Chapter 2: The Stain
The lift doors opened on the seventh floor. Alice stepped in wearing an oversized sleep shirt that had slipped off one shoulder, cotton shorts, and a pair of flat slippers. Her curls were flattened on one side. She was chewing the last half of a piece of buttered toast, eyes still half-closed.
Paul was already inside, navy suit, tie knotted correctly, leather bag in hand. He watched her enter.
Seventh floor again. Just moved in. Out at eight in the morning looking like this.
The doors closed. They stood side by side in the narrow space. Alice glanced up at the floor display, still half-asleep. The light for G was already lit.
She turned her head and looked him over once, top to bottom, the way someone might assess a product on a shelf.
Wrinkled clothes. Collar askew. Uncombed hair. Holding a piece of toast as if still standing in her own kitchen.
Paul kept his eyes forward.
Even so...
His gaze flicked once to the line of her neck where the sleep shirt had slipped, the pale shoulder exposed, then returned to the doors. His jaw tightened.
Alice’s eyes stopped on his cuff. The white shirt was clean. No trace of the red paint from yesterday.
“You got it off.”
“Obviously.” He did not look at her.
She leaned across without asking and took his wrist, pushing the cuff higher. The skin underneath was unmarked.
Paul’s eyes widened. Not anger. Pure surprise.
“Impressive. It’s oil-based. Most people give up after twenty minutes.”
He pulled his wrist free and tugged the cuff back down. “Do not touch me without permission.”
Alice took another bite of toast. “You’re welcome for the compliment.”
His jaw worked. Tightened, released, tightened again.
“Right. The shirt from yesterday. Slide the laundry bill through the door, I’ll transfer it back.”
A beat.
Paul watched her finish the toast. “Don’t bother.”
The lift stopped at ground. The doors opened. Alice stepped out first, quicker than someone who had only just woken, and turned right toward the parcel area.
In the ground-floor lobby the parcel corner held a large carton covered in delivery stickers. Alice reached it, still chewing the last of the toast, and gripped both sides of the box. She straightened and lifted. Her slippers slid on the polished stone. The weight of the carton pulled her centre of gravity backward.
Paul had just stepped out of the lift. He crossed the distance in one long stride and caught her lower back with his right hand. His fingers closed in the thin fabric of the sleep shirt.
The toast in her mouth shattered. Crumbs and butter sprayed across the front of his navy suit.
Paul looked down at the mess on his chest. His fingers loosened on her back. He let go.
Alice lost the support and sat hard on the floor. The carton toppled beside her with a dull thud.
Paul looked at her, then at the butter on his jacket. He turned and walked toward the glass doors without glancing back, already pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at the stain.
Alice sat in the middle of the lobby and called after him. “Hey! You just dropped me?”
He pushed through the doors. He did not turn.
“Unbelievable. Un-be-liev-able.”
Through the glass his back stayed straight.
That evening Paul stepped into the lift, the fatigue of a long day still in his posture. He pressed six. The doors were almost closed when a hand stopped them. A grey linen sleeve, cuff fastened with a dull gold link.
Nick stepped inside. Forty-four, salt-and-pepper hair combed neatly, linen uncreased. He carried a bottle of Burgundy by the neck, no bag, and a bouquet wrapped in black kraft paper.
He looked at Paul and nodded once, exactly polite.
Paul’s eyes went to the wrist. Patek Philippe, black leather strap, white dial.
A Burgundy Grand Cru. No bag, just carrying it by hand... a true connoisseur. Wrapped in black kraft paper, not supermarket plastic. This person knows exactly what he is buying.
“Seven, please.”
Paul’s finger hovered, then pressed the button for seven. The light came on.
The lift moved in silence. Both men faced forward.
The seventh floor. The floor of the girl who went out in her pyjamas to pick up a delivery. The girl munching on toast in the elevator at eight in the morning. The girl who flipped open a stranger's sleeve as if checking a brand label.
The lift stopped at six. The doors opened. Paul stepped out.
As the doors began to close, the floor indicator lit for seven.