Overlooked(1)(150)

The wind nips at my heels today and I wrap my coat tighter around myself. It’s a chilly day – not yet cold enough to bring on the wrath of winter, but not warm enough to turn off the heaters or unwrap the coats. It’s my favorite time of year – it has a way of cleansing the city, leaving it feeling fresh and crisp in a way that I could never have imaged before coming here.

It feels like it is blowing away the soot and dirt of the world, and leaving it scrubbed fresh and new. I enjoy it and work seems to pick up around this time. I glance at the building in the distance. It’s a tall, imposing sort of building with mirrored windows. It is completely impersonal. Funny, because that’s the opposite of what I do.

I make my way into the building, the doorman nodding at me when I step inside. At the elevator, I push the button to the tenth floor and let it do its thing, grateful for the silence, for the fact that I am alone in this elevator. I turn and check myself in the mirrored walls. A little windswept. I smooth back my hair and straighten my jacket.

The elevator dings and I step out into the corridor, making my way to my office. It’s a small space, seeing as this is a privately rented office. But it works for appointments with my clients, and that is really all that I need it for. I unlock the door and step into the room. Simple waiting room space, leading into a clean office with minimalistic décor, clean lines and a desk with three chairs. One for me, two for my clients.

I flick on the coffee machine and let the scent fill the room. I take off my coat and drape it neatly over the back of my chair. A legal pad and a pen follow, placed on my desk.

I sit, unpack my laptop and fire it up. It doesn’t take me long to get into my emails, and I do a bit of digging on this job. It seems simple enough, and I am not feeling very worried about it. It seems like it will be straightforward. Easy money.

Then it’s just a case of waiting until they show up. I glance at the clock. A few minutes to go.

Pouring myself a cup of coffee, I take a moment to admire the artworks that decorate the wall. Simple, sedate landscapes that I am quite fond of, and my clients don’t deem as too emotive. This is meant to be a calm space, a relaxed and professional environment where my clients can speak to me in the strictest of confidentiality.

A knock on the door catches my attention and I set down my coffee with a small smile. Time to do what I do best.

I pull open the door.

“Mr. Jones’s office?” The man in front of me is an older gentleman, dressed in a suit that is obviously not cut to fit him. The watch on his wrist highlights wealth, as do the diamonds that drip from the woman beside him. His wife, I presume. It’s my job to be observant, very observant.

“Mr. and Mrs. Samuel. Please, come in.” I step back graciously to let them past, “Please take a seat in my office.” I lead the way to my desk, taking care to shut the door behind them. I pull out the seat for Mrs. Samuel.

“Coffee?” They both nod and I go to the machine and pour out two cups. The silence and the smell of coffee linger in the air. It’s comforting – to me at least. It also gives my clients time to collect themselves before we talk – take out any paperwork and that kind of thing.

It’s a ritual that works time and time again – the social connotations of talking over coffee. A way to ensure that my clients talk more, give more answers, let me into their motivations a little more. It just makes my job so much easier.

“Sugar and cream?” I enquire with a smile, glancing at them.

“No, thank you.” Mr. Samuel answers almost coldly and I make a mental note of it. Remember what he drinks and how he takes his coffee – you’ll come across as more personable later, which is just what I want.

“Cream and two sugars.” Mrs. Samuel answers. I hear an almost distressed edge to her voice and I understand that this is big deal for her, probably in more ways than one. I wonder where they both fit in to all this. After stirring the sugar and cream into Mrs. Samuel’s coffee, I set them both down on the table.

I grab my own coffee, giving them another moment, listening to the sound of clinking cups and the dull thud of one being put on the table, before I turn and take my own seat.

“Now… what can I help you with?”

Mr. Samuel purses his lips, “Mr. Jones, if I may speak very frankly…”

His wife glances at me, almost nervously. I can see the displeasure radiating from the both of them. “I am in charge of a trust fund for my nephew, and I have been for many years now.”

I nod, paying close attention to what he is saying, as well as how he says it. Reading people is an art, but it is vital in this business.