The top floor of Reid, Murdoch & Co. is where the Caterer takes her appointments and calls meetings. Most days she flits about the city, schmoozing and sweet talking to keep the clients happy. However, this is the place to call, should you need her to intervene or clean up your mess.



This message was last edited by the GM at 23:08, Sun 18 Oct 2020.

The staff entrance to the Caterer's office is barren. Not made intentionally unwelcoming, but it is clear that no money has been wasted to make the Help at ease.

Up four flights of stairs and a fire exit later, the dichotomy of a different world slams into the senses. The floors are a dark hardwood, with Persian carpets intermittently leading the way to the Caterer's office door. The wall sconces are gold and gleaming, the door handles are crystal and the room preceding the Caterer's office houses a wall of bookshelves and a mahogany desk. The scent of some cloying, floral perfume hangs in the air, intermingling with cigarette smoke and the smell of wood polish.

This much is old hat to you all. As is the woman who sits behind the desk, currently furiously typing away on a typewriter with snakelike precision. The staccato of the keys works in an odd rhythm with the ticking of a grandfather clock, but it is clear from the small smirk on Angie's face that it is both intentional and enjoyable to her.

With a flourish, the piece of paper Angie has been typing on is removed with precision and placed in on of several folders that sit on the desk. Each one is tailored for what information you will need for the meeting to come. Dossiers of people, sales accounts, some transfer requests... Whatever it is that the Caterer will be demanding of you in a few moments, Angie has prepared the answers to her biting questions.

"You have seventeen minutes before she comes in here, it looks to be all the usual requirements for the next month. She left in good spirits to meet Bishop Fischer, but who knows if it'll go well or not.", her voice holds traces of a European accent and she gestures towards the pair of red leather couches for you all to sit.

"Do you have any questions?"

Fey isn't there. Not until she is. Sitting in one of the leather chairs, dossier in hand. Flipping through the pages. Her legs crossed, the slit of her dress showing her bare ankle and more than a glimpse of calf. She reads with her lips parted, tongue touching the back of her teeth.

"Oh, honey," Fey doesn't look up from her papers, "It's sweet you ask. But I'm sure you did just fine here. Look at all these." She holds up a sheet of paper, eyes to the next one. "Little dots and all."