‘I’d like,’ he added, ‘to see another project. Ludmila told me about your initiatives in the field of graphic representation of the product slogan. I’d like to see it. Do you have it?’’
‘Yes,’ the fascinated girl answered, looking into the man’s eyes.
Gregory liked madly liked her look, full of interests, misunderstanding, charming and ambitious to know. What a man wouldn’t like that? There was only one problem which the man had no idea about: Victoria was looking at a woman, standing behind Gregory’s back. Only Vic knew that woman not to be seen by anyone.
The spirit stroked the man’s shoulders, shaking off invisible flecks of dust, motherly touching his back. A smile of pain froze on her lips, the glass tears were on her cheeks. Of course, there was her son before her!
Vic clearly saw every resemblance between them: they both have the same noses, lip lines and plush, eye shape and colour, more looked like European than Russian. Having completely realized that it was a spirit of Gregory’s mother, who carried her favourite son even after the death, Vic finally looked aside, sat and opened her laptop.
‘There are only sketches here they’ve not been dotted and crossed yet.’
‘Ok, I’m ready to follow your ideas.’ Gregory smiled, sitting closer to the girl.
A half of hour had passed before they finished discussing the second project sketches. Gregory made a few simple modifications more likely for form’s sake. Victoria listened patiently to the country manager’s commentaries, finishing her tea with sea-buckthorn.
‘Well, colleague,’ Gregory found himself taking the girl by the hand and smiling.
Vic looked at his smile and more and more understood that his smile had nothing to do with job. It looked like friendly but there were barely noticeable and captured shadows of affection in moderato in value of thirty-second notes.
His hand, tenderly holding her cold, pale and tired fingers just accompanied those shadows in his smile, confirming their existence.
The spirit of the old lady, being worried about her son’s fate, frowned. Vic realized the woman looked exactly at her, straight into her face. Its gaze was unbearably heavy, painful and awful.
‘The Devil’s bride…’ Vic heard the certain whisper.
The girl looked around: people wearing suits, were busy with their lunches, from time to time saying something about business; the woman-spirit studied with a cool stare her son’s hand giving its warmth to the odious girl; songs were in French.
Who said that? Whose whisper was it? A female one? The spirit? No, it couldn’t. Its lips silently compressed.
‘The Devil’s bride…’ the same whisper sounded again.
Victoria got more frowned. She looked at the spirit of the old lady and saw her whitish discorporate hand raise and try to unclasp his fingers which had been still holding Victoria’s hand.
‘No…’ Vic murmured, having noticed being accused with the worried spirit’s eyes.
‘What did you say?’ Gregory looked at the getting nervous girl questioningly.
‘Nothing.’ Vic saw the old woman step behind the back of her son. ‘Nothing,’ Vic repeated.
‘So, I’m glad to have such a specialist working for our company. By the middle of the next week my assistant will have arranged lunch out of office. Prepare the pilot product project with your sketches, put exactly them into project originals and present it to me. Are you ok with the deadline, Vic?’
