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“It is vital - Blake, I need you to look me dead in the eyes while I say this-”
“Ooh! Let me grab a binder!”
It's going to break him. She can see it now: a fractional repositioning of an eyebrow; his jaw clenching minutely; his smile dropping just a whisker as he has to reschedule and reorder all the meetings which have sprung up since yesterday.
“Okay maybe not vital enough for it's own binder: I must leave this office today no later than 6, ideally 5 if I can make it. I must be home to take Henry out for dinner. It is part of his Christmas present and I cannot reschedule this as well.”
She meant to tell him earlier - much earlier. But an influx of international crises meant there either wasn't the time to talk upcoming scheduling or Henry had whisked her off home. It had made her giddy every time so, of course, she'd invited him up while she finished off. Problem being that scheduling surprise dates for your loving husband is rather more difficult with said loving husband in the room with you - so much so that feeling the wrath of Blake had been the best solution. She's not one to back out at crunch time, but the thought of another international crisis walking through her door right now was rather more appealing than she'd ever admit.
“Okay, ma'am! I will, failing diplomatic methods, exile you from this building at eighteen hundred hours. Have fun!”
There's no shrinking smile or gritting teeth. His eyebrow has raised but far too much. Something is wrong.
“That's it?”
“Well, yes. I knew about your dinner so I didn't schedule anything after half five to allow time for overrunning. Five is a bit of a stretch as I might not be able to juggle the meetings enough but I can give it a go.”
“How?”
“It's my job?”
“Not the rescheduling - how did you know about my dinner reservation?”
“It's my job.”
So it's going like that.
“Blake, you know I worked in the CIA for twenty years. Surely you know I have ways of making people… talk.”
And his smile is hasty in her pause.
“It's my job to sort through your emails, which is where your booking confirmation was sent. It's also my job to ensure you reach all your appointments so I read it and added it to the schedule. You're all set ma'am. Speaking of emails, you are a very popular figure so I should probably go and…”
She smiles and he's out the door. Good ol’ Blake.
***
Perhaps this is what it feels like in the moments after you've pressed the launch button on a nuclear missile - knowing it is all going wrong and being able to do precisely nothing about it. Watching the clock tick away the stolen time you're living on.
Almost like whomever the hell she's meeting with now. She can't remember who, exactly, and nearing hour two of this “fifteen minute” meeting, it feels rude to ask. Not that they seem to care about manners. Whatever their official job title is, it's clear that the key skill is missing the point and wheedling out of needing to leave the fifteen minute meeting she'd been trying to end since five minutes in. It was clear they were in very much the wrong place. Wrong building, wrong person, and if they don't walk out within the next minute they might just find themselves on the wrong side of living.
“Well, thank you very much for your time today. As I'm sure I've mentioned previously,”
It's clear they've blocked their ears with invisible plugs so she might need to be even more obvious.
“You are in the wrong place but my assistant will send you an email with the details of the correct location and people you should be speaking with.”
And have mercy on their souls.
The trouble with not knowing who she's speaking to is not knowing the robustness of diplomatic relationships. Perhaps they'd laugh with something harsher. Perhaps they're even in her own department (she hopes not). But there is a not zero possibility of repercussions. And repercussions take far longer than the half hour she has before her plans turn back into a pumpkin.
He turns.
Takes a step.
Looks back.
“Thank you for your time.”
And he's gone. Potential murder victim has left the room, building, and the line of fire.
“Blake!”
She has one more meeting on the books and then she's free.
“Can you show my next one in as soon as they're here?”
She's listening, this time, to see just how short she can cut the meeting without causing a disaster. Or if said disaster would be smaller than the one awaiting her if she's late.
Blake appears at the door.
“Ma'am, your last meeting’s cancelled so you're good to go if you want. Enjoy your evening.”
The amount of gravity necessary for this many stars to align is impossible. She should take the win, she really should, but Blake's got a smirk on his face - like he's moved chess pieces she didn't know existed.
“Who did you say the meeting was with?”
“A Mr Ranb: he wanted a domestic affairs consult - said you'd know who he is.”
Saved from another glacial conversation with someone in the wrong place. But Blake's still smiling and it's felt like he's been quietly snickering at her all day.
“I don't know a Mr Ranb. First name?””
But Blake just lets out a short, maniacal laugh and walks out the room.
“Have a good night, ma'am.”
Curiosity piqued, she follows. Swiftly, stealthily, because Blake will clam up the second he notices her - the CIA really missed out on him.
His monitor is still on and, if she really focuses, the timetable is visible.
17:00
Mr Mo Ranb
Domestic relations
Ah. Clarity bubbles up as laughter.
Her twinkling eyes lock with Blake's.
“Well played, Mo. Well played.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
He grins.
“Right. I'm leaving; you should too. Have a good evening Mr Ranb!”
Grabbing her coat and bag, she all but sprinted out the door, Blake harrumphing good-naturedly in her wake.
She would make it in time for Henry's Christmas present.