I feel that plastic fruit in a meeting room denotes utter classlessness.
My defenses were through the roof as I waited for the clients of my next assignment to meet me. If this was Kristakos's conference room, I was determined to take it down: tacky law books on dusty shelves, a leather settee with dried cracks in it, an unwashed window filtering in sickly light and a liver-spotted butler who insulted me with tap water instead of Evian. Hmph. And the room smelled like mildew. In the room's defense we were in the gloomy Upper East Side -- everything smells of mildew amongst the decaying townhouses found there.
I sat reciting hexes in my head: to tie someone's tongue, to cause someone to vomit, to inflict acne on a certain petulant satyr. But would I be so bold if Kris were to show up? I certainly refuse to accept any assignment on his behalf. No way.
But can I refuse?