Closer (9 page)

Everyone fell silent, as if the complexity and ingenuity of Sven’s design had hypnotized them, including Inez. 

“Okay, you win.  I’m sufficiently impressed,” Inez conceded.  It was perhaps the first honest thing she had said all night.  “But that doesn’t mean I don’t have the right to believe it would have been better off being built in Las Vegas.”

“And perhaps, more fitting,” Sven agreed.  “Especially since I’ve sold my soul along the way.”  His voice edged lower without hinting at irony or jest, and he touched his eyepatch like it was the physical manifestation of his submission to the dark side.

“Only half your soul…to be more precise,” Hans corrected him.

“Why only half?” Inez challenged him. 

“Because Watercross Capital owns half of The Spire,” Eliot interjected like it was obvious. “Van der Meer & Associates owns the other half—at least, until The Spire formally opens at the end of the week and we all sell our entire equity interest to Harvey Zale.”

“A small fortune to pay for your soul, Sven,” Hans added.  “Don’t you think?”

“We shall see,” Sven replied, his voice forlorn and moody.

“Well, if it is only half your soul, Sven,” Inez cut in, attempting to lighten the grim expression on his face.  “You can just cut off the rotting, blackened, gangrene half, and the new regenerated half will just grow back.  You know, like a liver or something.”

The table fell awkwardly silent, but Inez didn’t care.  All this talk of souls and real estate deals and bank loans was boring her to tears.

Delivering a plate full of croquetas, the waiter came her rescue. She grabbed one before he had a chance to set down the plate on the table and stuffed her face with it.  He placed her syrupy French Martini in front of her and she downed half of it, realizing it didn’t matter if she spilled it on her scarlet dress because it would blend right in. 
Thank you, Ebony
.

Then, the waiter set down a second plate of tapas onto the table.

“Morcilla, too?” Inez exclaimed.

Eliot arched his eyebrow. “It looks like you appreciate a good tapa when you see it.” He threw back his rum and watched as she shoveled half the morcilla ringlets onto her own plate.  “Sven, it’s a shame to make her starve.  Unlimited food and drinks is one of the many benefits of owning a restaurant.”

Eliot handed him the miniature menu.  Sven paused and slowly pushed it over to Inez.  She understood.  He couldn’t read it.

“What
are
those…exactly?” Celeste surveyed the black, bubbly consistency of each ringlet, as if she believed her approval mattered.

“Fried blood sausage.” Inez devoured two of them before closing her eyes and relaxing into her seat. 
Yum
.  When she opened her eyes, it was hard to decide which she savored more—something that reminded her of her father’s cooking, or the look of revulsion that contorted Celeste’s face.

“It’s definitely an acquired taste,” Hans said, enveloping Celeste’s hand to soothe her. 

“A taste for blood,” Eliot mused and rudely reached through them to stab a full ringlet for himself.  Like a brisk siren, his cell phone rang from inside his interior suit coat pocket.  He pulled it out and scanned the screen.  “Right on time.  Harvey Zale—” he announced before calling into the receiver with obnoxious flare. “Just the man we were talking about.”

Eliot strode away from the table and into the privacy of the corridor.

Celeste took the distraction as an opportunity to shift the conversation back onto Inez.

“I’m surprised to see she’s wearing your mother’s necklace, Sven.  I didn’t think you were the committed type.”

Inez watched them trade embittered glances. 

“I suppose I’ve just been waiting for the right woman,” Sven replied, cold and calculating. 

“Ah, I see.” Celeste tittered.  “And how did you two meet…exactly?” Celeste posed the question like an interrogation.

Inez glanced over at Sven.  She had bothered to set physical ground rules, but neither one of them had thought to hammer out the fake details of their fake relationship.  His steady unwavering eye gazed back at her. 
Clearly, he was thinking the same thing
.

“At the Art Institute,” she finally replied, as if it was the most natural answer in the world.

“Yes,” Sven encouraged her and raised his glass of gin to his lips—a signal that he was as interested in hearing how they met as Celeste was. 

“In the Impressionism rooms.” Inez sat up straighter in her seat and slipped off her bolero coat because she knew it accentuated her figure and cleavage and because from the very first moment they had sat down, she had noted that Celeste had none. 
Bitch
.

“It seems that Sven appreciates Monet as much as I do.  He’s even promised to take me to Giverny this month to celebrate our anniversary.”

Inez lifted her martini glass and gulped it down. 

“Your anniversary?” Celeste repeated. “How long could you possibly have known each other?”

Inez gazed into Sven’s eyes, wondering if he was going to come to her rescue.  But he seemed more amused than alarmed, and it inflated her confidence.

“It feels like a lifetime.” She sighed, feeling the relaxing effects of her martini spreading slowly down her neck and shoulders.

“So you just bumped into each other at the Art Institute?”  Hans interjected.

“Well, I’m always there for work,” Inez clarified.  “I’m an assistant curator at the museum.”

“At the Art Institute?” Celeste insisted, skeptically.

“Of course.” She shrugged off Celeste’s surprise like she was a total idiot and sipped again from her martini, wishing she could down the whole thing without having to pump and dump later that night.

Celeste narrowed her eyes.  It wasn’t the answer she expected.  Neither did Sven.

“Which department?” Celeste grilled her.

“Nineteenth century European paintings.”

“That’s a prestigious position, and you’re a little…young.”

Inez held her glare of skepticism.  “Maybe Sven isn’t the only genius at this table.”

Sven hand squeezed Inez’s hand under the table. 
Stop
.

Inez turned and smiled at him, sweetly. 
No fucking way
.

“Celeste is an art critic for
The Chicago Tribune
,” Sven clarified.

Inez peered at him, completely unfazed. “Really?  I thought all the major newspapers went bankrupt eons ago, especially something as old-fashioned as
The Tribune
.  I mean, it’s almost as uncool as Facebook.”

Sven peered at her with reprimanding silence.  Apparently,
now
, she had just crossed the line. 
Who knew Sven liked Facebook
?

“I just mean…you know,” Inez said with a malicious smirk.  “I’m a millennial.  Not many things hold our interest.”

“Well, tell us…what
does
hold your interest,” Celeste dared her with a final laser shot from her robotic blue eyes.

Inez popped the final morcilla ringlet into her mouth and chewed politely while gazing back at Sven and making it absolutely fucking clear that she was not going to be thrown under the bus by his wicked witch ex-girlfriend.

“In terms of art?  The new opening of the Klimt exhibit at the MOMA in New York City.  In the field of technology?  They just 3-D printed a new nose for a patient in Boston and performed the surgical transplant over the weekend.  Finance?  The volatility in the stock market is unparalleled because there’s so much oil being produced from fracking in South Dakota that it’s driving the world’s oil market into a tailspin.  Science? There’s a Swiss company that’s developing a new submarine to take private citizens down to the bottom of the Mariana Trench for the affordable rate of one million dollars—one way.  Or how ’bout mindless Hollywood pop culture?  I’ve heard that Lo and Law just wore the same vintage Versace dress to the Golden Globes and JLo won.  Go Latina power.”

Inez paused and slurped down the last bit of her wonderful French Martini.  When she sighed and looked up, she saw Sven peering at her. 

“Mariana Trench, really?” he asked.  “Sounds like something we should look into.”

“Deepest darkest place in the world’s ocean,” Inez confirmed.

He took her hand into his own, publicly and proudly, like he was sharing in her victory.  “Why waste so much time building the tallest building in the country when you can pay only one million dollars to travel to the bottom of the earth?”

“My sentiments exactly,” she replied, unexpectedly savoring the possessiveness of his hand, especially as Celeste’s saccharin smile turned downwards with consternation, as if seeing them hold hands gave her as much displeasure as weight gain.

“Well, kids… I hope you haven’t been having too much fun without me.”  Eliot’s booming voice rattled the expansive glass windows as he swaggered back into the lounge.  “That was Harvey Zale.  He wants reassurance that our deal is still in play.”

Sven’s expression darkened again and he released her hand.  Inez was starting to really despise this guy, Eliot Watercross.

“Which deal exactly?” Sven challenged him.  “To sell The Spire to Harvey Zale in exchange for cash?  Or in exchange for his contracts to build the Li Long Towers in Shanghai?”

“Come on, Sven,” Hans pressed him. “It wouldn’t be much fun if you just cashed out now without signing on to construct the tallest towers in the world.”

“Not much fun for me?  Or for both of you because you need me to design them?” Sven swept his hand across the nickel surface of the table like he desired to wipe away his own reflection.

“A design for which you’d be compensated.” Eliot popped an almond into his mouth.  “Handsomely.”

“You make it sound like making billions from selling The Spire isn’t enough?” Inez asserted.  It was none of her business, but she couldn’t contain herself.  Her boiling hatred for The Devil spurred her sassiness.

Eliot’s laughter thundered across the lounge as he stretched his long arm out across the silver edge of the bar, revealing his flashy gold watch accentuating his flashier pinky ring. 

“I’m an ambitious man, my dear.  I don’t want to own the tallest building in the city.  Or even own the tallest building in the country.  I want to own the tallest buildings in the world.  And I expect your boyfriend to help me.”

“What if I prefer to simply retain my equity ownership in The Spire?” Sven flung back.

“That’s understandable.” Eliot shrugged.  “The Spire is the pinnacle of your career.  You probably want to permanently hang it on your balance sheet like a trophy.  Unfortunately, your equity ownership in The Spire represents a minority interest, and decisions about its sale are decided by a majority vote.  And I own the majority.”  He popped several more almonds into his mouth and smiled slyly with a conspicuous crunch.

Sven’s jaw flinched.  “So you’re saying that I’m trapped.”

“You make it sound like a prison sentence, Sven,” Hans cut in.  “We’re talking about spearheading one of the most prestigious design projects in a decade.  Maybe even a century.”

Sven glared at his brother, as though he were the enemy.  “Except you don’t have a building without an architect who is willing and capable of designing it.”

“Our firm is called Van der Meer & Associates for a reason, Sven,” Hans asserted.  “I spent three years working on The Spire alongside you.”

“You worked under my direction,” Sven seethed.  “But it was always my design.  My lead.”

“Not during the time you took off after your injury and disappeared for months.” Hans shot back.  “Then it became my project.  My lead.”

Preparing for battle, Sven rose from the cushioned bench, asserting his commanding height and aggressive authority.

The room fell silent.  He touched his eyepatch and peered over at Celeste, then gazed back at Hans.  “You mean the injury caused by your betrayal?”

Hans’ chair screeched as he pushed it backwards and rose to challenge Sven. “I took from you what you took for granted.”

Inez watched each brother stare down the other, as if they were on the verge of throwing punches.

“Sven, please—” Celeste petitioned him with her sing-song voice.  “You came up with the perfect architectural solution for The Spire.  I have no doubt you’ll be able to do it again for the Li Long Towers.”

“You forget that when I designed The Spire, I had two good eyes.  Now, I only have one.”

Eliot slowly crossed the room and peered out across the skyline shrouded by nightfall. “Well, Sven…if you’re not capable of designing it, then maybe Hans is right.  Maybe the only thing the investors of the Li Long Towers are going to care about is the Van der Meer name.”

Inez slowly stood up from her seat.  The Devil’s veiled threat polarized the lounge like The Bermuda Triangle, threatening to imprison Sven and her within the magnetism of its menacing storm.

“Which means what?” Sven challenged him.  “You only need one of us to get the deal done and the other one is disposable?”