I notice his eyes first.
His features are handsome in an unremarkable, conventional way. His dark blond hair is worn slightly long, curling up at his shirt collar, and styled with more product than I care for. But those eyes! The irises are the most unusual colour I have ever seen, and one I would struggle to describe. They are too light to be brown; more a sort of café-au-lait colour. Or taupe, like chamois leather, with a ring of amber flecks around the edge of the coloured part. He has a faint tan and every single cell of his body emits vitality and good health. And confidence.
We’re sharing a lift on the way down from the top floor of the Ellwood Archer building in Silvertown, on the north bank of the Thames. I’ve been meeting an executive assistant to negotiate for my company, Comida, to provide a series of directors’ lunches. If the plan comes off, it will be a major step up for my little catering business. So I’m smiling when the man steps into the lift after me, just as the doors slide shut. Even though it’s not aimed at him, he automatically smiles too.
He’s dressed in a suit that’s a little too small for him, his tie slightly off-centre. This, and the awkward way he manhandles his briefcase, suggests that he isn’t someone for whom business dress is the norm.
‘Where to?’ he asks.
‘Ground, please.’
This should have been the sum total of our interaction, except that the lift then unexpectedly jolts and grinds to a halt. The man presses the buttons repeatedly and, when nothing happens, hits the alarm button.
A disembodied voice comes over the intercom. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Um… we’re stuck.’
‘Which floor, please?’
‘Between 12 and 13, I think.’
‘Hold on one moment…’
There is a brief silence, during which the man and I exchange puzzled glances, then the speaker crackles into life again.
‘I’ve got our engineer looking at it: if you can hold tight, it should only be a few minutes.’
The man turns to me with a dazzling smile. ‘You ever been stuck in a lift before?’ He has a faint accent, which I can’t quite place.
I shake my head, clutching my trench coat and bag primly across the front of my body.
He extends a hand. ‘Dominic Gill. Nice to meet you.’
I shake it. ‘Alice Palmer.’
‘You work here?’
‘No, I’ve been for a meeting. I run a catering company, and I’m hoping to do some functions for Ellwood Archer.’
‘Wow, impressive.’ He smiles at me again, and it’s all I can do to prevent myself from staring at his eyes. ‘Being in charge of your own company, I mean.’
‘Well, it’s only small.’ My default setting, as always, is modesty. The deflection of compliments. ‘I’ve only recently started it.’
‘Even so.’
‘How about you?’ I’m keen to divert his attention and his intense gaze. ‘Do you work here?’
‘No, not yet. But I hope to soon. I’ve just been for an interview.’
‘How did it go?’ I ask, more to pass the time than because I’m really interested. Although, there is something arresting about him.
‘Oh, you know… it seemed to go fine, but it’s always hard to tell. And it’s been a while since I’ve done an office job. I’ve been working on the more… hands-on side of construction.’
I look down at his hands, emerging from the too-small suit jacket. They’re tanned and weathered, with traces of ingrained dirt round his fingernails.
The lift judders into life again, and a few seconds later, we’re on the ground floor. As the lift doors open, I turn to him again. ‘Good luck with the job.’ I begin to stride off through reception towards the street doors, with Dominic in my wake. I sense, rather than see, him hurrying to catch up with me.
‘Fancy grabbing a coffee?’
I hesitate. He looks straight back at me, engaging full eye contact.
‘Maybe just a quick one. I really ought to get back to the office and write up my notes.’
We find a café on Albert Road, near the turning for London City Airport.
‘So…’ Dominic wastes no time in launching into an interrogation, ‘are you married?’
I shake my head. ‘No.’
‘And do you live round here?’
‘I’ve got a house in Queen’s Park.’
‘A whole house?’
‘A whole house, just for me.’ I look down at my hands, at my left ring finger where the engagement ring used to be. ‘I’m very lucky. I inherited some money.’
The taupe eyes narrow slightly. ‘A lot of responsibility for you, though, the upkeep and so on. Not sure I’d be up to it, especially not in this market.’
‘Did you grow up in London?’ A waiter brings over cups of cappuccino and I grab mine, grateful to have something to do with my hands. This man’s directness is making me distinctly uncomfortable.
Dominic shakes his head. ‘Scotland.’
He’s Scottish. That would explain the hint of an accent.
‘I’ve not lived here long – and I won’t be able to stay much longer unless I start making some serious money.’ He smiles slightly, as though realising this sounds crass.
‘Well, hopefully you’ll get the job at Ellwood Archer.’
‘That’s the plan…’ He tugs off his tie, shoving it into his jacket pocket and unbuttoning his collar. ‘That’s better. Hate wearing these bloody things. So, you really live alone in this house of yours?’
Again, the bluntness is unsettling. I look down at my hands again. ‘Yes… Look, sorry but I really ought to go.’ I stand up, slopping my half-drunk coffee into the saucer.
He gives a rueful grin. ‘Me too. Stuff I need to do.’ He gets to his feet. ‘I’d really like it if we could meet up again?’
‘The thing is…’ I hesitate. I’ve already exposed more about myself than I intended. ‘I’ve sort of got a boyfriend.’
‘Only sort of? Is that grounds for hope?’
‘No, I do. I do have a boyfriend.’
This is not strictly true, but since I have no intention of meeting Dominic again, I tell myself the white lie doesn’t matter. I started talking to someone called Richard on Tinder a couple of weeks ago, and since then we’ve met in person, once. One date, but it ended with us agreeing to meet again, soon. But, for all Dominic knows, I could be in an exclusive relationship. With Richard, who is a bit dull and whose surname I’m now struggling to remember.
‘Ah well,’ he sounds unperturbed. ‘Maybe see you around. Meantime, stay away from dodgy lifts.’
I assumed that would be the last I ever saw of Dominic Gill. I was wrong.