In the black

He stares down at me, pupils dark, eyes fixed. My eyes lock with his as my hand slowly reaches into my pocket. My fingers caress the smooth rounded edges of a small notebook, an unintentional act to protect the contents within it.

‘Here hold this for me,’ a dolled up Gen Xer casually asks. She smiles broadly as she places a small black book into my hand. I’m about to ask her what it is but her expression has completely changed. With an unnerving intensity both her hands have clasped mine as she continues to press the notebook a little too firmly into my palm. I’ve seen this look before, it’s a silent cry for help. With it secured, she turns and walks away, quickening her pace with every step. I no longer see her as an enthusiastic client, but a woman on the run. My stomach lurches. Why here? Why now? And, why me?

The energy in the executive suite is electric and the Champaign is flowing like the collective prosperity of everyone in the room. The men are suitably urbane, and the women elegantly heeled. It’s all a novelty to them of course, the transformation from Mom-and-Pop investors to savvy stockholder sophistication can look awkward, but this crowd has pulled it off, Dior, Givenchy, de la Renta … nice. There is only one guest that looks slightly out of place, a tall man standing away from the other guests. What’s he doing here? Like the woman in the pink dress, I know I didn’t invite him. From his vantage point he has noticed the exchange, he looks at me, and then at the little black book in my hand.

My stomach lurches for a second time, and my thumb starts strumming the elastic band that is binding an unknown secret within its pages. I’ve been handed a complication I think as my eyes dart around the room. Where has she gone? And equally important, where is the boss?

*

‘Oh, you’re Australian!’ he proclaims raising his hands in the air, as if discovering something of significance ‘Crocodile Dundee and all that!’

‘Yes, from Sydney,’ I say politely and smile, silently wishing that the cultural cringe of Australia in the 80s would finally die.

‘Well, you’re certainly an attractive Shelia, and qualified,’ he says looking at my academic record. ‘How about you park your Uggs here for the next three months, lil’ lady,’ he drawls with a smile on his face, having amused himself with a bout of Australianisms.

I lean forward, feeling for the handle of my bag. This guy is after a novelty act, not a Sydney Uni graduate. ‘Hmmmmm, thank you for the interview, Mr Smith,’ I smile, but before I can add, ‘thanks, but no thanks,’ he sweetens the deal.

‘How does a $20,000 retainer sound?’ he says, raising one eyebrow.

$20,000! That’s in addition to three months of generous wages. It’s time to drop the well healed Eastern Suburbs persona I decide, ‘Well fair suck of the sauce bottle Mr Smith, I’ll do you a fair dinkum job.’

*

Guests have become well lubricated and have gathered into their own little groups, it leaves me free to look around the expansive, and expensive, space. Van Meegeren’s Laughing Cavalier looks down at me smugly, the portraiture completely at home among the extravagance. Lavish surroundings aside, I have a more pressing issue, where has the woman in the pink dress gone?

The ping of the elevator announces its arrival, I turn in time to see that the lights of the chandelier have connected with the sequins on her tight fitting pink dress. Small explosions of light bounce off them like tiny bolts of lightening. As the doors slide together, I can only assume she is making her way to safety, but as she does I start to question my own.

I turn to see that the uninvited guest has followed me. Remaining some distance away he raises a fresh flute of bubbly and tilts it slightly towards me as if giving some kind of acknowledgment that he knows exactly what’s going on. Well that makes one of us! I look back to the elevator … 6 … 5 … 4 … she’s going to get out of here. Again, I look to the uninvited guest, he smiles and nods his head beckoning me to turn my attention back to the elevator … 4 … 4 ... it’s not moving …4 … it’s still not moving … 4 … it’s late, no one should be on the fourth floor! What the hell is going on?

… 3… the elevator starts to move. I suck in a big gulp of air, I didn’t realise I had been holding my breath … 2 … 1 … L. I don’t know who she is, but she’s reached the Lobby, the exit. Whatever she’s running from she's going to get to escape.

For the third time, I look over to the uninvited guest, he nods his head again, an eyebrow raised this time, daring me to look back at the elevator … B1 … it hadn't stopped at all ... B2 … it’s heading down to basement parking …B3. I feel sick, but I’ll be buggered if I’m going to throw up on a Saint Laurent. I head to the restroom clutching the little black book in my sweaty palm.

I lock the stall just as the wave of nausea passes. With trembling hands I decide to open the notebook. I flip the elastic, unrestrained pages fan out and rest open on the page that is bookmarked by a silky black ribbon. I run my fingers down the page, nothing but handwritten numbers, but these are numbers I know, I’ve worked with them everyday for the past three months, they are the bank account numbers of all the guests who are attending tonight's celebrations, and the handwriting is unmistakable, I know exactly whose penmanship this is.

I flip to one page and then to another, it’s all here, numbers, names, notes … alternative bank account details. The black ink starts screaming at me like a silent alarm bell. It's dawned on me, the women in the pink dress wants me to blow the whistle, she’s pegged Mr Smith as a crook. My heart sinks, giving the notebook to me was a mistake, I can’t possibly help her. Finances are my responsibility, if this comes out the blame is going to land solidly on me, this is a ticking time bomb, and I’ve got to get out of here … right now!

My silk midi dress makes swishing noises as I careen past small groups of now rowdy clients. Everyone is acting like they’ve just won Powerball, and in a way the have, only it’s not the jackpot, it’s the measly 9th Division. I spot Mr Smith and suddenly freeze. I can’t let him see me leave, but in honesty I doubt he will, his corpulent frame is currently swathed in a sea of frocked up women, this man has too much of everything I think with disdain.

As I head towards the elevator I once again make eye contact with the uninvited guest, I can't seem to shake him. Maybe it’s the look on my face, or the lack of ‘once a jolly swagman’ in my step, but he’s registered my urgency. He knows I know. I pick up my pace but he doesn’t follow me to the elevator, instead I see him take long strides towards the fire escape.

Inside the elevator cabin, I anxiously wonder what has happened to the lady in the pink dress? What happened on the fourth floor? Why did she go to the basement and not the Lobby? There is a small delay before the elevator eventually lurches into motion, and with it my heart has proverbially moved into my throat.

*

I reach my destination without any unplanned stops. As the automatic doors slide open the uninvited guest is waiting for me. We stand for a moment staring at each other, he then breaks our gaze by planting a kiss on my lips and wrapping his arms around me.

‘You’ve got your little black notebook back, right?’ His voice low, his tone calm, but I note the slight edge of mockery.

‘Yes,’ I reply as I pull it out of my pocket. ‘And we’ve got to get to the airport right now,’ I say, putting my free hand on his chest, gently pushing him away.

‘Tell me something. What happened to her?’ I tentatively ask.

He doesn’t answer immediately, instead running his hand through a mass of thick dark hair. ‘It’s been dealt with,’ he eventually says. I nod knowing not to ask any more questions.

'That was a close call Sweetheart, you should have been more careful,’ he says, his voice low, like the rumble in the air of an approaching thunderstorm.

‘How did you know she had it?’ I ask shakily, the seriousness of the situation still desperately real.

As he tells me I feel stifled by the lack of air in the basement, a wave of intense fear starts to smother me. I need to focus on something else. It’s not hard too as an unfamiliar smell has become overpowering. I try and put my finger on it, metal? or rust maybe?

Breaking the tension, a car pulls up next to us, as we both slide onto the soft leather of the backseat I breathe a sigh of relief, this had been a tough job. I close the car door and hear the click of the locks engaging. The driver turns to acknowledge me, I spot a single pink sequin on his lapel.

Looks like lightening does strike twice.