Not-so-super Seducer

The next evening.

The two of us are chatting in one of the mansion’s many sitting rooms, two cups of coffee steaming next to one another on the teak table. A pocket-sized voice recorder sits between them, catching every word that we say. J’s dressed in a professional dark dress today, looking her best for her interviews with Salome and Holly Najbreit later, but she arrived an hour early to grab a word with me first.

“But to have taught Salome so much in such a short period of time, you must have had some pretty good teachers yourself,” she says, giving me a small smile that she conceals with a sip of her coffee.

I thought the interview would focus on my recent days here with the Najbreits, trying to get some personal interest stories that she would be able to work into her story. Though we did get some of that at first, she’s spent most of her time asking me about my past. It’s something that I don’t exactly appreciate, given that I never lived it myself.

“I’ve never had a formal training in the arts,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “I thought you knew that?”

“But surely over the years that you’ve been active, there’s at least been somebody that’s been a mentor of sorts?” she asks, continuing to press the matter.

I shake my head.

“Back when I kept my identity a secret, I really did keep it a secret. I never sought out a mentor of my own for that reason,” I say.

“So you spent your early years as a young loner, working on your art all alone. That has a certain romantic ring to it,” she says, her eyes gleaming. “You know, I remember when we first met that you mentioned you were involved in some… other stuff. Different ways to make ends meet.”

“Art does not pay well, not when you haven’t yet built a name for yourself,” I agree.

“What was it that you were doing back then?” she asks me.

I glance at her, and then at the voice recorder sitting on the table. I silently draw a hand over my neck.

“It’s something that you wouldn’t want on the record?” she chirps, and then she tries to pretend as if this weren’t something that interested her so terribly, as she slowly takes another draw of her coffee.

But I see the way that she’s eyeing me now. She flicks off the voice recorder with a touch. She leans towards me and places a hand on my knee.

“You can tell me in confidence,” she says softly. “I promise I won’t report on it.”

“You want to know for personal interest?” I ask, humouring her for a moment. “Not for the story?”

She laughs and nods.

“Not for the story,” she confirms.

I open my mouth, half-ready to divulge the truth as I know it, but something makes me shake my head.

“I can’t tell you,” I say, genuinely sounding frustrated about it. “I wish I could, but I can’t.”

J nods, though it’s clear that there’s some frustration to it, too.

“I was just curious as to what would make a man like you so tight-lipped,” she says. Her eyes flicker down to my pants, my waistband, my crotch, and then she meets my eye again, something suggestive there. “You sure there’s nothing that would encourage you to tell?”

“My working relationship with the Najbreits could be put into jeopardy by even the most innocuous truths getting out,” I say, trying to push the sudden image of J bent over my bed out of my mind. “But perhaps… some other day?”

“Perhaps,” she says, holding a finger up to her lips.

She winks at me, and then flicks on the voice recorder again.

“Anyways, it’s getting closer to eight. I’m due to speak with Salome soon,” she says, rising from her seat and resting a hand on my shoulder.

“I’ve got something to do myself,” I say, getting up too.

We stare at each other for a second, trading glances, trying to get a read on one another’s intentions, and then we walk past one another. J, deeper into the household, seeking out Salome in the other sitting room where they’ve agreed to hold their interview. Me, downwards into the Bunker, where Vidocq said he would have something prepared for me.

I didn’t expect to see only one person waiting for me in the Bunker. And yet, I do, and she isn’t even the person that I would have expected to see. She’s dressed professionally, as always, but the suit is form-fitting, and I can’t help but admire her curves for a spare second before getting a grasp on myself.

“Vidocq couldn’t be bothered to show up?” I ask the woman.

She looks back at me nonplussed, the hint of a smile crossing her face.

“It’s just me,” Irene says. “And you’d better get used to it.”

“So what’s the deal?” I ask, shrugging into a chair, still on guard from my conversation with J. “You’re going to spend a few hours a week helping me with my investigation?”

“More than that,” she laughs, finding something about my comment rather funny. “Oh… so much more than that.”

“Good to know,” I say. “I was going to be very unimpressed if a couple hours of manpower was the best you guys could swing.”

She laughs again, saying: “You don’t get it, do you? When I said more, I meant more. I’m talking one-hundred and sixty-eight hours a week.”

“What, a couple people on the team are going to help out as well?” I say, doing the math in my head. Certainly, she couldn’t be spending all her hours…

“No, it’s just me,” she smiles saccharinely. “Every single day, every single hour, I’ll be there, by your side. Ready to help you, as you need. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? ”

I stare at her flatly.

“You’ll never want for a warm body in bed now,” she says with a wink. “Ever get bored on the loo? Don’t worry, I’ll be there too!”

“You’re punishing me for doing a good job,” I groan, hardly believing my luck. “There’s no way I can decline?”

“Take it up with Mr. Najbreit himself if you like,” Irene says. “Orders straight from him.”

So this secret-agent-turned-private-detective is really going to be sticking with me day and night… I sigh aloud, rolling my eyes. Have I really just traded in Inspector Vidocq for a younger, sexier, version of him?

“What does a man have to do,” I say, “to earn a little bit of trust in this household?”

“I hear,” Irene says, copying my frustrated inflection, “that telling the truth might do the trick.”

“You’ve got the world’s best lie detector on hand! What more could you want from me?” I ask, clearly exasperated now.

“They think you haven’t told the whole truth,” she says, leaning forwards conspiratorially, showing off a tantalising amount of cleavage. “But you know… you could tell me…”

“Try again in a couple months,” I snort. “We’ll know each much better by then.”

She gives me a hurt look that I know must be insincere, and then she shrugs.

“So,” she says, “what is it that you’d like me to work on first?”