Now
‘This is completely unacceptable!’ Marianne shouts into the intercom before storming back to the other side of the lift. Her breathing is fast again, either from claustrophobia or rage. (Was that vein in her forehead always there?) ‘Ten more minutes,’ Marianne says, stone-faced.
‘We can do that.’
‘Nope. Something else is going on here.’
‘Like what?’
‘That guy on the phone is stalling, like I said before. I know what professional stalling looks like. I do it all the time. That guy,’ she points at the intercom, ‘is not even good at it, which is insulting, honestly. He’s lying.
I don’t know why. But I know he is trying to keep us in this lift for some reason and keep us calm while doing it. He’s trying to manage us.’
‘Even if that’s true, though, what can we do about it? We’ve already asked to talk to the building manager guy, your tennis buddy, Harold. What’s the next step?’
Marianne gives me a look that’s made of the same stuff as the lift, and something unpleasant runs up and down my spine.
‘Any ideas?’ I repeat, because Marianne is still staring at me, not saying anything.
Marianne nods slowly, like she’s made up her mind about something. Who she’s going to murder first the moment she gets out of this lift, possibly.
‘Actually, I’ve got an idea,’ she says. ‘But tell me the next bit while I think it through.’