The Elevator – Part 1: Between Floors Fourteen and Fifteen

The lift stopped with a jolt and a cough, somewhere between floors fourteen and fifteen of the glass tower on Sheikh Zayed Road. The lights flickered once, then settled into a dim amber glow. The air conditioning died with a sigh.

"Oh, come on," said Rhea, to nobody.

"You're not going to get anywhere by shouting at it," said a man's voice from the corner.

She jumped. She had not noticed him when she stepped in at the lobby, half-buried in her laptop and a rolled set of drawings. He was tall and lean, in a pale grey suit with the jacket off and the tie loosened, reading something on his phone with an expression of mild amusement.

"Omar," he said, without looking up. "Floor twenty-two. Finance. I'm not dangerous, I promise."

"You say that very calmly for a man who's stuck in a box."

"I've been stuck in a lot of boxes," said Omar, and finally looked at her. "Yours is a lot more interesting, though."

Rhea glanced at the drawings tucked under her arm. "Architecture. A library on the Corniche. I have a presentation at nine tomorrow and nothing is finished."

"Then you should use the time," said Omar. "Show me."

She hesitated, then unrolled the sheets across the floor of the lift, weighted them with her shoes and her bag, and crouched beside them. He crouched too, his knees almost touching hers, and leaned over the plans with genuine interest.

"The reading room is too small," he said. "But the light is beautiful."

"That's what my director says."

"Your director is right, and you're worried about the wrong thing." He traced a line along the paper with one finger. "If you move the stairs here, the light falls differently. People will sit near the windows because they want to see the sea."

Rhea stared at the drawing, then at him. "That's brilliant."

"It's obvious," said Omar, with a small shrug. "I'm not an architect. I just look at buildings the way some people look at faces."

"Do you look at faces that way too?"

He glanced up at her, and held her gaze a second too long.

"Sometimes," he said. "Usually when I'm bored in a lift."

She laughed, and felt her cheeks warm, and then stopped laughing when she realised how close they were. The lift was small and hot. Their shoulders were almost touching.

"Can I ask you something?" said Omar.

"Yes."

"Are you always this stressed, or is it just the library?"

"It's just the library," said Rhea, and then, to her own surprise, "and my life. I'm on a deadline for everything. I haven't been on a date in a year because I'm always working."

"Then this is the most interesting thing that's happened to you all week," said Omar.

"Probably."

He smiled slowly. "Can I tell you something honest?"

"Yes."

"I haven't talked to anyone this long in a lift since I was twelve," said Omar. "I'd like to keep talking, if you'll let me. Until the engineers get us out."

Her heart thudded. "How long will that take?"

"Forty minutes, if we're lucky," he said. "Ten, if you're very persuasive."

"Then I'll be very persuasive," said Rhea, and felt the lift hum faintly beneath her as if it were holding its breath.