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The apartment building gives Vesper all the wrong looks. Heading to /that/ elevator…going up to /that/ suite…its like they just assume she's some French harlot with that accent of hers, though, they had expected that an expensive prostitute would be less…science-y. Definitely she gets the wrong vibe from the concierge and guard.
*
A fancy letter addressed to Vesper that doesn't come on university or immigration letter head is enough to induce a frenzy of concerned pacing in her unimpressive lodgings. Does she dress up, or down? Does she need an escort or no escort? Baguette or wine? Do Americans even like wine? The poor girl spends half an hour going back and forth wearing a hole in her floorboards. At the end, she raids her closet for a skirt, sweater, and coat. Flats don't give her any unnecessary height advantage or reason for tripping as she dashes out the door for a taxi to take her wherever this penthouse is. The box of pastries comes with her, picked up prior to going home. Forget wine. He might think this is an escort service. Everyone else probably does, and they will at least have to assume she is a specialist in being a classy, respectable elfin creature instead of a very saucy, experienced whore. Imagine that.
By the time she is out of the elevator, her eyes are narrowed and mouth firm. Holly Golightly, engage.
*
In fine apartments, the elevator opens to an exclusive hallway. Possibly, you have to key in a special code, or unlock the elevator buttons to be able to press them. However, in the rooms of the truly elite, the elevators open up directly into the home. So, when the elevator dings, and swings wide, there is no time to compose or take a deep breath. She is simply surrounded by the wealth of the Maximus character. Indeed, the very man is nearby, sitting in a white, leather chair and looking out a window that is also a wall, across the city. He turns towards the door. "Ah good, you…and not Gorgon. Come…have a seat with me." And he gestures towards the match to the one he sits in, one leg over the other. He is barefoot, and wearing a vaguely Asian-looking suit and robe, all black and white with bits of silver.
*
The aeries of the powerful have a taste of palaces. At least those Vesper is familiar with, as anyone growing up on the Loire River valley or in sight of Paris is. It makes her step slower and lighter, her back becoming very straight upon seeing the luxury as much as the man who basks in it. Thank goodness for the power of the French aplomb and a splash of charm, like lemon in water. "Bonsoir, Monsieur Maximus." The first defense is the familiar, and she steps out from the elevator, holding the box before her in offering. "Is everything well for you today?" She doesn't explain the contents; the stamp of the bakery will say everything itself. Trust her to know a good pastry when she sees one, like a built-in second sense. The pause to remove her shoes shows her to be in stocking feet, and she walks over to the chair costing likely more than her apartment — but not her car. Which explains a lot, really. A breath to compose herself and she sits as indicated, and doesn't sink into much small talk. The leather, well, that's another matter.
*
"The other day, my dear cousins were having a bit of sport at my expense. It seemed to me that you had met Gorgon before, that the two of you were…friends?" Maximus asks curiously, picking up the box with an outstretched hand. He flips it open to see what treasures are inside.
*
Within the box are an assortment of pastries. Proper, flaky croissants in gold, not the sad yellowy horns from a cafe, for example. An honest eclair, a few choice macarons, and heavenly little profiteroles that, with their dreamy pastry cream, are as far away from creampuffs as Maximus is from the average person. Some are sugar dusted, others in a small caramel swirl.
Hands clasped in her lap, Vesper waits for a reaction, eyes downcast. Polite and proper matters here. "Monsieur Gorgon," the name wants to be 'Monsieur Gorgon Zola,' it is literally there in the silence, "met me once at the lab. I do not think more than that."
*
Maximus makes a snort sound. "What? Just the once before? What on earth was that brute doing in a /lab/? Sniffing for…milk teets?" He seems so suddenly unbalanced and leans forwards in his chair.
*
The snort is not the cause for sliding back in the seat until the plush leather cushion prevents her from going any further. Hands go to the arms of the lounge chair, if any, and Vesper's eyes widen in alarm. She doesn't have much color in her face to lose as fair as she is. "I-I don't know," she stammers, fighting to compose herself.
*
"You do not know why he was in your lab? You barely know anything about him at all? UGH!!!" Maximus throws the whole pastry box against the window. THUNK. Plop. Soft jostling. Then that just makes him madder. "I WANTED TO EAT THOSE! AHH!" He stands up from his seat and moves to the box to pick it up and see if there's anything he can salvage.
*
The shout transforms the building unease to a wooden expression, and Vesper curls her fingers in the hem of her skirt. Fabric bunches under her fists and keeps her nails from digging into her palms, which would be one more offense against nature. Flinching when he hurls the box at the window, she doesn't stand on the chair or start into hysterics. A pointed look at the doors telegraphs the chance she might march out at any moment. When she speaks, things actually come out right the first time, actually quite reasonable. "A fall never hurt a croissant." It's still good, it's still good!
*
Maximus flips open the box and discovers that the treats are…well, some are still in tact. "I was hoping that you would be able to tell me more about my cousin's purpose here in New York. He is not by my side always, so…I know he is up to something. If he comes to see you again, I will know for certain that it has to do with /you/." He looks at the woman. "And you will come tell me of it."
*
The box is dented in one corner and the interior clothed in whipped cream or pastry cream in places. Still, the eclair is rather like a whale, serenely intact.
"I am to guess you do not see eye to eye, non?" The question is walking on thin ice with a light touch. She habitually strokes a lock of brown hair behind her ear, under the chic scarf. "I would not know the man from Jacques. Does he work for the university? Or are you funding research? What you have to do with me is…" The tickle at her lungs seizes up the words on a struggling inhale, and her fingers drop to her throat, trying to rub out the complaint. It won't help. It never does.
*
Maximus casts her a dismissive look, "Just go…I will contact you again when I am in a better mooooood. And perhaps…I'll tell you then. Not today though. I'm not ready to explain how we allll seem to know soooo much about genetics." His eyes widen. "Jack pot though. For you. Not me."