Later that afternoon, a signed contract tucked safely into her briefcase, the promise of drinks with Laaszlo, and to keep her safe from his advances, a commitment from Gio, Chrissie and Claudia to join them, Fran took out Duncan’s card. ‘Caelum’, the name of the company, was in an elegant embossed font at the top of the card. Duncan had explained to her that it was the name of the constellation of the Sculptor’s Tool, which he and Bernard had researched when they were studying together, along with big plans for their own architectural practice. She remembered he had made her laugh because they had first chosen the Constellation of the Straight Edge better suited to the tools of their trade, but that was called Norma, hardly a name which inspired images of architectural brilliance and one which in any case was coincidentally that of Duncan’s mother! Duncan Meyer Pr. Arch. MIA. GIFA. She called the mobile phone number on the card.
He picked up almost immediately, “Duncan Meyer,”
Fran’s mouth went dry, her heart was pounding. What on earth had happened to her? She who approached sex and relationships with reckless abandon was now tongue tied by a one night stand.
“Hello?” he enquired of her silence.
“Duncan, hi, it’s Fran. From last night.”
“Ah, yes, Fran from last night. I remember you,” he was teasing her. “How are you?”
“A little jaded but jubilant. The Hungarian signed. My business in Berlin is done.”
“Not so fast. I think we have some unfinished business, wouldn’t you say?”
“I would, but the point is, what would Bearnard say?”
“Don’t worry about Bernie,” Duncan came back, sounding very sure of himself. “In case his name hadn’t given him away, he’s from good Irish Catholic stock and he takes a dim view of sex outside marriage. He thinks I’m destined for eternal damnation, or at least purgatory.”
The explanation seemed a little dismissive of Bernard’s very vocal objection to her presence in Duncan’s room, and Fran was not convinced. She was beginning to have serious misgivings about the wisdom of having even made this call, let alone the proposition she planned to make. Oh, what the hell, she thought. You only live once.
“So if I can lose Laaszlo, can you ditch Dietrich and the priest later?”
“You bet. When? Where?”
“How about your hotel bar at eleven?”
“See you there. Enjoy your dinner, but save some space for dessert…”
Fran’s knees went weak at the thought of the sweet delights in store for her later.
Mercifully, Laaszlo managed to conduct himself with the utmost decorum during their celebratory dinner. Gio, Chrissie and Claudia had, as promised, joined them, and the evening was a great success. A testimony to Fran’s consummate professionalism, Gio told her. She considered herself to have got off her veiled promise to Laaszlo lightly and was thankful when, at quarter to eleven, the perfect gentleman, he expressed disappointment at her early departure but allowed her to excuse herself without insisting that she stay. Chrissie seemed to have the rest of the evening well under control with plenty of ideas of where they could continue their party.
Fran felt like a child playing truant from school as she virtually skipped out of the restaurant. As the cab pulled up in front of the monolithic Communist block building which was Duncan’s hotel she felt the same dry throat and pounding heart as when she had called him earlier that day. He had seemed keen to see her again, and had been very jocular about Bernard. Whatever that was all about, it was behind them. They had one more night to get to know each other better and Fran couldn’t wait.
Fran installed herself at the hotel bar, with a view through to the entrance and lifts, the better to see Duncan when he arrived. The ultra modern bar was expertly lit, decorated in the hotel’s signature contemporary style. The place was busy; Fran feigned a nonchalance she didn’t feel by casually pulling out her mobile phone and scrolling through her text messages. She avoided any eye contact with the largely male, business looking clientele, looking up only briefly to order a glass of wine. She waited. By eleven thirty there was still no sign of Duncan. She wondered what his game was. She knew his room number, but if, as she was beginning to suspect with a sinking heart, he was deliberately standing her up, it was unlikely he would be skulking where she could find him. No, he wouldn’t be in the hotel. She could call his mobile and see if he had genuinely been delayed, but then she thought, he had her number and could have let her know if that was the case. This was part of Bernard’s conspiracy to keep them apart, she was sure.
She left enough Euros on the bartop to cover her wine, stood up and walked out of the hotel alone at precisely eleven forty five.
Furious with Duncan for deceiving her, Fran signaled the doorman to hail her a cab for the retreat back to her own hotel. She went directly to the reception desk, checking for messages or calls, but the night staff shrugged, indicating her empty pigeonhole. In her room, she peeled off the outfit she had chosen to suit both an evening with her boss and newest client and later a lover. What a waste, she reflected. Duncan has no idea what he’s missing. She cleansed, toned and moisturized, brushed and flossed and, making sure her phone was within reach, flicked off the light.
Loving reading these chapters…keep them coming!