I frown, before noticing a black leather wallet on the bed, next to the imprint I’d left on the quilt. “Oh, no, I—” Then I reconsider. It’s better he thinks me a thief (I am, after all) than a snoop. So I hang my head.
Leo crosses the room in three strides. He’s in front of me before I can take my next breath, his mouth now closer to mine than a man’s has ever been since—
“You’re not . . .” He reaches out towards my cheek and I flinch. But, as I feel the heat of his hand, the pulse of his fingers, I find I’m not scared. I meet his eyes, half a dozen shades of green and, now I notice, a splash of yellow at the centre. Sunlight on leaves. There’s curiosity in his eyes, tenderness too.
“Leo! What the hell’s going on?” Mr. Penry-Jones stands in the doorway, leaning on a gilded walking stick, his left foot elevated, his face flushed with fury.
Leo drops his hand and steps away.
“Do you want to explain yourself?” Mr. Penry-Jones hobbles into the room, taking in the scene: his son, me, the wallet. “Leo?”
I look to Leo, who’s staring at his father.
“Leo.” His voice drops. “Were you engaging in something untoward with this—?”
“No, sir. Of course not.”
“Well then, what in hell were you doing?”
“I was only asking her—”
I step forward. “H-he caught me,” I say. “I—I was . . . t-trying to take his . . . wallet.”
11:59 a.m.—Goldie
Leo denies it. He tells his father it isn’t true. Heated words (father’s loud, son’s soft) are exchanged, while I stand next to the bed, looking from one to the other and then at my feet. I don’t know why I did it, why I said it. It was a stupid, stupid impulse. I know only that I felt a sudden desire to protect him from his father’s shaming. After they’ve been arguing for a while, the elder Penry-Jones hobbles to the telephone and picks it up.
“I’d like to speak with the manager, please. Yes, I’ll wait.”
My spirits sink through the floor down to Garrick’s office. I knew this was coming and I’m already regretting my foolish chivalry. But it’s too late to deny it now.
When Garrick doesn’t even try to grope me in the lift, I realize the full severity of my situation. I enter his office first, and he closes the door behind us. At the click of the lock, my spirits sink down to the basement. As Garrick eases his bulk into the cheap faux-leather chair behind his desk, the fabric squeaks and he coughs to cover it. He crosses his thick legs.
“Oh, Goldie. What a disappointment you’ve proved to be.”
He sighs theatrically, as if he were a high court judge sentencing a serial killer. I suppress the urge to roll my eyes.
“Well then . . .” He sits back, steepling his fingers and pressing them to his lips—the ridiculous pose he’s affected to ponder my fate. “How . . . are we going to handle this?”
I stay silent. I won’t deny the charges or beg for leniency. I feel the quicksand rising and know any such tactics will only hasten my descent. Garrick lowers his hands, uncrosses his legs. He leans forward, his bald spot shining with sweaty excitement. It pulses off him in sticky waves.
“Now, under ordinary circumstances I’d have to dismiss you, effective immediately. And call the police. However”—he pauses for further dramatic effect—“There are . . . alternative options to consider.”
He pushes the chair back and stands; the faux leather squeaks as it releases him. He steps around the desk. Watching him, I bite my upper lip. All the blood blanches from it.
“What do you think to that?”
I say nothing, eyeing the locked door.
“That’s okay, you don’t need to speak.” He grins. “I mean, I like a pottymouth as much as the next man, but I don’t need you to rev me up. I’m all revved up already.” He takes another step towards me. “You stand against the wall like a good little girl. I’ll do all the work.”
He steps closer. I stumble back. He reaches out to steady me. I flinch, but since his office is almost as small as the lift, I’m now backed up against the wall. I start to hyperventilate. Garrick pushes on me with all his weight so I’m