The Executive Floor

by Belinda Wright

  Chantelle took a deep breath. This was going to happen, wasn’t it? She climbed out of the car and did so as elegantly as she could in her tight skirt and high heels.

  ‘I’ll be quick, I promise.’ He grinned. Chantelle never been promised that before. He led the way inside, picked up his post from the letter boxes in the foyer, then headed to the lift. Chantelle followed him, looking around. The floor was shiny polished concrete, there were chrome dome lights on the ceiling, and the lift front was futuristic-looking shiny ceramic. Red lights flashed on the ceramic panel when Granger touched an invisible button.

  The doors slid open instantly. Granger stepped inside and held them until Chantelle followed him. They were propelled upwards at such speed Chantelle felt her stomach flip. Seconds later they arrived. The doors opened.

  ‘Where are we?’ she asked, following him through a corridor. It looked like a hotel.

  ‘My place. My apartment.’ He opened the door and gestured Chantelle into the dark hallway. He guided her inside and flipped the light switch. Chantelle sucked in a breath. It was the most spectacular apartment she’d ever seen. Rich expanses of dark wood floor stretched out in front of her, complemented by the clean, angular lines of designer furniture. Her eyes were drawn to the huge glass windows that lined one wall. The whole of Summerville lay before her. She stared, mesmerised for a moment, before forcing her eyes away.

  ‘Nice, huh?’

  Chantelle started and spun around. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I said it’s a nice view,’ Granger repeated.

  ‘Oh, yeah, it’s pretty nice.’ She looked back. They were in the north of the city, near the university. Chantelle could see the sand-coloured stone buildings in the distance.

  A noise distracted her. She pulled her eyes away from the window and looked around. There was a black leather sofa in the middle of the room, facing the window. A large desk covered with papers and a modern-looking chair were to the side of the room.

  ‘It’s a mess,’ Granger said, following her gaze. He bent down and picked up a calfskin cushion from the floor and threw it on to the sofa. ‘The cleaner is coming tomorrow.’

  He pulled off his tie and dropped it on a big leather armchair. Chantelle felt her heart speed up. Granger unbuttoned his top button. That hint of golden skin was visible again and she found herself wondering what he looked like without the shirt, whether he really was in as good a shape as she imagined.

  ‘Rocky? Rocky!’ Granger called, walking to the bottom of a staircase that led up to the first floor. There was a rustling on the mezzanine then a thud, and a sleepy-looking beige dog waddled down the stairs. Chantelle’s heart flew to her mouth.

  ‘Oh!’ she sighed, forgetting her reservations. ‘How adorable! A bulldog?’ She started forward to pet the lovely black-faced beige dog then stopped, remembering where she was and who she was with. Granger was watching her with interest.

  ‘He’s a bullmastiff. But he’s too short and stocky, not to mention lazy to be a pedigree. I think he’s more bulldog that mastiff to be honest. C’mon boy, let’s go, we haven’t got long, this lady has things to do,’ Granger said, fondling Rocky’s floppy ears. Rocky trotted towards Chantelle, his nails clicking on the wooden floor.

  ‘Salut!’ Chantelle whispered, bending down to greet him. The dog held his head up politely for the meeting. ‘T’es trop beau, toi!’

  ‘I just need to take him outside. He’s been in all day and I still haven’t had time to sort out a dog walker. Hope you don’t mind? I’ll be quick.’ Granger gave her an apologetic grin.

  ‘Oh no! Not at all. You take your time, I’m in no hurry,’ Chantelle said. Granger looked puzzled for a moment, then grabbed the lead and headed for the door. Chantelle put her bag down and followed him to the lift. She felt stupid for suspecting he had an ulterior motive for bringing her to his place.

  ‘I’ll just give him five minutes now. I’ll take him for a proper run when we’ve eaten,’ he told her in the lift. Chantelle bent down and patted Rocky’s head, so Granger wouldn’t see her blazing cheeks.

  She followed Granger across the road to a small grassy area opposite his building. Rocky picked up a stick in his mouth and passed it to Granger who threw it a short distance. The dog then set off at no more than a trot to retrieve it. Chantelle laughed; the dog looked half asleep.

  Granger grinned at her. ‘I think he just does it for my benefit. He’s pretending to be a dog to keep me happy but really he’d rather be left to sleep upstairs.’ Rocky gave a half-hearted bark of agreement. ‘You silly mutt!’ Granger said, and ruffled his ears when he came back with the stick.

  Chantelle glanced sideways at Granger. His collar was undone and the smile on his face was relaxed. Was this really the MD of Granger Finance she’d left the office with fifteen minutes earlier?

  Granger caught her eye and shook his head in defeat. ‘I give up!’ He sighed. ‘C’mon then, boy, that’s enough pretending. I’m starving.’ He clipped the lead back on Rocky’s collar. They crossed the road again and Granger buzzed them into the apartment building.

  ‘Do you want to wait down here?’ he said. ‘I’ll take Rocky up and I’ll be down in a moment.’

  ‘Oh, OK. Yes, right,’ Chantelle said, stepping backwards away from the lift to wait by the wall in the lobby. Granger pressed the invisible button again and the lift door slid open. She looked out of the glass wall of the apartment block into the street at the darkening evening. Was she now feeling disappointed not to have been invited up? She wrapped her arms around her waist and shivered. There was a sense of anticipation in her stomach.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘Oh!’ Chantelle turned to see Granger standing behind her. ‘I didn’t hear you coming. That lift really is quiet.’

  ‘We’ll walk to the restaurant – we’re only going a few hundred metres.’ Granger had smoothed his hair and there was a fresh smell of aftershave. He guided her out of the lobby, his hand on the small of her back. His touch was warm through her coat and it made her tingle.

  They headed down the street. He led her through an alley that brought them out on to the Bradbury Road. Chantelle saw the clock on the church tower showing nine thirty. As they walked, the road became busier, full of students dressed for a night out. Granger slipped a protective arm around her waist, guiding her out of the way of an oncoming group of men. It was as busy as during the day. Anticipation hung in the air and Chantelle shivered again.

  ‘Cold?’ Granger asked.

  ‘A bit,’ she murmured.

  ‘We’re almost there,’ he said, placing his arm on her shoulders. It wasn’t an intimate gesture; it felt natural.

  ‘We’re here.’ Granger steered her to the right and in through the big glass doors of the Countryside Restaurant on Summerville High Street.

  ‘Mr Carmont, wonderful to see you again.’ The maître d’ bowed his head to Chantelle. ‘Good evening.’ He hovered beside her as she unhooked her belt and unbuttoned her coat; he helped her slide it off her shoulders before he whisked it away, then instantly reappeared. ‘Your table is ready, Mr Carmont.’

  Chantelle followed Granger through the dim restaurant towards a table by the window, a tiny silver ‘reserved’ plate showed his ownership. The maître d’ held the chair back for Chantelle to sit then handed her a heavy leather menu.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ Granger said. Chantelle realised that she was too. She’d only eaten a yoghurt and an apple at lunchtime, choosing to work through the break. The waiter was back at their table the moment they both lowered the menus to give their order. Chantelle selected salmon tartar then a steak-frites. Granger nodded. ‘Sounds like an excellent choice, I’ll have what she’s having.’ He handed the menu back to the waiter.

  ‘Wine, sir?’

  ‘Yes, white. My dinner guest is French so please make it a good bottle.’ He winked at Chantelle.

  ‘A F
rench bottle, if you please?’ Chantelle added, then lowered her eyes. The maître d’ bowed to her. He returned with the wine and opened it. He offered it to Granger to try but he shook his head.

  ‘The decision is hers.’ He looked at Chantelle.

  The maître d’ presented the bottle to Chantelle. She read the label. Sancerre La Mercy Dieu 2017. She nodded for him to go ahead and pour some in her glass. ‘I like Sancerre,’ she told Granger. ‘We normally drink Muscadet at home. That’s our vin de table, but on special occasions my uncle opens something different.’ She picked up the large fine glass and studied the golden liquid, then held the glass to her nose and closed her eyes. Memories of home came back to her. Summers outside, winters inside around the table with her family. She sipped the wine. ‘Lovely.’ She indicated to the maître d’ to go ahead and pour the wine.

  She looked up at Granger. He was watching her with an interested expression. ‘You do that well – impressive,’ he said, and lifted his glass to study the wine. He held his glass out towards her. She raised hers and tapped it to his.

  ‘Santé,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘Santé,’ Granger repeated. They both sipped the wine, savouring the taste.

  ‘I love wine,’ Chantelle said, then felt her cheeks colour. ‘I’ve grown up with it, I mean.’

  Granger studied her. ‘You’ve got to stop doing that,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ Chantelle swallowed, nerves speeding up.

  ‘Blushing. It’s way too attractive. And the last thing I need you to be right now is attractive.’ Chantelle put her hand to her cheek. The skin was hot. She looked at Granger; his dark eyes were fixed on her, just as they had been that morning in the office. She felt the familiar excitement flash through her. Careful, Chantelle warned herself. She lowered her eyes and looked at the table.

  Granger lifted his wine glass again. ‘To our unexpected meeting.’

  Chantelle looked back up. He was smiling; it wasn’t just with his mouth – the smile reached his eyes. It didn’t look like an I’m-hitting-on-you smile. It made her smile too. She couldn’t help it. She picked up her own glass and touched it to his.

  ‘I work for you. Our meeting wasn’t that unexpected,’ she said.

  ‘But when I went to work this morning I never expected I would be finishing my day with a meal in the company of an exquisitely beautiful French lady.’

  Chantelle tensed. ‘How very kind of you to say,’ she muttered, and sipped her wine. ‘But I’m sure the only surprising thing is that I’m French. I’m quite sure you are frequently in the company of beautiful women.’ She placed her glass down again, noticing that her hands were shaking.

  Granger gave her a baffled look. ‘What does that mea—’ The waiter arriving with their starters cut him off.

  Chantelle looked down at her plate. The rose-pink salmon was chopped into the tiniest pieces and shaped into a crescent. Green shoots decorated the plate and a mini blue flower was positioned at the side. She could never have imagined she would finish her day with such a delicious meal. Most evenings she managed a quick sandwich in her bedroom, never wanting to spend longer than necessary in the kitchen in case she bumped into Neil.

  ‘Is something the matter?’ Granger asked, looking at her.

  Chantelle looked up. ‘No, nothing. Really nothing. I understand you have an important trip next week?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, it’s a big deal.’ Granger gave a tired smile. ‘I’ll be glad when it’s done, actually. It’s taking all my time and energy. I’m starting to feel it. I’m not at young as I used to be.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘I look rough.’

  ‘No, you don’t.’ Chantelle had corrected him before she could stop herself. Granger grinned and turned his head slightly. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment. I guess.’ Chantelle put her fork in her mouth and forced herself to taste the food. The nerves had pretty much eliminated any appetite she had before.

  The restaurant was full, and it was only Tuesday night. The diners were elegantly dressed. She’d read about the Countryside and knew that there was a three-month waiting list for a table unless you were someone ‘special’. Granger Carmont was clearly someone special.

  ‘Have you been here before?’ Granger asked, seeing her look around. The candlelight caused sharp shadows to fall over his cheeks.

  ‘No. My intern salary won’t stretch to such places.’ She laughed.

  ‘I’m sure there are lots of rich gentlemen who would jump at the chance to take you out.’ He sipped his wine. ‘I know I’m certainly enjoying it!’

  Chantelle stiffened; the professional boundary was definitely in danger of being crossed. ‘No. Most of the socialising I’ve done since being in the UK has been at intern house parties and student nights. I haven’t been to many restaurants. And I’ve been working quite a lot.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ Granger said.

  ‘You work a lot, huh?’

  Granger grinned. ‘Too much, I’ve been told. It’s hard to know where to draw the line, especially as it’s my own company.’

  ‘Did you start the company? Or did you take it over from your father?’ Chantelle asked.

  ‘My father?’ Granger shook his head. ‘No, I set it up myself. After university.’

  ‘I see,’ Chantelle said. ‘Is your father in the same line of work?’

  Granger’s eyes clouded. ‘I guess so.’

  ‘What does he do, your father?’

  ‘Ah, he’s in accounting.’ Granger waved a hand dismissively. ‘How long have you been in Summerville?’

  ‘Almost six months. I moved here for the internship after my I finished my studies in Paris.’

  ‘How does living in little Summerville compare to the charms of gay Paris?’

  ‘I love Summerville,’ she said. ‘It’s my favourite place. When I was little I always dreamed of moving to a city like this …’

  ‘City? Where did you say you were from? The Loire Valley?’ Granger sipped his wine.

  ‘Yes, I studied in Paris for a few years, but before that I grew up in the vineyards in Western France.’

  ‘The vineyards?’ He studied her. ‘So, you are a wine expert!’

  ‘I grew up with it. I’m not sure I’d call myself an expert, but I like wine. Who doesn’t?’

  Granger motioned to the waiter and asked for the wine menu. ‘Perhaps you’d like to choose a red for the main course, then?’ He passed the menu to Chantelle.

  She swallowed and opened the menu. ‘There are no prices?’

  He shook his head. ‘Don’t worry about the price.’

  ‘Oh.’ Chantelle studied the menu. What a different life he had, being able to ignore the price. Some of the bottles listed must cost at least a hundred pounds.

  ‘Are you enjoying your internship so far?’ Granger asked after she had ordered the wine.

  ‘Oh yes, definitely. I’ve learned so much. It’s funny how much different actually working is compared to university.’

  Granger laughed. ‘It’s all theory and business simulations. Nothing like the reality of Excel macros.’

  ‘I’ve done other internships in France, but I wasn’t allowed to do actual work. Just, you know, getting the coffee and things like that.’

  Granger frowned. ‘Waste of talent. Do you miss home?’

  She shrugged. ‘It was kind of hard when I moved here. But now I love it. I’ve made a lot of friends in the company.’ The waiter arrived and poured the wine.

  ‘Your parents own a vineyard did you say? Do you know that for most men that is a dream come true?’

  ‘Not my parents. It’s my uncle. My parents, well …’ She swallowed. ‘My parents died in a car crash when I was eleven. That was when I moved to the vineyard.’ She smiled, pushing a strand of hair out of her face. ‘You don’t want to hear about my boring life. I’m sure yours is much more
exciting, coming from Morocco. You don’t have an accent, by the way. And how is your girlfriend? What is her name, Ms DeVere, is it?’

  ‘My girlfriend? What makes you think I have a girlfriend?’ Granger narrowed his eyes.

  ‘Err, we read it on the internet.’ Chantelle shrugged, feeling her cheeks warm again.

  ‘You read about me on the internet?’ Granger’s eyes widened.

  ‘Not exactly, but my colleague showed me, and I work at your company so of course I read it. You’re the managing director of Granger Finance, so naturally I was interested.’

  ‘And it said that? That Cynthia’s my girlfriend?’ Chantelle nodded. Granger shook his head. ‘Where do they get this stuff from,’ he muttered. ‘And you believed it? Because it was online?’

  ‘I guess so. I didn’t really think about it. Shouldn’t I have?’ she said.

  ‘Cynthia is not my girlfriend – she never was!’ Granger swallowed. ‘I’m sick of people writing about my life. I went out with her a couple of times. That doesn’t mean we are in a relationship.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Chantelle looked at her plate.

  Granger frowned. ‘Sorry, that’s a bit of a sore spot.’ He took a bite. Neither of them spoke; the silence weighed in the air. ‘Tell me something – what were you doing, working so late? They can’t be giving you so much work that you have to stay later than everyone else. I’ll have a word with Margaret if they are.’

  Chantelle held up her hand. ‘No! It was me. I wanted to stay.’

  Granger’s eyes fixed on her. ‘Were you waiting for me?’

  Chantelle nearly spat out the sip of wine she had just taken. ‘No!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘OK.’ Granger looked a bit disappointed.

  ‘I was kind of just passing the time,’ she said.

  ‘Passing the time? In the office? You’re worse than me.’ Granger laughed and ran a hand through his hair.

  ‘I didn’t want to go home,’ she explained. ‘I’ve got a problem with my flatmate.’

  ‘A problem with your flatmate? What kind of problem?’ Granger sat back as the plates were removed.