Vodka Espresso

11. meeting

July, 2017

Ingrid had been unreachable for the whole of Monday so naturally, Ian felt nervous when she didn't turn up for breakfast on Tuesday morning. Just as he was about to knock on her door, his phone buzzed with a text from her. She was already at the office, prepping the meeting room for her presentation on the recently revived Bavarian brewery they were struggling to finance.

With a sigh of relief, he descended the stairs and had breakfast at leisure. He drove himself to the office – Murphy was picking Agnes and Edith up from their hotel and Arthur hadn't returned from his extended weekend in Belfast, where he'd been summoned by a family emergency.

Ian enjoyed driving, except not in the city. His patience in traffic had thinned out over the years and oftentimes he'd found himself arriving at work already stressed out. It impacted his efficiency, so he got himself a driver. Once in a blue moon, though, he relished the sensation he had sitting behind the wheel on his way to work.

Nevertheless, he would have much rather driven across Europe than across London, or at the very least across the country. Speeding on the motorway and taking in the sights, in no hurry to get anywhere, simply enjoying the rush the road gave him.

Ian pushed his road-trip fantasies to the back of his mind as he stopped his car in the underground car park and stepped out with his briefcase in hand. He waved at Ingrid and Priyanka as he walked past the meeting room on the way to his office. The women were sitting by themselves at the large table, nursing mugs of coffee and trading gossip, he guessed.

His assistant presented him with an updated list of guests expected to attend the meeting as soon as he put his briefcase down on his chair. He skimmed over the names, nodded and asked Yvonne to have the list forwarded to his and Ingrid's inbox.

Scrolling through his e-mails, he tapped his breast pocket and found a lone, twisted cigarette, long forgotten. He'd had an on again, off again relationship with tobacco throughout his life and had sworn to quit several times. He'd never really succeeded, but managed to cut down on the number of cigarettes he smoked in a day.

His assistant announced the arrival of Agnes Nielsen and he went to greet her in the meeting room. She looked happy to see Ingrid again. Ian did not interfere much with their interaction. He sensed he'd struck a gold mine and all he had to do was leave the women to their own devices. If he involved himself at the wrong time, he could risk breaking the bond Ingrid had forged – and that could destroy the deal.

The Hon. Patrick Evans was due to grace them with his presence at this meeting. They also had a lunch appointment, but Ian wasn't sure if the Honourable would actually honour it. He had the frustrating habit of calling things off at the last minute and no one ever called him out on it because he sat on a shitload of money.

Evans did make his appearance, after Ingrid's presentation had started, and he snuck into a chair at the back of the room. Ian threw telepathic curses at the belated guest, casting a wary glance in Ingrid's direction. Her overpowering self-confidence had charmed him back in Berlin, but in light of recent events, he felt he could no longer predict her reactions – and that frightened him.

Ingrid, however, did not seem fazed in the slightest. She carried on, unperturbed, joggling detailed explanations with questions from the audience answered mid-sentence. She had a flair for this, an imposing presence despite her average stature and unremarkable features.

It was all in the eyes. Those blazing swirls of green, fiery like smouldering tar, commanded immediate attention. Otherwise they would boil over and burn the flesh of whoever dared to disobey this command. Even the prick Patrick Evans seemed to focus more on her than on his phone, which was unusual for him.