Meeting Stella

When Gary opened his eyes, he was lying on the most comfortable and luxurious carpet he had ever encountered. In the dim light, he could see it was the color of tobacco, with flecks of gold and rust throughout. It smelled faintly of coconut or chocolate chip cookies. A slight motion drew his attention to a red leather boot mere inches from his face.

“Do you like them?”

Gary flinched and tried to stand up. Too late he realized his body wasn’t cooperating. Back to the carpet he went.

“Take your time, Mr. Forester.” The female voice again. “I think my staff may have overdone it with the drugs.”

He tried again, moving more slowly, deliberately. Now he was in a chair that was all wood and leather and right angles. It seemed as if the world was coming to him from a great distance, like watching a movie that was playing in another room.

Something cold was pressed into his hand. “Drink this. It should clear your head.”

He sipped something bubbly and sweet. It helped. The expensive European light fixtures and severely plain concrete walls began to coalesce into something called an office. The woman sitting in the chair in front of him was someone he was supposed to meet.

How did he get here?

“There we go.” The woman was talking to him. No, not to him. To someone standing behind him. “I can take it from here. Thank you Tin Tin.” A murmured response followed by a door opening and softly latching.

“You never did answer my question, Mr. Forester,” the woman said. “Do you like my boots?” The last said as she adjusted the nearest leg of her expensive suit to allow the light to rest on the full length of the red leather. “They are Japanese, you know. Hand crafted. Do you see the arch where the heel connects to the sole? That curve is exactly the shape needed to make the heel seem impossibly long and thin without turning these things into torture devices.”

Now that his attention was under his control, he noted she was right. The boot had a spike on it that looked like it would be impossible to balance on and seriously unpleasant to be under.

“The man who makes these is extremely good at what he does. One of the best in the world. Do you know how he managed to become one of the best in the world, Mr. Forester?”

Gary started to answer, but she moved her hand in a dismissive gesture that made it all too clear the question was rhetorical. “He became one of the best by paying attention to details. Every aspect of these boots is a feat of engineering and art, from the leather that is soft but not too soft, to the stitching that provides both support and shape without interfering with the material itself. Details, Mr. Forester. It is all about the details.” Blue eyes held his gaze, further confused his thoughts.

He cleared his throat. “Uhm, where am I?”

The woman threw back her head and gave a laugh that sounded like a barbarian war call. She seemed to compose herself with some difficulty before leaning forward and extending her hand.

“I am Stella Broadstreet, Mr. Forester. You may call me Director Broadstreet if you like. I believe we had a meeting this afternoon.”

Stella’s grip was bone crushing, her skin like hard leather. Gary groaned in spite of himself.

He did in fact have a meeting scheduled with Stella. She was the director of the Collegium’s new Central Project Management Office. They were the people with the deadlines and meetings and customer satisfaction surveys. They were never happy with the way things were going.

Three days ago, he had received an invitation from Stella. It had been hand printed on sturdy vellum in subtle shades of cream and cognac. There were instructions not to bring any electronic devices to the meeting, which was to be in the CPMO offices—a redundancy that was the subject of no small number of jokes around the campus.

It had been snowing most of the morning, and the meeting location was in the basement of the most distant building from 615 Locust. Time had gotten away from him. He had underestimated how long it would take to make the walk. When he had arrived, he had been cold and wet and late.

The CPMO offices seemed to be modelled on old fashioned ice cream shops. There were huge expanses of black and white marble tile. Brass lamps with green glass shades dotted the landscape with inviting pools of light. Red leather chairs and marble-topped tables completed the design. A period counter of white marble and carved wood was occupied by an Asian woman in a starched white blouse and black skirt who took his invitation and directed him to a table that already had a cup of coffee waiting for him.

It was incredibly good coffee. According to the fact sheet on the serving tray, the blend was made from seven different batches of single origin beans. The exact quantity of each kind of bean was determined at the time of brewing so that each cup was perfect based on the current temperature, humidity, age of the beans, and other coffee-related esoterica.

Shortly after the first cup, Gary had started to relax. Warmth had spread back to his fingers and toes. His irritation with the weather had eased. He had been thinking about his grandfather and trips to the ice cream parlor on Main Street. Had there been a second cup of coffee?

Gary’s thoughts finally caught up with the present. He had been drugged! Broadstreet had told him exactly that. She was staring at him, studying him, with a bemused expression on her face.

“Oh good,” she said. “I can see you are finally back with us. I will have to have a discussion with Tin Tin about the dosage. But you were tardy. I can hardly blame her. Can I get you a brandy?”

When she stood, Gary could see just how tall and solid she was. She looked like she could play rugby. Yet each move she made had a sort of fluid grace to it. She was an Amazon princess in a power suit.

She poured a small amount of amber fluid into a delicately carved crystal glass, looked at him and shrugged. Replacing the bottle on its lacquered tray, she reclaimed her chair, sitting forward so she could look him in the eye.

“Let me get right to it, Mr. Forester. The Division of IT is re-branding itself, again, for all the good it will do anyone. You and your team are supposed to be in charge of marketing for the Division. Yet you are using one of my web designers. Do not interrupt me when I am talking, Mr. Forester.” She arched her eyebrows and gestured with her glass to make sure she had made her point. Gary closed his mouth.

“She is my designer because she is needed on several projects for the Division. Projects that my team is charged with bringing to completion on time.

“Your project is not on schedule, Mr. Forester. You are jeopardizing my office and my web designer’s reputation. I need to know you are going to be back on track by Monday.”

Gary sighed. “Well you see, Stella, it’s like this.”

He never saw her move. One minute he was sitting in the chair. The next he was on the floor, staring at those red boots.

“Look, Mr. Forester,” she said with an air of regret. “I appreciate this whole hippie earth goddess thing you have going on. I really do. In fact, if I didn’t have to be here helping you clean up your mess, I would be sitting by the river, in the snow, blasting some Grateful Dead and smoking a cigar. But I am here with your mess. So I am going to make this clear enough even you can understand it. Sit your ass in that chair and listen very carefully.”

She waited just long enough for him to crawl back into the rigid confines of the chair before continuing. “First, you will refer to me as Director Broadstreet. Second,” she began ticking items off on her fingers, “you are going to shave that ridiculous goat beard and start presenting yourself the way the Division’s Director of Marketing should. Third, you are going to hire some people who can handle tasks more complicated than designing signs for holiday parties in that monstrous building you work in. Fourth, you are going to give Bethany clear design guidelines so she can do her job and get back to doing useful things for the campus. Fifth and final, you are not going to tell anyone about this meeting. Are we clear?”

Gary wanted to yell at her, to tell her that he was going to have her arrested. That would likely result in another encounter with the carpet. He just needed to get back to safety and call the police. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “Sure, Director Broadstreet. We have an understanding about what is going to happen in the next few days.”

Stella’s stance changed immediately. Suddenly she was smiling warmly at him, helping him out of the chair. “Splendid! I am so glad to hear it. Mark my words, Mr. Forester. Your life is about to turn around. Tin Tin and my team are going to take you down the hall to my personal stylist to help you with that hair situation. No no, don’t thank me. Then someone will get together with you to plan your weekend. If you start tonight, I think you can have most of this cleared up by Monday. You may even get to sleep Sunday Night. Have a great weekend!”

And then Gary was guided gently but firmly down the hall by the efficient Tin Tin.

“Could I get you a coffee, Mr. Forester? It is going to be a long night I think.”