In the reception of an office, high in a steel and glass skyscraper, a woman stood at the window and gazed down upon the city.
Up here, everything was quiet. From this gleaming eagle’s nest, the noise of traffic and construction and the rush of pedestrians seemed the problems of lesser mortals. On the reception desk, a huge bouquet in pinks and whites was inappropriately cheery.
Nothing good happened in offices like this, the woman thought.
People only came here when things were going badly wrong. The woman was in her late thirties, with tawny-blonde hair that rested on her shoulders. She turned and sat again on a beautiful chair designed without the smallest thought to comfort. She crossed and recrossed her legs. She’d been waiting for twenty minutes already. Her armpits were damp. She wished she’d brought a book.
The uncomfortable chair was covered in grey linen. The dot paintings on the walls belonged in a gallery. She couldn’t detect any fragrance from the enormous bouquet. Everything was tasteful without displaying any particular taste. The chairs, the paintings, the flowers; these were meant to distract you from two things.
Bad news and exorbitant fees.
‘Steve will see you now,’ the receptionist said.
—
As Steve ushered her to a seat on the far side of the long table in the meeting room, she knew she’d made a mistake.
Oh, he was friendly enough. Delighted to see her.
‘I can’t get over it,’ he said, clasping her hand in both of his.
‘You’re grown up. It must be twenty years.’
‘More like thirty.’ Her mouth smiled.
He whistled. He was a round man who wore braces – on his chest, not his teeth – and his head was strangely two-dimensional as though it were a colour photocopy of his actual head. ‘I think of your father often.’
‘That’s kind.’
‘And how’s Nick? And your sister? What was her name?’
‘Kylie. Nick’s retired from football now, you probably know. Kylie’s a pharmacist.’
‘And your mother?’
‘A danger to herself and others.’
He laughed. ‘Nothing’s changed, then. Clara, can you believe I bounced this woman on my knee?’
Clara, his associate, chuckled subordinately in her monochrome pantsuit. The woman – the former bouncee – had agonised for weeks before making the appointment. It would have been easy to ask around for recommendations – she knew people who considered themselves experts in the field – but there was something concrete about that. Something committed. She would have had to put her thoughts into words. And soon, gossip would spread. Instead she’d done a little light googling and the name of Steve’s firm had jumped out from the screen. She remembered Steve from her childhood: avuncular, patient with small children, smelling of tobacco and whiskey like her father. Logically, she knew Steve might well have retired by now, so she felt calmed by the sight of his name, by the memory of being small and having a wise grown-up to look after her…
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