Hope by Pat Lightfoot
I slid my feet out of the car, grabbed my briefcase, opened the car door and propelled myself into action. This was an important meeting. If I was going to secure this account I needed the Italian on my side. He had all the architecture plans and I had detailed interior designs that would nail this account.
As I closed the car door the heat of the day hit me. Even in my floral sleeveless dress and bare bronzed legs, I was going to be hot. I had to keep my nerve. I know I looked good; exfoliated skin, French polished nails, a bra that helped defy gravity and beautifully applied make up that gave my cheeks colour, made the best of my lips and gave me a twinkle in my eye. My Italian guy was sleek, always suited and tied, wore white starched shirts and black patent leather shoes. We knew that the commission on this hotel deal was crucial to keep my business afloat.
Lifting my briefcase, handbag over arm and shutting the car door, for some stupid reason I made eye contact with the person parked in front of me. Grey dark eyes stared at me. I suppose not unusual on a busy Crouch End Street. Latzo and Sietta were just up the road. Their offices had a shop front window which led you into another world. Their trade mark was the use of natural lines that work synchronically with their surroundings. The white stone floor stretched into infinity with one enormous remarkable desk fashioned out of a tree trunk and branches. It could seat eight people comfortably. It took up most of the shop front and was littered with while Macbooks and reims of planning paper.
As I approach I scan the door for the cleverly concealed handle, give it a big push and launch myself onto their shop floor. I am greeted by Goia. She wobbles over to me in her Prada heels, looking adorable in a little black number with ‘ciao amoree. Give me a moment and I will tell Moma that you are here.’
I am suddenly gripped by panic. A slow flush rushes up my spine. I have left the colour scheme on the back seat of my Mini. How can I be so stupid? I make my excuses and dash out to the car. My shoes are killing me already. As I run I can feel the back of my shoe rubbing into my heel. I open the car door, move the seat, lean over and reach to the back seat for the green folder.
Something hard hits me on my upper back. I am paralysed by fear as pain fills my consciousness.\I know that I will die if I give in. It’s about fight and flight. Some basic instinct kicks in and I am going to do both . I try to straighten up as I am pulled out of the car. It’s the man I saw earlier. He has hold of my shoulders and is forcing me to turn around Two grey eyes pierce me for a milli second. The moment is gone. He is pushing me onto the ground beside the car. I know if I give in he will kick me down to the ground. I begin to shriek, scream and shout. I use my opera singing voice to amplify the sound. Surely someone must hear me even if they cannot see me. I start kicking and wriggling as he rams me against the driver’s door. He has hold of my left hand and is trying to make me straighten my arm. It’s futile for me to wrestle against this monster. I try to move my elbow into my body and my hand under my chin but he has got hold of my wrist and he is pulling my arm. It feels like he will pull it out of my shoulder. \my arm is going to break. There is raw agony pulsating down my right arm. I carry on screaming as loud as I can. Then with one final yank he gets hold of my watch. His hand is pulling on my watchstrap. His knuckles exposed. I read the word HOPE tattooed in red ink on each of his four fingers as he tears my gold Rolex off my wrist. Then he is gone.