Find Me Alastar

“Could you get on with it today, please?” he asks with a sexy smile.

“Yes.” I drop my head in shame. I feel bad for what I am feeling, or lack of the way I’m feeling, and the only way to make this up to him is if I do the best work I can possibly do on this project. I want to be friends with Mark. He’s a descent guy who really does deserve a chance. That’s it. I’m making a conscious decision to not think about that street kisser and those beautiful lips. My heart drops at the thought, though. Gosh, those lips. I wish they were on me now. Stop it, you stupid woman! I stand with renewed purpose and head back to my desk. The job that I have been assigned to do is to create a good news story folder for future reference. I have to contact past clients and interview them about our service. It sounds easy enough, however, I am not so sure how it will go or if I will be able to do it. I open the folder of names and contact details and I go to the first name on the list.

Bartholomew Anslow. Jeez, he sounds like a stuffy old sod. I look up his details and dial the number.

“Hello,” a posh voice answers, sounding just as I imagined.

“Hello, Mr. Anslow? This is Emerson Mathews and I work for Chesters Auction House. I understand you purchased some art from us eighteen months ago.

“Ahh.” He thinks. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

I quickly scroll through his file with my finger. Three pieces. “Our records show that you purchased three paintings, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. We are just doing a service follow up to see how the artwork is going and to ask if you were happy with the company’s service.”

“Yes,” he replies in a toffee voice. “Excellent service.”

I smile in relief. I can imagine I’m going to come across real whiners doing this.

“I see that you bought the two paintings and the sculpture?”

“That’s right.” “I was wondering if it would be okay if we came out to do a small interview with you and take some photos of the art.”

He hesitates. “What for?”

Oh shit, I’m losing him. “We are putting together a book of our happy clients and I thought you may be interested in participating.” I screw up my face. Shit, please say yes. I need to get this stuff right for Mark.

He stays silent as he thinks. “You can come out and take the photos, although I only have two of the pieces now.”

“Oh, you sold one?” I ask.

“No. One of the paintings was stolen from my house three nights after I brought it home.”

“Oh no, how terrible,” I gasp. “Which one?”

“It was called…” He thinks. “It was titled My Love. It was an oil painting of a woman.” I scribble the name down into my diary. “I’m sorry to hear that got taken from you., Are you sure it’s alright if I arrange a photographer to come and see the other two pieces.” “Of course.”

I smile gratefully. “I will come, too, if that’s okay? It would be lovely to meet you in person.”

“I look forward to it.”

“Bye, Mr. Anslow.”

“Goodbye Dear.”

I hang the phone up excitedly. That wasn’t too hard. I think I can do this job. I write down his notes and fill out a job card for the photographer and move onto the next customer on my list.



* * *



I frown at the notepad on my desk as I add the sixteenth name to the stolen art piece list. What the hell is going on? It’s Thursday, I have been ringing clients all day, and I have noticed a disturbing trend. Sixteen of our clients have had artwork stolen from their homes in the first week after the auction. Sixteen of those drawings and paintings were of naked women, all ranging from last century back to several centuries prior to that. Sixteen of those people all had their homes broken into and reported it to the police, yet none of them reported it back to us? What does this mean? I tap my pen on my desk as I think. Should I take this to management? My eyes flick around at the people busy working around me. Are any of them criminals, scamming people and stealing the art back just to resell it and make more money? My eyes widen. What if management is doing this? Is this an inside job?

I pack my folder of clients up and turn off my computer. I will think on it over the weekend. I’m really not sure what to make of this, and the fact that I haven’t even been here for a week yet may make me look like a drama queen if I bring it up this early.

For once, I am going to really think this one through before I jump to conclusions.





Alastar.


My eyes scan the travel catalogues as I sip my beer. We are at the pub and it’s a normal, noisy Friday night.

Thomas, my brother, is trying to convince me to go to Canada and the US for an extended holiday. He points to the highway on the map. “And then we could finish in Vegas,” he murmurs around his burger.

“Hmm.” I sigh, not convinced that running away is the answer.

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