Chapter 123 - The Conversation over Cocktails

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?

When the drinks arrive, Dale holds his ċȯċktail glass up, then theatrically shakes the glass so that the single olive dances in the bottom of the crystal vodka. "See, I'm shaking it."

"Just like Bond, James Bond?" Claire says, smiling, taking a sip of her own beverage.

"I love my James Bond stories," Dale says, appearing suddenly serious. "Did you know why Bond ordered his drink specifically to be shaken, and not stirred? Because shaking waters down the alcohol when the ice melts. So Bond can sip it without getting too drunk, but while appearing drunk to his potential enemies."

"Oh, that's ridiculous!" Claire says, watching the olive in her drink. "Because even if all of the ice melts, it's the same amount of alcohol if you finish the drink, right? You'd still be drunk. But James Bond is a heavy drinker. He's not going to get hammered by a single serving of some watered down drink."

"I didn't know you're also quite a connoisseur on all things James Bond, Miss Claire!"

Claire shrugs. "Thanks to my mother, who loved all the James Bonds, even the reviled Timothy Dalton."

"It's great to find a kindred spirit," Dale says, then raises his glass. "May we have a toast?"

"Sure," Claire says. "Let's toast to a world without problems."

"Let's toast to peace, love, and understanding!" Dale adds.

"Let's toast to a good life, then," Claire finishes. Their glasses clink.

The one glass was followed by another, and another. And before they knew it, Dale is staring at their little table filled with about a dozen empty ċȯċktail glasses. Claire follows his gaze, her eyes going round. "Oh my God! Did we really drink all of those?"

Dale snickers, his face red. "I'm more shocked that the server never took away our empty ċȯċktail glasses!"

They both laugh and giggle like teenagers. "We should do this more often," Claire suggests.

"Well, we should, Miss Claire. But hopefully in celebration, and not like… Well, not like what you had today."

"Oh," Claire mutters. The reason why they're here suddenly returns to her. Miguel's face flashes in her mind and she's depressed once again. She sighs. "What time is it, Dale?"

He glances at his watch. "I think it's long past your bedtime, Miss Claire."

"Yeah, I think so, too." She rises from the seat. "I think we should call it a day." She sighs. "And what a day."

"Yes, Ma'am," Dale says. "Because tomorrow is another day."

"Yes, indeed it is," Claire slurs. "Bond, James Bond."

Dale even walks Claire back to her penthouse suite, insisting that he can hold his alcohol and that it would take "much, much more to bring down Dale." She relents, glad to have some company.

When she's finally alone in her suite, surrounded by the creature comforts reserved only to the highly privileged, Claire feels a certain coldness around her. Like she doesn't deserve all this. She keeps thinking of Miguel even as she goes through her pre-bedtime ablutions. As she lies down in bed, finally, all she has is Miguel's face on the iPad, so nonchalantly saying the world's biggest lie to her face. Worse, Gabriel was there to witness it and be confused by it.

Poor Gab, she thinks. And there's that lunch date tomorrow. Is it so bad to wish that Miguel would fall ill enough to skip that lunch? Or maybe she should just call Gab up and tell him she's not feeling well. That maybe they should reschedule next time, next week, next century even. Just so long as she avoids facing Miguel. Ostriches sink their heads in the sand; Claire Monteverde reschedules.

She falls asleep with ugly thoughts in her head, and the resolve to tell Gab she's not making it to that hellacious lunch date. Yet, she wakes up from a sound so shrill it feels like someone's drilling her eardrum. She opens her eyes—yes, she has been asleep for the whole night, and not "just a few minutes" as her body seems to tell her—and finds the bedside phone screaming. She grabs it.

"Good morning, honey!" It's Gabriel, his sing-song cheeriness she finds somewhat threatening at this time of the morning. "Wonderful lunch food awaits at The Grille downtown, don't forget. I'll be at your doorstep in about three hours."

"But—" Claire is about to protest, but Gabriel doesn't let her finish. He says, "I love you!" then hangs up.

Claire looks at the phone, as if bitten by a snake.