Chapter 3
Chapter Three
The long, low creak in the otherwise dead silence of the lift is far from reassuring. We stand in total darkness.
I hold my breath for a moment. It’s the first thing I’m aware of.
The second thing is Florian’s expensive cologne, something with sandalwood because there’s always sandalwood in fancy scents.
The third thing is the musty smell of wet wool and pints, which reminds me of how we ended up here like this.
Staycalmstaycalmstaycalm….
I force in a breath. Back home, I knew what to do when things broke at the pub or around the house, who to call or get my dad to intervene, but here?
Apparently, I’m responsible. It’s okay, I assure myself.
You’ve got this. After all, I’ve been working on my anxiety.
Or at least, I had been, with a uni therapist and my doctor and some meds.
Pre-London. And my anxiety luckily has less to do with confined spaces and more to do with life—
Creak.
Beside me, Florian’s sharp intake of breath gives away his anxiety too.
It’s not a good time to think about those thriller films where people plummet to their deaths down elevator shafts or even in amusement park rides that go off the rails. Never mind confined spaces.
And then it occurs to me that I’m stuck in a lift with a man who doesn’t know—or possibly care to know—who I am.
If we’re going to fall to our deaths like in some Hollywood blockbuster, which might be a little bit overdramatic, I’d like to not do that anonymously like hapless Bystander #1 in a screenplay.
“You don’t even know my name,” I blurt into the darkness. Which is probably a weird thing in hindsight to say in the seconds—has it only been seconds?—that the lift stopped working.
Another sharp breath.
“Is that relevant right now?” Florian asks tersely. Then, there’s a soft glow from the screen of his phone, his handsome profile lit. And admittedly, he looks anxious.
Fair.
“It’s relevant to me,” I dare.
“Fucking hell.”
“That’s a bit harsh,” I say, hurt. Trying to shake that off, I draw a steadying breath. “I mean—”
“There’s no fucking signal.” He throws up a hand in despair and knocks it into the side of the cramped lift, rewarded with a hollow thump for his efforts.
“There’re some dead spots in this building.” I concede the point, taking out my phone. “I mean for phone signal. Not like… murder spots. Thick historical walls,” I add hurriedly.
Dark, Matty. Dark.
Though who knows, his phone could be waterlogged.
Or cocktail logged, but better not bring up that idea right now.
It won’t help make things better. Clearly, this is a man who wants things to be better.
I’m a man who’s resigned that this night is a string of errors that my mates will get a laugh out of while I’ll work hard to forget.
What a shame I have to go back to work tonight, though I do want to help Kat out and repay her generous favor in covering for me.
“Who’s your phone provider?” I ask gamely. “Maybe a different carrier has a different signal.”
“Vodafone.”
“I’m with T-Mobile.” I pull my phone out of my pocket. “And… no signal either.”
“Fuck.”
“Fuck,” I agree.
Florian turns the light on his phone and sets it down on the floor of the lift, faintly uplighting the lift. Well, as best as a phone can do in a lift where two men stand shoulder-to-shoulder, or rather, face-to-face because there’s slightly more room like that.
The phone offers a thin, broken beam of light in the dark. It’s eerie.
“Your name, then.” It’s not a question, more like a command.
There’s no hint of curiosity in his voice.
No softness of any kind. And then it dawns on me that he’s more nervous than I am, trapped in this lift together.
Somehow, that makes me feel calm all of a sudden.
Apparently, I’m the voice of reason in this situation.
Good luck to us both.
I draw in a breath.
“My name’s Matty. Matty Gowen-Smith.” Hesitating, I try to make a joke to lighten the mood. “I’d shake your hand, but I don’t think there’s even room for that in here.”
Nothing. Not even a hint of a smile.
“That’s your real name?” he asks finally into the silence, punctuated by another ominous creak.
“It’s my real name,” I confirm. “Well, Mathias John Gowen-Smith, if you want to be truly formal. But everyone calls me Matty. And you can call me Matty too… Florian. That’s your name, right?”
“Yes. It is.”
Probably not the time to tell him I’ve never met a Florian before. It’s an unusual name, but I like it.
His jaw’s set like it was back in the bar, and even in the low light, I can see the storm clouds in his eyes, as well as a rising panic. And also the palest of freckles across the bridge of his nose.
Florian sucks back an unsteady breath, shuffles around, and presses his hands against the walls as the lift groans another complaint. “What was that?”
“It’s an old building. It makes random sounds,” I say in the most reassuring way I can, but I can tell he’s on the verge of losing it.
“Should we shout for help?” Florian asks desperately, looking up, down, and every which way for an escape.
“I mean, we could, but I don’t think that’s going to work because the walls are so thick—”
“Help! Help!” roars Florian in true desperation, as though this is the very last place on Earth he’d want to be, least of all with me.
“Help!” I shout a couple of times to make a good go of it, not that I’m holding out much hope.
Nobody shouts back.
“Isn’t there a goddamned emergency button to push?” Florian scrambles awkwardly for his phone from the floor, bumping his elbow into my stomach.
“Oof.”
“Sorry.” He doesn’t exactly sound apologetic as he swings the light onto the lift panel, but it’s all antique lettering and only the five buttons. No emergency call button or service or anything like that. He runs his fingers over the plate, then punches his fist into the oak side panel.
Creak.
“No, that’s probably not going to help.” I use my most soothing voice, the one I use on my little sisters when they act out.
Scowling, he rubs his knuckles. The side panel, at least, is no worse for wear.
“What’s going to help, then?” Florian snaps, turning sharply on me.
“Staying calm.” My tone’s remarkably even. I meet his gaze, holding what little ground I have in this lift. “Of that much I’m certain.”
He snorts, folds his arms tightly across his chest, and leans miserably against the side of the lift.
It’s chilly in here, despite it technically being spring.
It’s cold, because England. And this old building doesn’t exactly have central heat.
I can’t imagine it feels great wearing a soaked suit when it’s crisp. Florian squeezes his eyes shut.
“It’s gonna be okay,” I assure him.
“How do you know that? This is a very not-okay situation, if you haven’t noticed.” Finally, he opens his eyes again.
“Well, someone’s going to notice eventually. That we didn’t come back, for sure. Or more likely, someone’s going to notice the lift’s gone out and call for service.”
“When’s that happening? I don’t have all evening to waste. I have places to be. I’m a busy man.”
I shrug. “I suppose when someone needs to take the lift. Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Isn’t there a concierge?”
“No. I mean, I don’t think so.”
“You live here, and you don’t know if there’s a concierge?” he asks in disbelief. His stare’s piercing.
“Well, I mean… like I said, I don’t really live here. And I haven’t been here that long, but long enough to say I’m eighty percent sure there’s not a concierge.”
“Isn’t there a custodian? A doorman? Someone?”
“I don’t know.”
We stand in awkward silence for a few minutes. His cologne smells of luxury.
“My friends will think you’ve murdered me,” he snaps. “They’ll call the police.”
Bewildered, I give Florian a sharp glance.
The corners of my mouth can’t help themselves and twist into a smile.
He sounds as ridiculous as I feel. “Do I strike you as a murderer? I’d be the worst. I mean, I couldn’t even serve you drinks properly.
I don’t even know if that was the right table, if I’m honest. I’m fairly sure I’m not qualified to do a murder.
For starters, I don’t have the certification. ”
He snorts.
“Are you the murdery sort?” I ask lightly.
“No.” Florian gives me a withering look in the near darkness. “But if I were…”
Holding up my hands, I nod. “I know, I know. I’d be dead half an hour ago. So far, then, we’ve established that neither one of us is a murderer, we’re stuck in a lift together, and that you knew my phone provider before you knew my name.”
“It seems more relevant,” Florian says defensively. “It’s an emergency, for crying out loud.”
“A slow-moving emergency. I think… I think we might be here a while, and we should try to make the best of it.”
“The best of it?” Florian stares at me like I’ve just suggested a quick romp to Mars and back for the weekend. “Of being trapped?”
I flush, in case he thinks I’m getting inappropriate thoughts along the lines of sexually harassing him in a confined space, which definitely isn’t my scene. Whether or not Mars is involved. “Just… by talking to each other? It’ll pass the time.”
Florian groans and rubs his forehead.
“I get the sense you’re not much for conversation.”
“I haven’t time—”
“—for conversation. I know, you’re a busy man, you’ve said. You have to talk to people eventually. I’m sure of it. It’s not all business, right? I mean, I bet for business, you’ve got to talk to people. Or do you have an app for that?”
His glare is absolutely cutting. “You said it, not me. Look, I don’t know what you want from me.
I’m not your friend. I’m supposed to be your customer in the bar, and stupidly, I agreed to let a strange man—my waiter, for the love of God—give me a suit after being doused in spilled drinks.
I really ought to speak to your manager and have you—”
“Oh no, no, please don’t do that,” I say in a desperate rush.
“I’m begging you. I get this is all a terrible problem for you, and I’m sorry, but I really, really need this job.
I’ve got a load of bills, and I’m not exactly made of money.
And hell, my break was only meant to be half an hour, and now I’m late, and I’m totally, totally getting sacked.
” I don’t quite wail, but the anxiety’s in my voice now too.
He flicks an eyebrow up. “I would have wagered that you were sacked already.”
“Now, now. It’s not my best night, I’ll give you that.
” I sigh, resigned. Sacked or not, there’s not much I can do about it at the minute.
I lean into the wall. “Well, someone’s going to notice that we didn’t come back.
Someone’ll investigate, probably. If we’re lucky.
Eventually. Or they’ll notice the circling birds after a few days. ”
He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes.
“I mean, like I said, I don’t know if there’s a custodian that lives here or anything like that. But obviously, someone does the caretaking around here, and I bet they’ll be around during the week—”
“How long do you think we’ll be trapped in here?” Florian’s voice rises in alarm, his hands dropping. He stares at me in horror. “It’s Saturday night!”
“Your guess is as good as mine. If we’re lucky, someone notices tonight. If we’re unlucky… it could be a couple of days.”
“A couple of days?” Aghast, Florian falls silent. He looks ill.
“Well, I mean, I hope not—maybe your friends will call a search party before then, if they’re good friends—”
“I have places to be—”
“Yeah, we covered that.”
“Fuck.”
“Fuck.” I sigh.
We can agree on that much at least: we’re fucked.