The Lost Crash

Her heels clicked on the marble floor. A chorus of “Morning Ms. Porters” echoed through the opening hall, as Elizabeth Porter entered her art gallery. Her a tailored tight fitting labelled dress suit exuded power and dominance as she strode upstairs. “Morning Bette,” James, her personal assistant, greeted her on her arrival outside her spacious office. “Your Starbucks and messages are on your desk. How was last night?” James asked with a grin, he was one of few that knew Elizabeth well enough to call her Bette and smile at her. “Fine James, she was an easy one, out of the house by six thirty.”

It was a well known fact in the art society of London that Elizabeth Porter was one mighty lothario in the female scene, leaving one if not two women in her trail on a weekly basis. And she enjoyed it, both the entailing relationships and the title it gave her. An hour later, a fresh cup of Starbucks coffee in hand, provided by James, Bette exited the board room and headed to her office. “Uhm, Bette,” James said catching her attention, “the Kiki Smith prints have arrived downstairs and the  James Carpenter sculpture is now down in the foyer.” “Thank you James, I’m heading down there now. Bette with authoritarian grace moved down through her gallery.

The Starbucks flew everywhere. The sound of cracking glass rippled through the foyer and the splashes of murky brown streaked across crisp white Italian shirt. Bette’s body collided with another. The heel now slipped on the marble floor with a crunch as the broken glass beneath slid too. A body seemed to grab and grasp with lithe fingers at something to hold. But it was the silence following it all that permeated the hall. Bette picked herself up from the floor, circling her ankles to check for a breakage. Swallowing hard, she turned on the guilty. “What on earth were you -” and she stopped.

Collecting herself she spoke. “James, call Mr. Carpenter, telling him what happened to his piece and call the cleaners.” Elizabeth then turned to the still silent blonde in front of her, covered in a mixture of glass and coffee. “I’m sorry, I’m Bette Porter,” she said, hoping that her tone had suggested the blonde return the naming favour. Finally raising her eyes to the brunette in front of her, “Uhm, Tina, Tina Kennard.” Bette’s voice hitched, catching sight of those eyes. They were glazed over and almost ready to spill. She spoke. “Right Ms. Kennard, well would you like to follow me up to my private bathroom, which is at your disposal.”