Waiting . . .
(Follows on from here)
Ceri made her way down the stairs from the apartment to her office. Cantilevered over the floor of the club, with its darkly tinted glass, patrons assumed it was some kind of super-exclusive VIP room and no one disabused them of this notion.
The office offered a handy view of almost every part of the club, and a quick glance told her Calvin was not there. A tiny frown crossed her forehead and instantly disappeared. He was most likely out roaming the streets, and would no doubt return soon enough. After all, the night was still young.
She took a seat at her desk and made a start on the inevitable paperwork in the in basket. The club was owned publically by a corporation headed by two people who looked very different to her and Calvin, people who had identities that quite legitimately dated their births within the last half century.
A necessary fiction, of course. After all, the passports under which they had entered this country were in different names altogether. Not to mention dating from a time earlier than either of them wished to admit to. A good lawyer who knew how to keep his mouth shut could supply them with identification that more closely matched their apparent ages. Still, it didn't do to have their faces too well know - a talent for changing their appearance saw to that.
On paper, Ceri and Cal owned nothing, and did nothing. Their means of support was a stream of income that had been thoroughly sanitised through overseas banking institutions that specialised in that sort of thing. Another set of names paid the appropriate income tax on it - today's governments were a bit more sophisticated than those of earlier times, and it wouldn't do to fall afoul of them. That would cause questions to be asked - questions she would prefer not to answer.
Tossing the last item of work into the out basket, she gave the club another glance. More patrons now, as the night progressed, and still no Calvin. For a brief moment she considered reaching out to touch his thoughts, to find out where he was, and quickly dismissed the notion. He was obviously up to something meant either to surprise her or not to worry her, and she didn't want to spoil it . . . whatever "it" was.
She left the office and descended to the club via the wrought iron spiral staircase, the heels of her stilettos making tiny clicks on the metal treads, and headed towards the booth in the back of the club's real VIP area. The table bore a small gold "Reserved" sign always - after all, she and Calvin should always have the best table. This one too gave a view of almost all the club, and kept their backs to the wall while they could see the door. One didn't get to the age they had by being careless, after all.
One of the waitresses arrived soon after she had sat down, with a glass of her favourite red wine. Another perk of ownership - all the wait staff knew their favourite wine, from a tiny obscure vineyard in Europe, and Calvin's preferred brand of scotch.
She sat back against the padded booth and sipped her wine, watching the club and waiting.