn’t busy: a couple eating their lunch quietly, a man sitting alone with a pile of files, and a tourist, Spanish I think.
Anthony never told me what Giselle was like and his best friend, Davian, worked there too. I never met this Davian. His name did pop up occasionally, but I’d never met him in person, which was strange; this was Anthony’s best friend and he’d never introduced us.
***
The right time never came up. Davian travelled a lot, to Japan and Indonesia mostly, and I didn’t think it mattered much them meeting. I wasn’t preventing them; I’m sure they would have met at some point. She knew he worked there as I’m sure she had googled him to find out about him and now she was going to meet him. Like me, Davian worked from home mostly, but since he’s Giselle’s main man, he has to show his face there more than I do.
***
The waiter brought me my coffee. Meanwhile, I googled the company. There was a picture of a stunning black woman in her forties. Giselle. She worked in art galleries and had vast experience in photography. She founded the company six years ago with a businessman who had no experience in art, and she bought him out three years ago. Giselle now runs the company; there are thirty people working for her. The concept is finding new talent and displaying their art or photos in her own art gallery.
The Spanish tourist stood to leave. That was when I took real notice of him, the man sitting alone on the table with a few folders scattered on the table. He sipped on his coffee, his eyes never leaving the documents. His hair was immaculately styled. He seemed like the kind of man who took care of his appearance. He was dressed in a black suit along with a crisp white shirt and a tie which had sequins on it. He flipped the page and I noticed they weren’t documents, but photographs. I sipped my coffee as I continued to marvel at the man. He didn’t look any older than I was.
He ran his hand over his perfect, starlight blond hair. It was cut in firefly wedge style but messier. A flick fell on his forehead, covering his left eye. It had to be him, I thought. I opened my browser on my phone and typed Davian Levin. There wasn’t much information about him.
As if he knew what I was doing, he looked up and I was hit with a pair of icy blue eyes piercing through my soul. The cup slipped, causing the liquid to splash on my hand. The hotness stung. I pushed the chair back as anxiety and panic swept over me. To my dismay, there was a large stain on my shirt. The waiter rushed over with napkins.
‘’I’ll bring you another,’ he said, referring to the coffee.
‘Where is the bathroom?’ I asked, my eyes moist with tears.
I was on my way for an interview with an important woman, in some fancy arty place, and I’m about to show up with coffee stains on my shirt because I got distracted by some random hot guy.
In the bathroom, I tried to fix my shirt as much as I could. I took it off and applied soap on it. I cried as I rubbed the shirt furiously. A woman walked in and gave me an odd look and went in the cubical. The stain wasn’t completely gone but it wasn’t as visible as before. I retouched my make-up and slipped out of the bathroom. The waiter had cleared the table and there was a fresh cup of coffee. Davian was back at his photographs. I tried not to stare, but my eyes couldn’t help it. He was so glamorous. So stylish and elegant. I had fifteen minutes left and the nerves were making me sweat. The butterflies in my stomach increased. ‘It’s just an interview’ I kept telling myself. If I don’t get the job, it won’t be the end of the world. I had been to interviews before and hadn’t fussed this much. But since Anthony had arranged this, I wanted him to be proud of me.
After I paid, I felt Davian’s eyes on me. I took a final glance at him. He had an eyebrow raised but it was arched that way. He had delicate facial features, almost feminine, sharp cheekbones, fair skin, chiselled jawline, and those cold blue eyes.
When I entered the building, I was swallowed by fashionable looking people. It was like Chanel meeting Andy Warhol. ‘Anthony works with those people?’ I thought, but he’s so laid back and easy going. These people looked so stuck up.
My heart thumped against my chest as I walked into a marbled reception with white walls. Behind the desk stood a well-dressed man who gave me a pass and told me where to go. I located the lift. I will never get this job. I don’t fit in. I’m not like these people. I’m a jeans girl and if I do get the job, I’ll have to reinvent my wardrobe, and I don’t have that kind of money to spend. I came across another reception. This reception had a grey fitted carpet and white walls with a huge photograph of a woman’s back in black and white. The furniture was part maple, part white, and I could see the offices since the walls were glass. Sexy chill-out house music played. It gave the office an atmosphere of a fancy lounge bar. The heavily made-up girl behind the desk pouted at the screen. She had blonde hair pushed back in a bun and wore a navy suit. The phone rang and after she hung up, she stood and escorted me to a glass office. Giselle stood behind her desk. She was about six feet tall and looked even better in real life, like a model with strong features and a sheet of glossy dark hair.
‘Lottie, so wonderful to meet you,’ she said, smiling pleasantly.
She seemed nice. Perhaps since my nerves were screaming across her prestigious office, she felt sorry for me, and wanted to make me feel comfortable instead of laughing me out of the building.
‘Thank you for having me, Ms Pearson,’ I said.
She smiled gesturing at one of her guest chairs. ‘Would you like some tea or coffee?’
‘Coffee, please,’ I said.
Her office was sleek like the rest of the place; a large photograph of a woman’s torso hung on the wall. A white sofa with purple cushions and a coffee table. On top of it was a purple curved ruby dragon tea set that must have cost an arm and leg. Her desk was clean and organised with a small laptop, a notepad and an expensive-looking pen.
‘One tea and one coffee,’ she said to the blonde.
After the blonde left, leaving the door open, Giselle sat across from me. I tried not to stare but this woman was remarkable. She seemed like someone I could look up to. Strong but feminine, powerful even.
‘So, you’re Anthony’s friend?’ she asked.
I squeezed my knees together. ‘Yes,’
‘Not his girlfriend?’ She arched an eyebrow.
I shook my head. ‘No.’
‘Talented young man.’
‘Yes, he is,’ I said, nodding gravely.
‘Since you are friends with Anthony, you must know Davian?’