The Image of Christian - Extract

 

He might as well be comfortable waiting for Grace, presuming Grace existed. Christian chose a bench near the junction of two main paths and sat on a bench. The park was alive with people, but most were only passing through, journeying from one part of the widespread University of Toronto campus to another. He opened the cardboard cup of coffee he'd bought at the subway station and took a sip. It was dreadful but drinkable.

A cluster of students debating the logic of the registration process drifted past. One joked that getting properly enrolled was a secret test. If they got the right pieces of paper to the appropriate places within the time allotted, their academic success was guaranteed. That earned a collective, nervous laugh. Christian smiled to himself. In the years since he'd graduated, the jokes hadn't changed.

He put down his coffee and leaned back on the bench to enjoy the morning. It was warm for the middle of September; the smell of freshly mown grass mingled with the scent of the nearby flowers, neatly planted in rectangular beds. A black squirrel scuttled past, then stopped to see if Christian had any squirrel treats. It gave him a baleful look when none were forthcoming and continued on to investigate a garbage can. When Christian took the printout of the Internet job posting he'd replied to from his pocket, the squirrel looked back. Still seeing no food, it sat on its haunches and delivered a short squirrel curse before continuing about its business.

Christian read the ad again. "Generalist: DOS/Dostoevsky. Seeking adventure? If you know something about computers, literature and the social sciences, send me your resume. Also, explain what DOS and Dostoevsky have in common and how they differ." The sender's name was purportedly Grace X Machina.

He wasn't looking for adventure, just a job, but he had the qualifications, such as they were. He had replied, "Dostoevsky wrote The Idiot and didn't make much of a living. I'm not sure what idiot wrote the original DOS, but someone who didn't made a fortune from it. Both DOS and Dostoevsky are now considered largely of historical interest, although I disagree, and think they are both still relevant. My resume follows..."

Grace's response was that if he was in the park between eleven and twelve, she would find and interview him. Which sounded as unlikely as her name. Christian suspected a prank. However, since the alternative was to spend another day in his shoebox apartment, contacting companies at random to solicit work, he'd decided to chance being played for a sucker.

It was proving a good decision. Not only was it a lovely day, but the scenery was excellent. His eyes wandered to a rangy woman in white tights, sauntering along on the grass. That wasn't illegal, merely unusual; in Toronto most people kept to the paths. There wasn't anything ordinary about this woman, though, and from the way she moved, she knew it. Luxuriant red hair spilled down her shoulders and over her halter-top. Her stride had the confidence of experience. Christian tore his eyes away to again admire the flowers. They looked as before.

Another glimpse of the woman would be far more interesting. It would make both of them happy. Only a few feet away now, she met his eyes, smiled, and stopped.

"Registering?" Christian asked.

"No, but nice try." The expression on her angular face put Christian in mind of a fox viewing unguarded chickens. "I'm not a student," she continued. "I have, however, done considerable research in postgraduate biology."

To look up and meet her eyes (pale green, fading into nothing), he had to ignore the scanty top jutting into his field of vision. Quickly recognizing the impossibility of that, he stood. She was even taller than he'd thought, barely less than his six feet four.

What to say to a goddess? "Sorry if I was staring. I'm waiting for someone I don't know. I don't know you, so I was checking to see if you were looking for someone." His words sounded lame. Christian felt a flush of embarrassment spread over his face. When he faced a beautiful woman, his brain always tied itself in knots, and his tongue went numb.

Her eyes met his. Her smile said that he was at her mercy, and they both knew it. She put her snakeskin briefcase on the bench by his abandoned coffee. A flick of her head sent long hair swaying; it brushed Christian and made him shiver.

She grinned. Even her teeth were perfect. "Another feeble excuse. You don't think any better on your feet, do you? Well, while I'm tempted to take advantage, I must admit I'm not your blind date." She moved closer until only a breath separated them.

"It's not a date. I answered a help-wanted ad..." He found himself babbling the story. He couldn't read her expression; he wasn't sure if she was interested or amused, and wasn't sure he cared.

"If you think it's a joke, come with me."

Christian shook his head. "No, I'll wait until noon. I made a commitment."

"Oh, how disappointing. I own several businesses myself, and I can always accommodate a strong, handsome man like you. Don't you want to come?" She touched Christian's arm. He gasped; her hand felt like an iron, branding his flesh. Another head shake was the most articulate response he could manage.

She withdrew her hand, stepped back, and bent to retrieve her briefcase, treating him to the depths her top contained. She hesitated, her other hand on his coffee. "You going to drink this?"

Another head shake. "No. It's probably cold by now." He tried, but he couldn't keep his eyes on hers. Her breasts were magnificently full.

"Then throw it out." She kept the cup as she straightened. "Unless you feel obliged to drink it. You must have intended to when you bought it."

"That's different," he answered, taking the cup from her.

"I'm not so sure," she responded. "Well then, may I?" Her pale eyes flickered towards the garbage can and back.

"Be my guest." He offered her the unwanted coffee.

Her hand lingered on his as she took it. "But you're still sure you don't want to come with me instead of waiting around?"

"It what I have to do."

 "Very well then." After depositing the coffee in the garbage can, she took a business card from her case and gave it to Christian. "So be it. Some other time then. I must run."

She didn't quite run. Christian glanced at the card. "Lucille M. Firman, Subterranean Enterprises--Sole Proprietor." She had a toll-free phone number. The only address was for e-mail. Interestingly, her address was at efigments.com, just like that of the mysterious Grace.

"Lucille!" he called. "You didn't get my name."

She stopped and looked back. "I'm Lucy to my friends. Do get in touch, Christian. Soon." She hurried on.

She knew his name? He must have introduced himself and forgotten, befuddled by her head-clouding presence. Christian slipped the card into his shirt pocket and admired Lucy's rapid yet unhurried departure. She flowed effortlessly, red hair swinging. Her tights fit like skin, leaving little to the imagination. Christian imagined all the same.

As Lucy reached the road at the edge of the park, a black limo pulled up in front of her. She got in without looking back. Christian filed a salacious daydream in the corner of his mind, to be dealt with later. If the interview with this purported Grace turned out to be a joke now, he doubted he'd appreciate the humour. But if so, he could always contact Lucy. He suspected he would anyway. Or if he didn't, she would contact him. She had the aura of someone who got what she wanted, or else. If she wanted him, however improbable that might seem, he was doomed.

But what a doom! Christian couldn't keep Lucy's image tucked away and got lost in a replay of her approach. This time he stood and took a step towards her. Without a word she melted into his arms and pressed against him, her body searing his...

"Christian?"

He wrenched himself away from Lucy. A short, dark woman in a brilliant red pantsuit stood in front of him, smiling. Slung over one shoulder was an immense purse.

"Yes? Oh! You must be Grace." It wasn't his day for making good first impressions.

"Indeed I must." She swung her bag onto the bench. "No, don't bother standing," she continued as she sat. Christian hadn't moved. "The weight of that darn thing gets to be too much after a while." She peered into it. "Here now, your resume's on top. Since you're sitting in front of me, I don't need it." She crumpled the paper into a ball and flipped it over her shoulder in the general direction of the trash bin. The wind caught it and deposited it dead centre. "The job's yours. Oh yes, my card." Her arm went elbow-deep into the bag.

Her card could have been from the same discount printer as Lucy's: "Grace X Machina, consultant", a local phone number, and the efigments.com address he'd written to earlier. It didn't tell Christian anything he needed to know about his prospective employer, but as Grace had said of him, she was here, and he could ask.

Grace held up a hand. "Wait. I hope you were about to accept, but I do have reservations. For lunch. I don't want to pressure you, so I won't ask for your answer until after."

"Thank you." Christian took out his wallet and put Grace's card in where folding money was supposed to go. He considered transferring Lucy's card from his pocket and decided against it. If Grace noticed, he might have to tell her about his encounter with Lucy, and he wasn't sure he could. He wasn't sure what had happened, if anything, or whether Lucy's proposition had been long term, or short. He did know he needed gainful employment more than he needed sex and that Grace's offer was unequivocal. He couldn't afford to turn her down.

"Come along now." Grace stood, grabbed her purse, and started to walk in one fluid motion.

"What sort of consultant are you, Grace?" Christian asked when he caught up.

"I've been called many things, but I prefer not to label myself. People tell me their dreams; if I like them and believe in them, I encourage them to pursue their dream and introduce them to others who can assist. When they succeed, I get ten percent." She gave a trilling laugh. "The better part of success is surrounding yourself with the right people." She smiled; her teeth were as perfect as Lucy's. "As part of that, I do personnel searches. I expect to be asked to start one today, but I'm going to be away from Toronto for a while, so I need someone to stand in for me. You."

"What will I do as your stand-in?"

Grace grabbed his hand and pulled him to an abrupt halt. "How would I know? You'll be the one doing it." Her purse bumped him. "Trust your instincts and do what you feel is right. I'm hiring you because you have good sense and a good heart."

That wasn't on his resume. And she obviously didn't know him at all, didn't know what a mess he'd made of his life.

"And don't doubt yourself." Grace took his other hand. "Your decisions will have my blessing, whatever they are, okay?"

"Why?"

"Someday you'll be able to answer that question for yourself. Right now I want my lunch. Chez Celeste awaits."