Page 6 of In the Frame

And then it occurs to me that I’m stuck in a lift with a man who doesn’t know—or possibly care to know—who I am. If we’re going to fall to our deaths like in some Hollywood blockbuster, which might be a little bit overdramatic, I’d like to not do that anonymously like hapless Bystander #1 in a screenplay.

“You don’t even know my name,” I blurt into the darkness. Which is probably a weird thing in hindsight to say in the seconds—has it only been seconds?—that the lift stopped working.

Another sharp breath.

“Is that relevant right now?” Florian asks tersely. Then, there’s a soft glow from the screen of his phone, his handsome profile lit. And admittedly, he looks anxious.

Fair.

“It’s relevant to me,” I dare.

“Fucking hell.”

“That’s a bit harsh,” I say, hurt. Trying to shake that off, I draw a steadying breath. “I mean⁠—”

“There’s no fucking signal.” He throws up a hand in despair and knocks it into the side of the cramped lift, rewarded with a hollow thump for his efforts.

“There’re some dead spots in this building.” I concede the point, taking out my phone. “I mean for phone signal. Not like… murder spots. Thick historical walls,” I add hurriedly.

Dark, Matty. Dark.

Though who knows, his phone could be waterlogged. Or cocktail logged, but better not bring up that idea right now. It won’t help make things better. Clearly, this is a man who wants things to be better. I’m a man who’s resigned that this night is a string of errors that my mates will get a laugh out of while I’ll work hard to forget. What a shame I have to go back to work tonight, though I do want to help Kat out and repay her generous favor in covering for me.

“Who’s your phone provider?” I ask gamely. “Maybe a different carrier has a different signal.”

“Vodafone.”

“I’m with T-Mobile.” I pull my phone out of my pocket. “And… no signal either.”

“Fuck.”

“Fuck,” I agree.

Florian turns the light on his phone and sets it down on the floor of the lift, faintly uplighting the lift. Well, as best as a phone can do in a lift where two men stand shoulder-to-shoulder, or rather, face-to-face because there’s slightly more room like that.

The phone offers a thin, broken beam of light in the dark. It’s eerie.

“Your name, then.” It’s not a question, more like a command. There’s no hint of curiosity in his voice. No softness of any kind. And then it dawns on me that he’s more nervous than I am, trapped in this lift together. Somehow, that makes me feel calm all of a sudden. Apparently, I’m the voice of reason in this situation.

Good luck to us both.

I draw in a breath.

“My name’s Matty. Matty Gowen-Smith.” Hesitating, I try to make a joke to lighten the mood. “I’d shake your hand, but I don’t think there’s even room for that in here.”

Nothing. Not even a hint of a smile.

“That’s your real name?” he asks finally into the silence, punctuated by another ominous creak.

“It’s my real name,” I confirm. “Well, Mathias John Gowen-Smith, if you want to be truly formal. But everyone calls me Matty. And you can call me Matty too… Florian. That’s your name, right?”

“Yes. It is.”

Probably not the time to tell him I’ve never met a Florian before. It’s an unusual name, but I like it.

His jaw’s set like it was back in the bar, and even in the low light, I can see the storm clouds in his eyes, as well as a rising panic. And also the palest of freckles across the bridge of his nose.

Florian sucks back an unsteady breath, shuffles around, and presses his hands against the walls as the lift groans another complaint. “What was that?”