a fancy-looking box, winked at Mr Holder, set it down on the desk and left without a word.
He pulled off the red ribbon, opened it and beamed as though it were a Christmas present. ‘Ah. Perfect.’
He removed a pair of red-soled flats and knelt before me. In utter silence, he lifted my right leg, removed my shabby Steve Madden, and slipped the lovely new shoe on my foot. Dorian’s touch was slow and gentle, taking me utterly by surprise. ‘The Intern Flat,’ he explained. ‘Give me your other foot.’
‘OK.’ I raised my leg, and he looked at my calf appreciatively. At least my black hose didn’t have a hole in the toe. Most of my tights did.
This time, when he slid on the other slipper, he caressed my ankle, and glanced up. ‘Do you like them?’ he asked, his voice husky.
I nodded. They were remarkable. And the way this man looked at me? For a second, I felt remarkable as well. Like I did when leaving the train station. For a second.
‘Why?’ I whispered.
‘Because you clearly haven’t been making enough money to dress in a manner appropriate for the office environment. You’ve been earning it, but Apollyon hasn’t been paying. We owe you.’ He was brusque and businesslike again. He grabbed my tattered old shoes – which I kind of felt sorry for at this point, poor shoes, never hurt anyone – rose to his feet and tossed them in the trashcan behind his desk. ‘You represent me, as long as you are working here. When you return to Apollyon, I expect you to be dressed in clothing that rises to the occasion of your new Louboutins.’
There was that word again. ‘Of my what?’
He shook his head. ‘Never mind.’
‘I will,’ I told him, trying to sound knowledgeable. I wondered if maybe Louboutin wasn’t an urban term after all, but some literary reference any English major should know … though this one didn’t. Of course, I wouldn’t ask him – or Gwen – what they were talking about; that’s what Google’s for. I stood up, brave and true, because these fancy flats were a perfect fit, and my feet felt quite dainty.
‘Now that we’ve had our chat, would you care to step outside on the piazza? To get the full effect of the thirteenth floor?’
‘I should go, actually.’ I was confused as all-get-out, and refused to crumble in front of him. ‘But thank you, Mr Holder. Perhaps another time.’
‘You may call me Dorian.’ He looked down at his desk and pretended to shuffle papers. I took this as my cue to leave.
‘Fair play. Thank you, Dorian.’ I’m not sure whether I was thanking him for the lovely new footwear, not firing me, or letting someone as lowly as myself be on a first-name basis. I was grateful for all these things, and at the same time humiliated.
‘You’re most welcome.’ His voice was gruff. No more Mr Nice Guy. ‘Eight forty-five tomorrow, Lily. Not ten past nine. I have no patience for tardiness. It’s a passive-aggressive way of letting someone know his time is not valuable.’
‘I –’
He raised his eyebrows, and his forehead did this worried wrinkle that made me wonder again how old he was. I shut my mouth, because that’s what you do when Dorian Holder raises his eyebrows in a warning fashion.
‘Understood?’
‘Yes, sir. Dorian.’
‘“Sir Dorian”.’ He took one last hard look at me, and down at my feet. ‘I like it.’
‘Well. Good night, then.’
‘Good night, Lily Dewitt.’
I took my leave, and, as soon as I closed the door behind me, heard the rattling of a toy train, and its low, long whistle.
Oh, my God. The last time I was so happy to see this place was the day I moved in. It’s not that my apartment is gross, exactly, but when you tell people you live in a loft apartment in Cambridge, this hole is not what they picture, I’m pretty sure. Yes, my flat is an old, quaint granite building. From the impressive steps leading down to the street, I’d want to marry it. Yes, I do have hardwood floors. Yes, there are high ceilings. There is even a chandelier, a real one that is most Phantom of the Opera
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