Page 5 of In the Frame

“You can repay the favor another time,” she assures me, laughing. “We’ve all been new somewhere before. I think you could use the fresh air. It’s okay, these things have happened to all of us. Now, go.”

“Right. Cheers. Going.” I hurry off with a couple of clean bar rags in my hand, greatly relieved, and backtrack to Table 27. There, everyone’s cozily settled in. They’re laughing and having a good time again. What a relief.

Except for Florian, who still stands, awkwardly talking to his friends. Even waterlogged, he’s an appealing, trim figure in that suit. The suit must be expensive. I mean, he looks expensive. They all do, as do most of the clientele here.

With a deep breath, I approach Florian. I offer the bar cloths. “I brought these to help. And… what do you think of my offer? My suit at home isn’t doing anyone any good hanging in the closet.”

The truth is, it’s a new suit I bought last week for a friend’s wedding next weekend, but that’s days off, a problem for future me to sort out. Current me is desperately trying not to get sacked, even with Kat’s cover. It’s not just kindness that’s motivating my suit loan offer.

Florian gives me side-eye, then an appraising once-over. I do my best to stand tall, not slouch, and meet his gaze. Which is unwavering. He ignores the offered cloths. I put down my outstretched arm with the cloths and chew my lip instead.

“Fine,” he concedes at last, after Billy nudges him. “Thank you.”

It’s hard to say who’s more surprised, him or me.

“Right, this way. We’ll be back very soon,” I tell the table.

Billy laughs and waves us away. Michael’s already appeared with their replacement drink orders, and the rest of them carry on with their night out as though nothing happened.

Quickly, I lead the way through the bar on my way out, careful to avoid Alexander’s eye. I can only have so many angry people at me at once. Otherwise, I might implode.

As soon as I get outside, the cool evening air is an immediate salve to the rough night. My shoulders relax, and I glance over my shoulder at Florian. He’s quiet, his jaw set, phone in hand as he swipes through messages. I’m not sure what I expected, but if he’s not yelling at me, that’s an improvement I’ll take.

“My flat’s just around the corner,” I tell him as we reach the end of the street, cross over through a break in the traffic, and enter the historic building. It has a plaque, Grade II listed heritage status. It’s admittedly beautiful, with a marble entry and a grand staircase. We go past the staircase toward the antique lift at the back of the ground floor.

“Let’s take the lift,” I offer. “My flat’s on the fifth floor, and it’s faster than the stairs.”

Florian gives a curt nod. “Fine.”

I open the ornately carved wooden door into the small lift with its green and white tiled mosaic floor. It’s just big enough for two people, or more comfortably one person with a bit of shopping, from another time. A time back when people must have been smaller.

Carefully, I shut the oak door, pull over the equally intricate metal accordion door, and press the button for my floor. The light dims as we travel up. The lift clangs.

Then, there’s an abrupt lurch to a stop, somewhere between floors two and three. My stomach’s left back on the first floor.

And we’re not moving anymore.

I stare at the panel and uselessly press my floor number again.

Still nothing.

Then the solitary light goes out, leaving us in complete darkness. A bad situation has now officially gone from terrible to… even worse.

Chapter Three

The long, low creak in the otherwise dead silence of the lift is far from reassuring. We stand in total darkness.

I hold my breath for a moment. It’s the first thing I’m aware of. The second thing is Florian’s expensive cologne, something with sandalwood because there’s always sandalwood in fancy scents. The third thing is the musty smell of wet wool and pints, which reminds me of how we ended up here like this.

Staycalmstaycalmstaycalm….

I force in a breath. Back home, I knew what to do when things broke at the pub or around the house, who to call or get my dad to intervene, but here? Apparently, I’m responsible. It’s okay, I assure myself. You’ve got this. After all, I’ve been working on my anxiety. Or at least, I had been, with a uni therapist and my doctor and some meds. Pre-London. And my anxiety luckily has less to do with confined spaces and more to do with life⁠—

Creak.

Beside me, Florian’s sharp intake of breath gives away his anxiety too.

It’s not a good time to think about those thriller films where people plummet to their deaths down elevator shafts or even in amusement park rides that go off the rails. Never mind confined spaces.