Roxie
I sit in the glass-fronted lobby, in a corner seat, hidden from view of the reception but with my eye on the lifts, and gaze out at the courtyard area, in front of the immense building. There is an artificial lake, with benches all around; a few ducks swimming in the bright Spring sunshine, minding their own business. A few suited businessmen and women sit on the benches, some chatting, some alone, eating lunch or staring out into the middle distance, work and family and a million other things on their minds. I watch them closely, as I sit in the stylish swivel chair, the scratchy grey-tweed fabric itching the bare backs of my arms as I look out to my subjects, selecting one or two to draw. My sketchpad is out on my lap, pencil in hand, as my eyes fall on a lone woman, sitting at one of the artistically stylised benches, curving up out of the ground, made of dense, beautiful, polished concrete, small metal ridges curving out of the stone to form the boundaries of seats. She is dressed in a dark grey pantsuit, and seems to blend into the bench itself. In her hand, she holds a mug of coffee, brought out from one of the offices upstairs, no doubt, and holds a cigarette absently in the other hand, as she alternates between caffeine and nicotine – a sip, then a drag, sip then a drag. She is the perfect subject, her face in profile, sideways on to where I am sitting.
I start to sketch her, pencil scratching across the thick vellum of the pad, shaping her. She has a beautiful face – chiselled, with full lips, almond eyes, dark brown I would guess, and long, glossy brunette hair; the kind of hair that can only be forged with a hefty bank account. Yet, she looks sad. It is the sadness that attracts me to her; there is a still, resigned quality to her, which I cannot help but want to get down on paper. I wonder what she is thinking, as I begin to put the more detailed features onto paper; I sketch in the straight nose, the fullness of her upper lip, the shadow of her high cheekbones and the furrow of her brow. I draw the wisps of blue-grey smoke coming from the half-smoked cigarette, and the little handprint, pressed onto the side of her mug. Her kid, I guess, as she sips from it. Swiftly, I lift my eraser and rub out the mug held in her hand, preferring it lifted to her sensual lips. I draw that in neatly, over the faded lines of the previous iteration, and hold the pad away from me slightly, pleased with the new form. Her shoulders are a little hunched, pulling the fabric of the suit jacket between her shoulder-blades, and I sketch it in quickly, before she moves. It is this which intrigues me; she barely moves at all, save for the drag and sip of her chosen stimulants, to get her through another day. She is the ideal model, sitting perfectly, staring out at the shimmering water of the lake in the midday sun, like any Renaissance figure or female portrait you might see, hanging in any gallery. Her beauty is just as sad, just as relevant, and she is just as exquisite, in her own way. I adore her, though I don’t even know her. I am captivated, wondering what makes her so melancholy – wanting others to see her melancholy, captured in my sketchpad, though I know nobody will see it. I sell the odd piece, getting some commissions here and there, but it’s a tough business, the art industry, and one which is less than kind to the pockets of those who try to give their lives to the art of it.
I am almost finished, when she gets up, stubbing the cigarette out beneath an expensive looking boot. She stands there for a moment, still staring out at the lake, now glittering beneath a breath of wind, and I see her shoulders rise and fall heavily, as if she is sighing, preparing herself to head back into the great glass beast. I wish I could draw it – that moment – but she is on her way back in before I can even flip the page to a fresh one. I know I could try to draw it from memory, but the end-result won’t be the same; it never is. It’s like drawing from a photograph; the sketch never feels right.
I watch her as she comes through the revolving doors, her chin up, her shoulders straight, her stride filled with purpose. Whatever pep talk she has had with herself, out on the bench, it looks as if it has worked; she is a strong, intelligent, fierce woman, all her weakness and momentary sadness left out on the bench. I almost feel bad for having captured it, as I follow her with my gaze, stepping up to the lifts and waiting patiently, her hands folded in front of her. Another beautiful image, but I know she will see me if I start to try and sketch her. She glances over as the lift doors open, casting me a small smile, and I wonder if she knows.
I crane my neck around to see the reception area, and look up at the vast clock on the wall, just above the receptionist’s head. I feel my eyes roll in annoyance; my own lunch break is over. It is back to the mundane for me. I pick up the big, brown leather tote bag beside my chair and push the sketchpad into the depths of it, zipping my pencils back into a slim, black faux-croc skin pencil case, and putting them delicately at the bottom of the bag. Taking my own preparatory deep breath, I stand and smooth down the front of my dark green dress, brushing away a fleck of wood from a fresh-sharpened pencil from the glossy surface of my stockings, as I hook my bag over my shoulder and head towards the same lifts the glorious woman has just vacated. My heels click against the shiny, slick marble of the lobby floor; it is a sound I used to love when I was a kid, but seem to hate now I’m twenty-one, it meaning my slow trail to a job I can’t stand.
I’m grateful for the work, it meaning my ability to pay rent and bills, and live my own independent life, but it is not the work I long to do. That work is in my bag, hidden away, thought of in snatched lunch breaks and late evenings. My father says, time after time, I can move back home and do my art there, but it is not the life I want to lead. I see the girls my age who sponge off their families, forever at home, learning nothing of the real world, and I will not be that girl; it is not good for an artist, to know nothing of the world. In my cramped studio flat, I paint and sketch more colourfully, more delicately, more intricately, than I ever could in the cold comfort of my father’s vast home. So, I continue to say no, and to work for him instead – part-time, for now, though the bills keep rising, and my college classes aren’t getting any cheaper. I’m not sure my commissions and sales can keep paying for them, but I have this job to help out with that, if needs be. I’d rather keep the two worlds separate, but I will not give up my art classes for anything, and if I need to take more hours here, to pay for them, then so be it.
The lift arrives and I step in, smoothing out my dress once more, it still ruffled from my awkward sitting position. I stand against the back of the lift, shoulders pressing against the mirrored wall, as I wait for the doors to close, having pushed the button I to the floor I need. As they begin to close, I see a figure moving swiftly towards the doors, from the main reception area. For a moment, I stand there, frozen, and, by the time I reach for the ‘door-opening’ button, it is too late. I hear a fist bang on the door, but they don’t open, as the lift begins to pull upwards. My cheeks flush with embarrassment, hoping it isn’t some important client for my father.
As the lift doors open again on the very top floor, the 50th, I step out and hear my name called from the small reception a short way away. Lisa, my father’s long time receptionist, peers at me over her spectacles and waves a hand, beckoning me towards her. I flush again, hoping I’m not already in trouble. Truth is, I’m not all that good at corporate work, of any kind, and am often in trouble for messing up, but it must be hard to fire the CEO’s daughter. I know that’s the only reason I haven’t been.
‘Roxie, your father wants to see you,’ Lisa says, her voice giving nothing away.
‘Why?’ I ask, anxious.
She shrugs. ‘What do I look like, his minder?’
I grin. ‘Well, more or less,’ I quip, bringing a wry smile to Lisa’s stern face.
‘You’ve got a point,’ she nods. ‘I still don’t know why he wants you though,’ she adds, with a hint of regret, as she picks up the phone and tells the person on the other end – my father, presumably – that I am back from lunch.
‘Thanks, Lisa,’ I say, as I walk down the wide corridor towards the big, frosted glass office at the very end. The office with the best view, sunlight streaming in through slatted, bamboo blinds.
I tap on the door lightly, waiting to be called in.
‘Come in,’ comes my father’s gruff voice.
I push the door gently and step into the room, marvelling at the view in the distance, beneath the bright, Spring sunshine. It is a beautiful day, and the rolling hills and small wooded clusters, beyond the business park, look stunning in the afternoon haze. It’s almost a shame these gigantic glass monstrosities are in the middle of it all, I think, as my eye is caught by the vivid colours and undulating shapes of the rural landscape, somehow brightened and made more crisp in the bright light of the fresh, fierce sun.
‘Sit down,’ my father instructs, pulling me away from my reverie.
I nod and sit, placing my bag on the floor. ‘You wanted to see me?’
‘I did,’ he says.
‘Nothing bad I hope?’ I try to sound light-hearted, but there is a catch in my throat.
He chuckles slightly under his breath, a lovely, warming sound. He isn’t quick to laugh, my father, and it is something of a treat when he does. ‘No, Roxie, nothing bad,’ he smiles.
‘Then what’s up?’ I ask, some of the anxiety falling away from my body.
‘I just think your skills could be utilised elsewhere. I don’t think you’re enjoying corporate sales much, and I’m not sure, in truth, you’re particularly good at it,’ he smiles again, his voice not unkind. ‘Is that fair to say?’ he asks, concerned.
I nod. ‘More than fair,’ I grin, knowing it to be the truth. I am a terrible salesperson, and talking on the phone makes me nervous.
He laughs softly. ‘I thought as much. You know, my offer still stands – you can come home any time, do your artwork there. I’ll organise builders to change the pool-house into a studio, if you want? You could live in there – almost like a place of your own. I wouldn’t bother you, except maybe for the occasional dinner, if you weren’t busy. I’d hate to cramp your style,’ he smiles, but there is something like sadness in his eyes, and I wish, there and then, I could take his offer. But, I know I can’t. My flat may be tiny, but it is mine. In that flat, I am Roxie Gladstone, struggling artist and student. At my father’s house, I am simply Geoffrey Gladstone’s daughter.
I shake my head, as he knew I would. ‘I’m sorry, Dad. You know I can’t,’ I say, apologetically, feeling horrible for speaking the words.
I know he’s lonely, up there in that massive house, since Mum passed away, but I can’t go back there, living that lifestyle – a dream to some, a nightmare for me. Besides, it reminds me too much of her; it is a painful place to be, for too long, always expecting her to come down the stairs to greet me, only to have an empty welcome. Every corner I turn in that house, I expect to see her, or hear her voice, maybe her fingers playing delicately at the grand piano in the library, sending happy music through the rooms and hallways of that place. No more. Those hallways and rooms are silent. Her paintings hang on the walls still, my father unable to cast them out, and I remember her, with her watercolours and oils set out before her, dressed in ancient grey overalls, covered in years and years of paint and colour. Those images bring out the most vivid memories I have of her, smiling and singing and painting, engrossed in her work as I sat and watched. Sometimes, she’d pick me up and let me fill in some colour. Those were the happiest times and, when I set foot in that house, I am reminded of all those memories I will never have with her; all those times that might yet have been, had she not been snatched away too soon.
‘Fair enough. I won’t stop asking, though. I know how important your art is to you, Roxie – you’re …’ I know he wants to say ‘like your mother’, but he doesn’t say the words. It is hard for him to mention her, and I know I remind him of her. I look so much like her. ‘Anyway, I thought I’d move you down to Advertising – let your creativity come out a bit; you’ll be assisting and doing general housekeeping – errands, and whatnot. I thought you might like that a bit better – less stressful, better hours,’ he smiles, brushing away any sadness. ‘Marie and Cesar are expecting you; there should be a desk ready, just move down whenever you can get your things from Sales.’
I nod, with a grateful smile. ‘Thank you, Dad. I reckon advertising might suit me a little better,’ I reach out and take his hand, giving it a squeeze.
‘Okay then, you get yourself moved down and let me know how you get on,’ he says, giving my hand a return squeeze, before ushering me from the room. ‘Oh, Roxie, can you send the man outside in, on your way out?’ he adds, as I am almost at the door.
‘Sure thing,’ I reply, as I turn the handle and head out into the corridor.
There is a man sitting on one of the plush armchairs, in a small waiting area, just in front of the frosted glass windows of my father’s office. He is reading a newspaper casually, not really taking it in, his foot tapping, as I come to a standstill in front of him. He lowers the paper, and looks at me curiously for a moment. I can’t be sure, but I think it is the man I unceremoniously kept out of the lift.
He is perhaps forty, though I have never been great with telling a person’s age, with thick dark hair, left a little messy, peppered on the sides with flecks of grey, which do not deter from his handsome features. His strong jawline is stubbled, giving him a rough and ready type of air, his keen, white smile and irreverent grey eyes doing nothing to tell me otherwise. Though there are lines on his brow and crinkles beside his eyes, from years of good humour, there is something undeniably attractive about him; he is a good-looking man, and the years have only enhanced it, ‘like a fine wine – and I like wine’ as my mother used to say, with her sparkling laugh.
‘The girl in the lift,’ he says, in a deep, throaty voice; the exact voice I would expect from a man who looks like him.
‘Sorry about that,’ I blush.
‘No problem. I took the stairs – did me a world of good,’ he grins, flashing those white teeth. His smile is an easy one, and I can’t help but smile in response.
‘Still, I’m sorry. I was in a world of my own, and pressed the button too late,’ I shrug, apologetic.
‘Hey, no worries,’ he chuckles.
‘You can go in now,’ I tell him, not knowing what else to say. I am a little tongue-tied, and know I must seem foolish.
‘Thank you,’ he smiles, as he stands. He is tall and broad-shouldered, muscular beneath his white shirt and blue tie; a formidable presence that leaves my pulse racing a little.
‘No problem,’ I nod, as I turn to walk away. I get halfway down the corridor, my mouth dry, when I turn back over my shoulder, expecting him to be gone into the depths of my father’s office. He is not. He is stood by the glass door, his hand on the handle, his eyes firmly watching me. My cheeks go hot, as I quickly snap my head back towards the lift doors, my breath quickening. I can still feel his eyes on me as I press the button to call the lift. His gaze is still settled on me as I step through the opening doors – I know it is.
As I turn, my back flat against the mirrored wall, facing out, he is still there, still watching. It is not predatory, by any means; I do not feel like a small, vulnerable animal beneath his watchful eye, but it is undeniably intense. He does not move, does not take his eyes off me for a second. There is a wolfish smile turning the corner of his mouth, and I realise I am holding my breath.
Then, the doors close, and he is gone from sight.
I can breathe again.