William
Baxter crosses the floor, his sharp steps echoing in the marble foyer. The
security guard looks up and touches his cap and Baxter gives him a cursory nod
of recognition. Baxter always acknowledges security even though most
of them indulge the rumour that he murdered his mother. Baxter knows that when
you have a reputation as a man who pulls off impossible deals and bankrupts
other business malicious gossip is always rife. He’s learnt to live with
rumours, sometimes they even make him laugh, but most of the time Baxter just
shrugs them off as inconsequential gossip. As for the rumour he murdered his
mother – it’s one he quite enjoys.
Baxter
ignores the fanciful stares of two secretaries returning from lunch and hurries
towards the exit, securing the buttons on his cashmere coat with one hand and
stealing a glimpse at his Rolex on the other. Time is of the essence. He pushes
the revolving doors with an impatient thrust, exposing his crisp white shirt
cuffs and gold cufflinks. A limousine pulls up outside, light ricocheting off
its polished silver fender. Baxter has fifteen minutes to travel the four
blocks to Saviour Investments. He’s decided to make them an offer they can’t
refuse. It’s a more generous proposition than he’d normally make but, since he
made a killing on the stock exchange this morning, he’s feeling almost
philanthropic. The driver opens the car door and Baxter quickens his pace once
more when a sudden impact throws him off-balance and sends him staggering
backwards.
“For
fuck’s sake!” curses Baxter, straightening up and preparing to give his
assailant a lashing of abuse. But there’s no suited employee to take the brunt
of his anger, only a dishevelled young woman lying on the sidewalk.
“Mr
Baxter,” says his driver. “Let me deal with it…”
“No,
no. It’s fine. I’ll see to it,” says Baxter, waving his driver away.
Baxter
inspects the woman, making a quick appraisal of her worn heels, tired skirt and
saggy jumper. He’s distracted from the spilled contents of her handbag by her
skirt which has ridden up exposing the smooth creamy flesh of her legs splayed
wide on the dirty concrete. The desire for academic victory over Saviour seems
less urgent as Baxter feels the stirrings of unexpected lust.
“I’m
sorry, I didn’t see you,” says the woman.
Tearing his eyes away from the naked skin and hints of flimsy underwear, Baxter notices the
dark glasses askew on a youthful face with a surge of disappointment. He
distrusts people, particularly women, who wear sunglasses especially when it’s
dull and overcast. He wonders what the woman may be hiding: puffy eyes from a
sleepless night, a bout of tears or something else? He remembers his mother’s
cutting asides dispensed from behind her designer glasses, a cigarette poised
at her lips. Defence or attack? He’s never quite sure.
As
Baxter surveys the scene, he spots an unmistakable object on the sidewalk and
admonishes himself for not being more observant. His fastidious nature means he
normally notices even the smallest details including the unintentional vocal
nuances and facial grimaces which, in the boardroom, have put him one step
ahead of the pack. But today he has been too preoccupied with thoughts of
subjugation as, not only did he not see the woman, but he did not see her white
cane.
“Hello…hello?”
says the woman, her voice wavering.
Words stick
in Baxter’s throat for a moment as the woman briefly tilts her head to one side
before turning to scrabble around for the missing cane and the scattered contents of her bag.
“I
was in a hurry and didn’t see you either,” says Baxter, kneeling on the floor.
At the same time as Baxter regrets the dirt on his pants, he’s aware of an
emotion he has not felt for a long time. So long, he is not even sure it still
existed.
“I
thought you’d left,” says the woman, turning back towards him.
“No…I
was winded,” replies Baxter. He picks up her bag, reaches for her hand and
guides it so she can drop her collection of possessions back inside the bag. “I’m fine now. Are you?”
“Yes.
I was just disorientated for a moment,” says the woman.
Baxter likes
the fact she hasn’t demonized him or referenced her blindness. He picks up the
remaining articles and deposits them alongside the others, a fleeting glimmer
of curiosity passing over his face as he absorbs the information they reveal:
Mary
Anne Whitmore.
Baxter
picks up the cane, places it in Mary Anne’s hand and holds her by the other.
“Let
me help you up. Ready now? One, two, three!”
Baxter pulls
Mary Anne to her feet. He doesn’t
release her hand but studies her as she steadies herself; she’s taller than he
expected and with decent heels she’d meet his gaze at eye level. Her hair is
thick and long but in need of a stylist and, whilst she’s not obviously
beautiful, she has features that accentuated by the right makeup would make
other women jealous and other men licentious.
“Thank
you,” says Mary Anne, pulling her hand out of his grasp.
“I
should make up for my clumsiness,” says Baxter with deliberation. “Do you like
Italian?”
“No need,” replies Mary Anne. “It was an
accident.”
“I
won’t take no for an answer,” says Baxter. “Please accept my offer by way of an
apology. If you prefer, we could make it French or Thai.”
“I
have an appointment.”
“Whatever
it is, I’m sure it can wait,” says Baxter.
“No…it
can’t,” says Mary Anne and turns away, her cane leading the way.
Baxter
watches Mary Anne feel her way down the sidewalk. He’s intrigued by her
stubbornness and her blindness but his fleeting compassion dissolves as she
merges with the crowd. As she disappears completely, he wipes the dust from his clothes and realizes he’s aroused by idea that she can’t see him for who he
really is.
*****
Comments welcome. Good, bad, indifferent I want to know, so I get this story bang on!
