A Predatory Pair of Heels

She wore a predatory pair of heels. Well, that's what Rob decided when he saw them. He was scrabbling under the table looking for the pen he'd knocked off, having worked his way into a seat that was clearly reserved for someone else.
He was late.
“Seat taken?” he asked rhetorically, already manoeuvring into it.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice with a metallic edge echoed from the front of the conference hall.
“But we're waiting...” The bloke on the left, top button already undone, tie loosened stuttered, as Rob wedged himself in.
“Ladies and gentlemen please take your seats. We're running late and we need to get on.”
“Sorry mate,” Rob winked at slack tie as he slid into the chair. Wedged in, he glanced round. His table colleagues ignored him, the interloper. He summed them up: the usual bunch of conference junkies. They shared that fixed, set look - the concentration of the long distance conference attender. Slack tie had his programme out. It was highlighted in fluorescent pink indicating which sessions he was doing. He'd even circled the optional, post dinner 'fun' time out, an interactive session; 'Team Working Success: Doing it the Laurel and Hardy Way'.
Sucker!
He'd learn.
Rob was here to cruise, brain in neutral making sure as little of the tosh spouted stuck. He'd learnt by bitter experience to be Teflon, look the part but don't get suckered in. When the next big thing came along, as sure as conferences were long and tedious, a big element would be dissing what was previously in vogue. Too big of a disciple of the former ideas and your fall from grace would be fast and spectacular. Besides, it was all bogus. He'd seen an old black and white film recently, some quack trying to hornswoggle a town into a cure for a drought. And that was this was, just with fancies words and better suits.
So he was here to surf along the surface, meet the right people (and nobody on the table met that stringent criteria) and be seen doing it. Because not being here was as much corporate seppuko as spouting last year's philosophy.
It was the last session before they broke for morning coffee, which for Rob, was overdue by at least an hour, even slack ties' concentration was wondering. The speaker was sand paper dry, mumbling his way thorough 'Customer Based Synergy – the Higgs-Boson of Success.' Rob was fiddling with his fountain pen, a gift from his granddad, when somehow he managed to ping it off the table. He bobbed underneath scanning the floor, spotted it, played footsie with it, managing to kick it further under the table. He'd have to go diving.
He checked the rest of the table. They were focused on the rasping man who was now synergising mutually based outcomes. He submerged, slipping off his seat to the floor. He twisted to reach the pen. He got it.
As he surfaced he saw them. They stood out amongst the sensible brogues and court shoes, they were black patent leather, tight lace up ankle boots, studded with small round diamanté stones glowing in the half light under the table.
The shoes owner flexed, straightening her legs. The pinstriped, flared trouser suit rose up revealing a long spike of a heel. They shoes stretched, then retracted, dancing, a shuffle back and forth and then up on point. The shoes clearly belonged to someone as bored as Rob.
Someone shifted on his table and obscuring the view. He squirmed his way to the surface, regaining his seat. Slack tie scowled at him. Rob grinned. He scanned the neighbouring tables to find her. It took a few moments but there she was on the next table. A demure, dark grey business suit. He knew it was her, it was the only pin stripe suit around. He stared at her. She looked like anyone else. But for the shoes.
From that point on he'd sought her out in each session. She was his focus. They were together during a presentation that synthesised cyclical factors blending them with cultural values in such a way to ensure the meta-value was aligned to key deliverables. Rob was lost from the opening words. She didn't take a note. He was impressed. Everyone around her were copious.
He lost her for a couple of sessions, almost panicked but after lunch he tracked her down, so calm in pin stripe but with those heels. The session was on 're-energising quality outcomes', whatever that meant. The seat next to her was empty. He almost claimed it but was beaten by a caterpillar browed bloke who enthused about the day so far. She cut him dead with an eloquent silence.
Rob liked her more.
For a session 'seeking alternate views to improve the understanding of your customer', the guy in an oversized suit at the front burbled on about providing a a systematic, proactive assessment of the user's end goals and consequently creating a empowering environment to achieve leveraged outcomes through stratigising, Rob managed to get on her table. He watched her. Her pad was a carpet page of ornate patterns. Not a single written word.

Rob swallowed hard. It had been a long, hard day and the glass of complimentary, warm vino didn't go half way to addressing what he needed. He needed something a lot stronger.
They were now crammed into a long thin room, bar at one end buffet to the side, glitter ball hung above for when the lights went down and the serious 'networking' began. Apart from the fools in the extra team working session.
He looked at the disconsolate prawn sandwich and soggy crisps on his plate. It took 15 minutes queuing to get it. He wasn't prepared to resign himself to his dingy room yet, though if the throng at the bar didn't diminish he'd retreat, no, make a strategic withdrawal, to attack his mini bar.
He was reviewing his options when the crowd parted (buffet must've been refreshed) and he saw her. He grinned and began to bob and weave his way to her. He cut through knots of people dissecting the day, gossiping or eyeing the evenings possibilities. He'd covered half the room. He feared someone would pick her up. He pressed on, chopping through people, spilling someone's drink.
“Be careful!”
It's not as if you paid for it thought Rob.
A doleful waiter pressed past him. Deftly, Rob slid his curling sandwich on the tray and lifted two glasses of wine, red and white; all options covered.
He was almost to her. One more clique to broach. He crashed through them.
“Heard about Richards?”
“No”
“He was caught....”
“'''S'cuse me,” Rob pushed through. They protested. He didn't care about Richards whether it had been fingers in the till or arms round the secretary. There weren't many options.
She's was in an oasis of space, out of the crush, waiting. Rob could see a couple of guys checking her out, but too afraid to chance it. She was turned away from him, vaguely gazing at some plaster cast panels mounted on the wall, depicting naked men riding horses. What they were doing here in this airless, windowless room was lost and Rob. The venue was concrete, concrete and concrete, the only classical thing in the place had been the Greek bar steward.
She'd changed. The pin stripe had gone replaced with a little black dress, sheer tights and those heels. They were vertiginous. Nose bleed territory, thought Rob, and fascinating.
“Elgin Marbles.” Rob sidles up to her.
“Sorry,” she had short dark hair that curled round her ears. Small diamond earrings glinted in the light as she turned to face him. Her eyes were blue, thin black snake like eye brows rose as she tried to place him. She tilted her head, which emphasised her thin nose. She was striking, not super model or page 3 beautiful but arresting.
“Those,” he nodded towards the plaster casts, “Elgin Marbles.” She didn't say anything. “From the British Museum.” Still nothing. Her gaze shifted to over his shoulder. “Not that they are the real ones of course.” Her eyes come back to his.
“Oh.”
They looked at the casts. Rob scanned the rest of the wall. Nothing but light fittings. Not really conversational show stoppers. He realised that the wine he's holding is a hindrance. There's a small table. He plonkes them down.
“Rob” He sticks out a hand. She studies him. Rob's not sure what to do, his hand dangles in the space. She raises hers, one's clasping the complimentary wine, the other a canapé. “Ah, I see. Wouldn't want you to spill anything...” He leaves the sentence open, hoping to get her name.
There's a slow pause. She's looking over his shoulder again. He steps to one side, back into her line of sight. He smiles, not like morning but sincere.. At least that's what he hopes.
“Leah.”
“Leah,” he repeats. Not a bad name. He runs through the lexicon of names, no Leah's; a Lucy, two Liz's and a Labrenda, which he'd rather not dwell on. (With hindsight the clue was the name, Old Norse, sword. There was not a fight she'd lost.) But Leah was promising. “Too crowded isn't it. Bar's packed, full of people rehydrating themselves after the desert dry day.”
“Sorry?” Leah turns.
“It's been a pretty dull day.”
Leah shifts from predatory heel to predatory heel. She scans the room.
“You need to find ways of getting through it.” The words are like glue, they wouldn't flow.
“Hmmm.”
“And you seem different. The way you dress.” That caught her for a moment. “That's how I saw you.”
“Sorry?”
“That how I saw you, this morning.” A twitch of interest.
“Yes?”
“I'd dropped my pen,” he produces it, “Grandpa gave it to me, sort of special, you know.” (Reference to family, older generation, impression that he was grounded man, sensible. Usually worked.) She shrugged suggesting that she appreciate this fact. There was a flicker of a smile.
“I was on the floor looking for it, during the first session; hard work wasn't he? Don't get how they can say such guff.” Her eye's glint. Positive. “Anyway, desperate for caffeine fix I was fiddling with pen,” he demonstrated, letting the pen roll from finger to finger a trick he'd learnt drumming in a band. (There's another story that could come into play.) “Well it slipped.” Leah gave a half knowing laugh. That was good. But her focus slipped to his left again. “What to do? Bit embarrassed about this but,” he drops his gaze. There are those shoes, “Went table diving for it.” Rob looks up. There's a smile, it broadens showing white, even teeth. “Anyway, there I was scrabbling around under the table and...” Rob's suddenly concious of his direction of travel, “... and well....” His mouth begins to dry. The words are heavy. He peters out, she's looking over his shoulder. A man drifts into view. He slides an arm expertly round Leah's waist, leaning in to kiss her cheek. He stands on tip toe. It's the heels. She's almost a head taller than him
“Yes?” she says, turning to Rob. The man step's back and faces him. It's slack tie. Rob begins to back away. “Yes?”
Rob blurts, “I looked over and I saw you shoes.”
The blue eyes lock on to him. Slack tie says nothing. He's neat, tidy, ordered in a black suit and red tie, perfectly done up. Leah's head clicks back. “Sorry, did you say shoes?”
“Yes shoes”
“You were under the table?”
“Yes.”
“Under the table and saw my shoes?”
“Yes.” It's more like an escape of air than a word.
“My shoes?”
“Yes.” Slack tie's calm, dismissive. He's smiling.
Leah's gaze is forensic, “My shoes?”
“Yes.”
“Pervert!”