Page 7 of In the Frame

“It’s an old building. It makes random sounds,” I say in the most reassuring way I can, but I can tell he’s on the verge of losing it.

“Should we shout for help?” Florian asks desperately, looking up, down, and every which way for an escape.

“I mean, we could, but I don’t think that’s going to work because the walls are so thick⁠—”

“Help! Help!” roars Florian in true desperation, as though this is the very last place on Earth he’d want to be, least of all with me.

“Help!” I shout a couple of times to make a good go of it, not that I’m holding out much hope.

Nobody shouts back.

“Isn’t there a goddamned emergency button to push?” Florian scrambles awkwardly for his phone from the floor, bumping his elbow into my stomach.

“Oof.”

“Sorry.” He doesn’t exactly sound apologetic as he swings the light onto the lift panel, but it’s all antique lettering and only the five buttons. No emergency call button or service or anything like that. He runs his fingers over the plate, then punches his fist into the oak side panel.

Creak.

“No, that’s probably not going to help.” I use my most soothing voice, the one I use on my little sisters when they act out.

Scowling, he rubs his knuckles. The side panel, at least, is no worse for wear.

“What’s going to help, then?” Florian snaps, turning sharply on me.

“Staying calm.” My tone’s remarkably even. I meet his gaze, holding what little ground I have in this lift. “Of that much I’m certain.”

He snorts, folds his arms tightly across his chest, and leans miserably against the side of the lift. It’s chilly in here, despite it technically being spring. It’s cold, because England. And this old building doesn’t exactly have central heat. I can’t imagine it feels great wearing a soaked suit when it’s crisp. Florian squeezes his eyes shut.

“It’s gonna be okay,” I assure him.

“How do you know that? This is a very not-okay situation, if you haven’t noticed.” Finally, he opens his eyes again.

“Well, someone’s going to notice eventually. That we didn’t come back, for sure. Or more likely, someone’s going to notice the lift’s gone out and call for service.”

“When’s that happening? I don’t have all evening to waste. I have places to be. I’m a busy man.”

I shrug. “I suppose when someone needs to take the lift. Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Isn’t there a concierge?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so.”

“You live here, and you don’t know if there’s a concierge?” he asks in disbelief. His stare’s piercing.

“Well, I mean… like I said, I don’t really live here. And I haven’t been here that long, but long enough to say I’m eighty percent sure there’s not a concierge.”

“Isn’t there a custodian? A doorman? Someone?”

“I don’t know.”

We stand in awkward silence for a few minutes. His cologne smells of luxury.

“My friends will think you’ve murdered me,” he snaps. “They’ll call the police.”

Bewildered, I give Florian a sharp glance. The corners of my mouth can’t help themselves and twist into a smile. He sounds as ridiculous as I feel. “Do I strike you as a murderer? I’d be the worst. I mean, I couldn’t even serve you drinks properly. I don’t even know if that was the right table, if I’m honest. I’m fairly sure I’m not qualified to do a murder. For starters, I don’t have the certification.”

He snorts.