She’d already half forgotten him by the time she’d reached her door as he lingered in the hall waiting for her to go inside, and once she had, he turned towards the door that led to the stairs, smiling to himself as he descended them, heading towards the maintenance doors at the bottom.
If he was so inclined, he might have been whistling.
He wasn’t though, so he simply smiled instead.
Drake lay on the bed in the cheap hotel he was staying in, his arms crooked behind his head as he stared at the ceiling, listening to a couple in the room next door arguing through the paper thin walls.
The hotel was happy to rent rooms by the hour as well as by the day, so a steady stream of hookers and clients had made their way past his door in the last few weeks, and he was now used to the sounds of rushed lackluster sex, shouting and crying, bored female voices dirty talking like they were reading out the menu in a cafe, it all washed over him.
Background noise was easy enough to filter out when your mind was capable of focusing so intently on your goal.
Mireille…. Mimi Lefebvre… une belle femme.. déesse …. mon destin… ma vie.
Drake pointedly stayed away for the next week.
Now that she had noticed him, she’d notice that he wasn’t there… Which was more likely to make her acknowledge him when they did meet again.
Getting inside a persons head was easy.
Once you had one or two weak spots figured out, it was simply a case at making sure you were in the right place at the right time to become ingrained in their subconscious.
Too much exposure and he’d be as much a part of the furniture as the doorman, too little and he was a stranger, a person to be treated with caution.
Drake scrolled idly through the camera roll on his phone, each picture a different page of her PA’s diary, listing dates and functions to attend and he’d only messed up one so far, missed her because she’d left early with a headache.
Tonight though, tonight was going to be very, very important.
He straightened his tie, watching his reflection in the grimy mirror as he did, his dinner jacket made him look out of place in the hotel room, but he liked that. He never felt like he belonged anywhere anyway, except for the farm house, and with any luck, he’d be on his way there tonight.
Home in time for breakfast.
He smiled at his reflection, then left.
He watched her from across the room, taking note of the, false smile she had plastered to her lips as she spoke with the boorish looking man who kept speaking over her loudly, and when she happened to catch his eye, he felt the corner of his mouth twitch up at the look of trapped boredom on her face.
“Mireille..!” He smiled wide then, raising his hand a little in greeting as she smiled back at him, checked herself, closing her expression a little as if it wasn’t the done thing to be seen to show enthusiasm at seeing someone she knew.
He waited until she’d excused herself from the people she was talking with, and as she walked towards him, a slippery coil of pleasure rolled in his stomach.
It was so much better when they presented themselves to him.
“How lovely to see you.. Do you know Gustav?” He asked, referring to the painter who’s work was being showcased at this invite only show.
In a week’s time, Drake’s was a name she had nearly forgotten.
So many people passed through her life that she had developed the nasty little habit of throwing them away when they weren’t useful to her any more. That wasn’t to say she ever had a mind to be particularly manipulative, but she had friends for certain occasions, flirts here and there, girls to have brunch with, men who carried her bags--all which were, in the end, unimportant.
She was stricken, however, with a memory of him as she stepped onto the lift and realised the lack of his presence. She normally saw him somewhat regularly--they lived in the same building, after all. Maybe he’d gone on holiday.
It was a passing thought, and the only one she had of him until they met each other’s gazes at the gallery, and she smiled at him--too brightly at first--thankful for what would be a reprieve from the old men chattering on, and the women who were younger and more beautiful than her, with perky breasts and slim figures, who had less lines in their face and who made her feel insecure.
Stepping towards him in an elegant black Dior number, she smiled over her champagne flute which she held delicately between her fingers, thankful for his company. ‘Oh, um... We’re old friends, I suppose. We attended school together in Paris,’ she told him, glancing towards some of the paintings on the wall, all abstract and priceless, somehow. She loved art, but she never really understood it.
After a moment, her brows knitted slightly and she turned back to Drake with a little inquisitive smile. ‘How do you know him, Drake?’
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