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ansgar-martinsson · 4 years ago

Text

The Best Intentions - Part 5

TO: .lindberg@StockholmOpera. se 21:15 pm 2 attachments

Froken Lindberg,

No need for apologies, and there is no need for me to hunt down and behead the sobriqueted “Stanley,” (whose name is actually Mickhail) I’m sure. Be assured that he will still have a job come tomorrow and for a long time to come after that.

I don’t withhold my email address from my clients, and I do pride myself on an open-door policy – generally. Mick, however, knows that today was my first day back on the job, and he was being the overprotective security associate that I pay him quite handsomely to be.

I enclose with this email the fruit of my labours from this afternoon and this evening. The enclosure is a work schedule and Gantt chart for the full gamut of repairs to the Opera House - the sprinkler system, the drywall, the wood floor of the orchestra pit, etcetera. I have coordinated this with my subcontractors and suppliers and it is accurate. You may rely upon this to schedule your rehearsals, etc., for the next few weeks.

The second attachment is perhaps an addendum to the one you sent me. It is a cost breakdown, estimate, and proposal for the little theatre space. With the funds from the Gala, we will have the space renovated and ready to use within a year.

All that aside, I’ve reviewed your proposal, and I found it interesting to say the least. You have covered all of the terms we discussed today and then some. I would, however, like to discuss some of these terms further before we enter into anything formal; and once that is done I would like to have my legal department place their stamp upon it.

I welcome the opportunity to meet with you again regarding the little theatre space and the plans for the Gala. We can meet in my office, or we can continue these discussions over coffee at Sturekatten or a meal if you would rather. Contact me directly to arrange, please.

I am willing to provide for your every desire. Even those that, as you say, constitute the ravings of a lunatic. Which you are most definitely not.

– AGM

The soft unobtrusive ding for her email notifications sounded from her mobile. Joline flopped down on her bed, swinging her legs up. The pillow whooshed and wheezed under the weight of her head, the faint waft of her fabric softener tickling her nose. She used the softener on her pillowcases only because the smell soothed and helped her sleep.

Herr Martinsson’s email did not. Did quite the opposite, in fact.

She read over the first few paragraphs with a sense of encouragement. She owed Mick some raspberry licorice for the trouble she’d caused. She’d eagerly pounced on him in the carport after close of business. She couldn’t blame him for protecting his employer’s interests. She may have to dial back her overzealousness, but she’d never did things by half.

Jo’d pitched monthly inspections with the design staff beginning at the top of the season with a member of Martinsson Construction. The added layer of security prevented any other potential flooding sessions or bouts with the Prima Donna’s temper… well, for the dampness issue anyway. Katarina could rage against the costumers or musicians, as long and as hard as she cared to. Jo already felt better for it.

The dream for the little theatre space, all of it brilliant! She stopped short at responding to meet up with him now, that very evening. But eager Jo needed tempering. Pace yourself, Jo.

Until…

I am willing to provide for your every desire.

She read it, then stopped.

She reread it.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…

Her brain melted in her head and possibly oozed out of her ear onto her freshly cleaned cases. She crossed her legs subconsciously, squeezing her thighs together.

It’d been a handful of months since her last fling, and her lady parts were beginning to feel lonely.

For the theatre, Jo… for the theatre. Nothing more than that. For-the-theatre. Nothing more than client relations. Empty or half promises to maintain a working relationship. He offered it to protect his best interests, his company, his name, and his current project.

As the tingling in her lady parts subsided from the misread tease, Jo shoved her brain back between her ears.

TO: [email protected] 21:30pm

Herr Martinsson-

You’re working late, I see. With impressive results, I should mention. I’m delighted by your offer and I look forward to your input. As you have work scheduled to begin this week (which is thrilling!), I’ll meet up with you for that coffee. Tomorrow? Name the time, I can accommodate any slot you have available.

I’ll make myself available to you.

Yours,

Joline Lindberg

The only thought in her head after putting her phone down was not of the theatre, or work orders, or repairs. She imagined what the G stood for in his initials, just to sate her curiosity.

Ansgar manipulated the mouse pointer over the red x in the upper left hand corner of his MacBook’s screen when his email dinged over. Curiosity, as it does, killed the cat, and so Ansgar opened the email with the time stamp of 9:30 pm from Joline Lindberg.

The last few sentences of her email appealed strongly to Ansgar’s filthy mind, his innate sense of and appreciation for innuendo. He wondered to himself, with a smirk and snigger, whether she’d meant it as such.

Hoped, maybe. No, hoped was too strong a word. Wondered. Contemplated. Contemplated those lips… that particular slot made available to me�� clamped around my….

“Ah, screw it!” He groaned and scrubbed hard at his eyes, banishing the images, the very thought of it from his mind. “You are a fucking pervert, Martinsson.”

But the idea of at least a meeting over coffee… well, that was innocent enough, yes? No harm in it. After all, it was business, wasn’t it?

And so, instead of clicking the red x, he clicked ‘reply,’ rest his fingers on the keyboard, and with rapid-fire strokes, typed.

TO: [email protected] 21:47 pm

Meet me for fika at Sturekatten. Riddargatan 4. 9 am. My table is in the far north corner of the cafe. Don’t be late.

Godnatt,

AGM

Joline leaned into the final curve of her journey from home to the cafe of Herr Martinsson’s choosing, weaving around a Volkswagen Bug. She took the turning faster than the Stockholm Police approved of, but she was addicted to the speed and power of her beloved motorcycle, a 1970 Triumph. A gift from her late father made her feel closer to him whenever she rode, the smell of it, the sound of it, the sight of it, all reminded her of him and flooded her mind with memories.

The machine purred to a stop when she pulled over near the entrance of Sturekatten, blessed to have found a spot to park. The natural high she got from riding set her blood vibrating and her ears buzzing with the roar even hours afterwards. Weekends and rare days off from work found her in the leather seat adding miles to the odometer. She kicked the stand into place, turned the key for the ignition and swung her right leg over the seat behind her in a well-choreographed, often-rehearsed move.

She lifted her safety helmet straight, shaking her head and hair free underneath in her best shampoo advert mimic. How fucking cliché, she thought, hating herself for doing it. Every damn time. She’d yet to find a way of releasing her hair from the thing without looking like an auditioning model. The helmet, a bright shade of purple that Jo wanted to dye her hair to match one day (when she opened her own indy theatre house), was tucked up under her arm.

Raking one hand through her locks, Joline strolled into the café ten minutes before her call time, scurrying to the back as instructed. She felt Ansgar Martinsson’s gaze on her from the moment she crossed the threshold, piercing blue with laser precision. If she didn’t know differently, she’d feel intimidated, but she had some leverage, some pull with him.

The man rose from his seated position as she approached. “Froken Lindberg.” He held out his hand to shake in greeting.

“Herr Martinsson,” she shook his hand. “Waiting long? Am I late? Nine, yes?” She glanced around at the mostly deserted café. Weekday in the city center, many were on their first cup of coffee for the day behind their desk at work. What patrons dined at the café sat in the courtyard in the summer sun.

He gestured into a chair across from where he’s been sitting, holding the back out for her. “No, not at all. Early in fact. Thank you for meeting me.”

Joline swiveled her head, her gaze following him to his seat across from her. She made a small huff of a laugh. “I didn’t think I could say no.”

“Pardon?”

She laughed, waving her hand to match her shaking head. “No offense intended. But you have this way—effective, mind you—you say something… and I feel compelled to do it. And I do! You issue an order, and I follow.”

A crooked half-smile pulled at his lips, “That’s quite a power you’ve bestowed upon me.”

She noticed that he didn’t apologize or deny it. “Usually when someone tells me to do something, my first instinct is always no.”

“But not with me…”

“Oh! Does this mean I’m growing as a person?” She feigned shock at her self-assessment with one hand over her heart and one splayed on the tabletop. When she played out her charade in dramatics, she looked up at him with a sage look in her eye. “In all seriousness, you’re the type to go after what he wants, and you usually get it.”

He leaned forward elbows on the table like a lion standing over his kingdom. “Why would I spend my time on things I don’t want?”

“Touche!”

“Pardon the cliche,” he cocked his head, “but isn’t that a bit of the pot calling the kettle black?” He lifted the coffee pot, offering her a cup with a flick of his eyebrows. “Shall I pour?”

“Oh, yes, please,” she replied, and pushed her cup forward. She took it back after he filled it, and took a sip.

“Sugar or cream? Milk?”

“Black,” she replied.

Ansgar nodded appreciatively, making a small clicking noise with his tongue. “Black it is. Enjoy.”

“Speaking of black,” she mused, “like the pot and the kettle, huh?”

“That’s as I see it.”

“Well,” she shrugged. “I suppose that’s true. But I don’t always get the things I want. There are a lot of things I’ve wanted that I haven’t been able to get.”

“Yet,” Ansgar interjected.

“Well, yeah. Maybe.” She sipped again, eyeing him over the rim. “Maybe.”

“You get the important things,” he challenged. “Like your job, like that enviable specimen of a 1970 Triumph TR6R Tiger you have parked outside.” He indicated out the window with a flick of his gaze, at the same time noting the impressed flash of her own eyes. “And that’s what matters. It’s not that you get everything you want, it’s that you get the things that are most important to you. And sometimes, with a little skill, and a little perseverance, you can get more.”

“Skill and perseverance… but not luck?”

He scoffed. “I don’t believe in luck.”

She looked back to him from out the window. “Life lessons of the day with Professor Martinsson?”

He continued, ignoring her quip. “But you also have to realise and understand that things you want and things you get can easily be lost. They can be stolen away, right from under your nose. What matters more than getting the things you want, Froken Lindberg, is keeping them, protecting them at all costs.”

“At all costs?”

He nodded. “At all costs.” The thumb of his left hand curled in, curving around the edge of the gold band on his ring finger. “Sometimes, even then, after you’ve spared no expense, after you’ve exhausted everything… those things you want can still be torn from you.”

She frowned, her eyes narrowing. “What are you getting at, Herr Martinsson?”

“Ansgar. Please,” he leaned back in his chair, gesturing. “Call me Ansgar.”

“Then you have to call me Joline. Or Jo for short. Everyone calls me Jo. Either way is fine with me.”

He nodded, smiling. “Joline it is, then.”

“So… Ansgar,” she tasted his name again in her mouth, and finding it palatable, continued. “What are you getting at with all this stuff about getting what you want and things?”

He sighed. “All I am saying, Joline, is that you have dreams. You have ideas, and I am here to help you, to work with you to achieve those dreams. But… it’s you, ultimately, who has the power to make them a reality or not. You have to know what is important, what to fight for, what to… kill for,” he paused for emphasis, “and what to let go. You have to have common sense and know-how enough to know when to fight, and when to walk away. I can’t do that for you… and I won’t.”

“I’m sure I would mostly fight,” she puffed. “I’m not one to lie down in the road, you know.”

He grinned, wide and Cheshire-like, his blue eyes sparkling. He took up his coffee, took a sip, and crossed his arms over his chest. “And that is exactly what I hoped you’d say.”

“So,” Joline said. “What about the proposals?”

Ansgar tipped his chin toward her, his mouth at the lip of his coffee cup. “Check your phone.” He took another sip. ”You should have signed copies in your email inbox right now. I had my legal department go over everything and they’ve approved it. My e-signature is on them, waiting for yours… partner.”

Jo gave him the skeptical side eye as she sidelined her coffee for her phone. Scanting her hips in her seat, she fiddled in her pocket to free her mobile. “Partner?” she repeated, still unable to believe it entirely. “You can’t be serious!”

Enjoying her incredulity, Ansgar grinned, all straight white teeth highlighted by a ginger goatee. “See for yourself.”

Jo unlocked her phone and quickly swiped to her one new email notification. The signed proposals and agreements landed in her inbox at 9:01am and it was like Christmas in August, signed by none other than AGM himself. “Holy shit,” she breathed out on an exaggerated exhale, forgetting her business persona in her disbelief.

It was all there, in PDF format, with electronic colored post-its for her to sign at the bottom, underneath Ansgar. A checklist roster. Weekly inspections. Schedule for the work on the main stage, beginning the very next day. Contracts for fund raisers and benefits, detailing that Martinsson Construction as lead sponsor. The tentative renovation for the little theatre. And her secret wish of a to-scale model of the Opera House constructed for the Stockholm museum, Ansgar approved her commission for it!

“I could kiss you,” she enthused half-meaning it and half-distracted by all the goodness in black and white. She recovered herself with a chuckle. “I won’t – because I’m a professional – but I could! And I’d mean it!”

“That won’t be necessary.” Not necessary, but tempting. The thought shimmied itself into his head like a can-can dancer. “What can I say, Joline,” he said a bit too boldly, sitting forward in his seat. “You impressed me… your panache, your bravado, your eager-to-please… attitude for the good of all the people… in your company.”

One hand landed on her head, disbelief colored her face in a flush of excitement. “I’m so glad that I didn’t say no.” She waved her phone, display towards her companion. “I may never say no… ever!”

Oh the possibilities in that!

She went back to flipping through the documents on her phone, one by one, marveling at the brilliance of each one. “Who knew my crusading would do this?”

“I suspect,” Ansgar stated bluntly, a teasing light in those piercing blue eyes, “you did. You don’t suffer fools gladly and it seems, you don’t take no for an answer either.”

With her phone away, she put her elbow on the table and shelved her chin in her palm. “So… uh… who do I have to kill?”

“Pardon me?”

“Who do I have to kill? You were flapping your gums and going on about fighting and killing for my dreams. You just handed me my dreams… over a cup of coffee. So… who do I have to kill?”

The laugh that barked from Ansgar’s mouth caught him off guard. He wasn’t nearly prepared for her to twist what he’d said so far… but he supposed that he deserved it. He held up both of his hands in surrender, “No one. At least not today.”

Giving into the contagion of laughter, she commented, “And the CEO takes a punt at the funny.”

“How did I do?”

She muted her voice to a stage whisper, “GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!!”

He dipped his head in a bow and his gaze seemed to undress her from the waist up. “A successful business meeting. Are you overly attached to the idea of an omelette here?”

Joline didn’t mind the perusal, she indulged in her own. Answering his question, she shook her head, offering up something else instead, “Let’s top it all off.” She dangled the keys for her Triumph in front of him. “Got a helmet?”

“In the boot of my car.”

With a tip of her head, she encouraged, “You’ve been coveting my ride since I got here. I’ve got three hours before I have to be at work. So let’s go.” She pushed the keys at him. “You drive.”

Ansgar pushed to his feet and swiped the keys in a smooth move. He dumped enough money to cover their bill (and several others in the process). He strode for the door, leading Joline with a hand at the small of her back.

Feeling lighter than the helium balloon in her belly, Jo convinced herself that she knew what the G in his initials stood for: generous. But she also knew he’d never admit it.

#the best intentions

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