MEETING MY MATCH (Part Two): LANDING THE CONTRACT
I waited in her office, legs stretched out in front of me, relaxing at the end of a busy day. I'd been chasing here and there for this deal, that deal, following up meetings and pencilling in new contacts. A fair bit of my work in between had been conducted on my Vodaphone – expensive though it was. Mobile phones didn't come cheap right now.
One day, I won't be chasing around all over the place for other people; they'll be chasing around after me
, I thought. Almost there. Just a few more pieces of the jigsaw to fall into place, a few more moves on the corporate chessboard. This contract – the one I was after – would help immeasurably in that direction.
The late meeting was my idea. I'd had one of the company secretaries make the arrangements on my behalf, not even giving my name – at least, not my full name – to enhance the element of surprise. Oh yes, I was exuding a deliberate air of confidence, but even I had to admit that, unusually for me, I was pretty knotted up inside, butterflies flitting around my empty stomach. Lunchtime had been several hours before. Current Yuppie wisdom might have it that 'lunch is for wimps', but only an idiot deliberately goes hungry thinking it gives them an edge in business. What does it look – sound – like if your tummy rumbles during the high-powered meeting to close the deal? Pretty damned stupid, that's how. Still, I was pretty sure that future business meetings would be conducted via some sort of computer link-up. Some Yank and Asian corporations already had their offices linked by a computer network, doing away with the need for so much face-to-face contact.
Her company obviously weren't that up on new technology – yet. On the way to her office after the genial old security guard named George on the front desk had checked my credentials and let me up in the elevator, I'd checked the number of VDUs in the main open plan office. Most of the blocks of desks didn't even have one VDU between them, let alone one per desk. There were more stick-on fuzzy bugs and houseplants in evidence than useful hardware. There was only one breezeblock shaped facsimile machine on a far table near the ancient looking photocopier, probably operated by only one or two 'trained' staff. Yes, the contract might be good for my company, but it'd help bring this one into the 1990s a bit sooner too. I'd see to that.
I looked around her private office. The vertical blinds were a nice touch – who likes working in a fish tank? But even she had just one VDU on a separate desk. The rest of the office was pretty…spartan. Production schedules and sales charts covered most of the walls, along with one piece of abstract art that could have been done by a two year-old. Two sturdy filing cabinets to one side and an in tray on her desk that was it. Apart from the closed filofax on the desk directly in front of her chair and the navy blue jacket on the back of the chair behind it, no hint of any personality, no human touches. No photographs, no kiddies' drawings, not even a friendly looking chipped mug. It was almost as if she was afraid that any hint of personality would diminish her standing in front of the staff – especially her superiors. Oh, I'd made a few discreet enquiries before setting up the meeting. Despite being just a few weeks off her 22
nd
birthday, she'd impressed her MD with her willingness to work long hours, her determination to break through that 'glass ceiling' or whatever it was they kept saying top businesswomen were hindered by. I figured she'd used a fair few female charms on the way up too. Knowing her MD, a shapely figure and a pert bosom was just as impressive as high sales figures and a well-stacked CV.
Idiot. The man had no real appreciation of women. Not like me. No finesse.
No
style.
It'd been the best part of three years since we'd last been together and it'd been something of a tearful farewell on her part. I had to admit, with hindsight, that I'd felt pretty badly about it since. Her parents were probably delighted. They never approved of me, blamed me for Star Daughter only getting
seven
A Levels at Grade 'A' and - shock horror –
three
at Grade 'B'. What a failure their daughter must have felt in their eyes!
It never mattered to them how happy she was, or how stylish I was, although I'd delighted in the gobsmacked looks on their faces when I'd called to pick her up in the Porsche. (I'd borrowed it from someone higher up the corporate ladder, but that didn't matter – it's all
presentation,
right? A matter of
style
).
But even then I knew we'd pick up the game one day, when we'd had other experiences to enhance that game.
I'd like to say that I'd engineered this meeting specifically for my own purposes, but I didn't. It was just coincidence that my company needed to get into bed with her company and she just happened to be handling the initial contract negotiations. So – pure luck really, but that's the game, you see? Sometimes you have to leave it to chance – the opportunities to resume playing often just present themselves. Gamblers would call it the wild card. Me, I'd play it as being all part of the master strategy and thus put her at a disadvantage to start with.
Play it cool, play it convincing.
Play it with
style.
I suddenly snapped out of my thoughts when I heard footsteps – obviously a woman's – clicking of higher heels, closer together – somewhat magnified by the emptiness of the open plan office. It was her, returning to her office from the bathroom or wherever she'd been. I couldn't sneak a glance out of her office window, as the blinds were drawn and besides, to do so would betray curiosity on my part. I'd see her soon enough, I could wait.
Style
, remember? I deliberately turned my chair around to face the sales charts on the far wall, my back now to her office door.
I heard the door open, felt the slight draught of displaced air. "Oh, I do apologise for keeping you waiting," she began, voice the same, yet different to how I remembered it, more – refined, more – in control. I liked that. A challenge then.
I rose slowly from my chair and turned to face her. She was extending one hand in greeting, whilst clutching a plastic cup of vending machine coffee (tacky) in the other. "Could I get you a coff –." The words froze in her mouth, which – to her obvious embarrassment – remained open.
I had time for a quick appraisal; same attractive face, framed by brown hair, now severely pulled back behind her head, leaving just a few delicate whisps either side of her cheeks and a tidy fringe. Same slim figure, well proportioned cleavage, all now packaged in a crisp, white blouse, collar buttoned up as was the style these days, and navy blue, mid-length skirt, obviously complementing the navy blue jacket on the back of her chair. No tights or stockings, as the weather had been warm lately and plain, black shoes with enough of a heel to look feminine, but short enough to be sensible.
I pretended not to notice as the plastic coffee cup left her hand and fell to the floor, splattering its muddy brown contents over the carpet, a few random spots peppering her sleek legs. To spare her embarrassment by the shock of seeing me again, I swiftly gripped her hand, detecting a slight tremble as I shook it, maintaining eye contact and smiling as I trotted out a few simple ice-breaking phrases, as though the whole thing was a complete surprise to me too (at least until she recovered her composure a little, then I could let on that I had engineered the whole meeting).
Just by the rapid flushing of her cheeks and the tremble in her hand, I could tell she was fighting her emotions and recalling our previous times together, the pleasures I had introduced her to, the concept of not just pushing the boundaries but smashing right through them, the liberation of being subjugated, to submitting to full, total, orgasmic enjoyment, learning to be fully
female
to my total male.
The pleasures, basically, of The Game.
I released her hand and she immediately pulled away, searching out a wad of tissues form one of her desk drawers. She crouched down and began to furiously mop at the spilled coffee, wittering on about how impressive my company's tender for the contract had been and how she felt this meeting would be interesting. I could tell she was babbling, just trying to avoid what was really on her mind; our last meeting, her tearful pleading to me not to leave her, to give it all another chance, and then her anger when I had coolly told her that it was all for her own good, that she needed to experience more of life, other relationships, gain a different perspective and then, one day perhaps, we could get together again and resume the game. Perhaps my final remark had hurt her most of all. As I recalled, she'd ended up screaming and swearing at me, calling me a cruel, arrogant bastard who didn't love anyone except myself. Thinking back, I wasn't quite sure
