Chapter 123 - The Conversation over Cocktails (1/2)
For a long time, Claire seemed to do nothing but cry, with Dale holding her hands and accentuating her sobs with the most empathetic ”There, there, Miss Claire.” They're in the lounge, with no one else but the bar man at the other end, safely out of ear shot.
After a while, Dale asks the most important question: ”What happened? Why the tears?”
It was a question that even stoked Claire to sob even worse. Dale sighs; he has never seen a woman cry like this in his entire life, not even when he broke up from his fiancée a lifetime ago, when he had told her he'd just realized he wanted to ”Do more with my life before I settle down.” Funny, because nearly a decade later, he's still here, working, a glorified servant. But isn't being the general manager of a swanky place like The Residence quite an achievement? His mother would think so. He's happy where he is now, and he'd be delirious if he could climb more, by the good graces of Gabriel Tan. That's why he's always ready to drop everything if it has anything to do with Miss Claire, now considered to be the other formidable half of this entire enterprise.
But gazing at Miss Claire now bawling her eyes out, Dale feels terrible. Is something wrong in the magic kingdom? Is it all going to fall apart? What would happen to The Residence if Miss Claire is made to leave? Is that what the tears mean now—that the Gab-Claire partnership is about to be dissolved?
”Did he hurt you?” he asks after a long silence.
And at last Claire sniffles; the storm has subsided a bit, if only for a moment. Her eyes are bloodshot, and yet, Dale couldn't help but notice that even so, this woman is still so pretty when she cries. More and more, Dale starts to see why the Big Boss is so smitten by her.
”No, nothing like that,” Claire says. ”I just had a… I just had a…” Claire stops; is it wise to tell Dale the real reason for his tears? That Miguel tried to harm her right in Gab's own office building? That she couldn't tell Gabriel because things feel so complicated? ”I just had a really…The office work, the stress… It feels like someone's trying to **** me…”
”**** you?” Dale's eyes go wide. ”The office work can do THAT?”
”Yes, I mean, no…I mean, yes,” Claire says. ”I mean, no. Dale, I'm speaking in metaphor.”
”Oh, I see.”
”Have you ever had one of those days when you just want to go home, and when the elevator opens, a long-standing problem ȧssaults you and brings you down?”
”Oh, what kind of problem? Was it that woman again? That former roommate of yours? Karla-something?”
”Karen?”
”Yes, Karen!” Dale says excitedly. ”Was she the problem? When the elevator doors open, was she there?”
”No, it's not her. It's just…” Claire pinches the bridge of her nose, trying to stave off a worsening headache. This ”confession” is useless. She can't tell Dale anything, even if her heart wants to burst open from all her tragic secrets. ”It's someone else. Someone who couldn't take no for an answer. Someone, I fear, has taken a turn for the worse. And he's making my life a living hell.”
Dale mulls it for a moment. He shakes his head. ”Does the Big Boss know about him?”
Claire sighs. ”Not yet. But I will let him know as soon as I figure out the answer to the biggest question.”
”And what question would that be?”
”How?” is the only thing Claire says. She has been absent-mindedly unfolding her handkerchief, the same dainty piece of fabric Dean had run just to return to her. If only she knew how that handkerchief saved her from Miguel just minutes earlier.
”I see,” Dale mutters. ”And as far as I know, there's only one thing that could help us find the answer to the 'how' question.”
Claire smiles, waiting for him to just say it. But Dale holds his arm like he's pointing at the ceiling, and immediately somebody from the bar approaches them.
”Will you give us two wonderful servings of the fine beverage preferred by the likes of Bond, James Bond?”
”Absolutely, Sir,” the server says snappily, then disappears.
”And what beverage was that?” Claire says, bemused.
”What else, but heavenly martini,” Dale says. ”Shaken, not stirred, of course.”
Claire has to laugh, despite the gloomy context of this conversation. She instantly recalls her high school and college days, when Hollywood icons like Daniel Craig held sway. How could she forget that image of Craig's James Bond emerging leisurely from a golden-hued ocean in the old movie 'Casino Royale,' which had been 'watched ad nauseam' by her mother Carolina?