minutes, just say that the directors produced the relevant figures.
Don’t say they were asked and didn’t know them. On mobile phones, just say that a more restrictive policy is under consideration and that DS – director of security – will
announce and implement any changes in due course.’
She looked relieved. ‘I think they were all a bit taken aback by that.’
‘Not as much as I was to see people with phones all over the place. And laptops – Michelle had hers on the desk and referred to it. Though I suppose that’s different if
they’re just locked into our own system.’
A mobile rang. After a moment’s puzzlement he groped in his jacket pocket, switched it off and pushed it across the table. ‘Life. One damn thing after another. Don’t give it
back until I leave the building’.
5
S arah was awoken early on the Saturday morning by the bleep of a text but couldn’t remember where she had left her mobile. She stared at the
ceiling while the components of the present reassembled themselves. She had dreamt a kaleidoscope of the Brussels apartment she had shared with Nigel, inhabited in her dream by Miss Sage, the
red-faced, white-haired headmistress of her primary school. Miss Sage had lost her wire-haired fox terrier and they were searching a green Morris Minor belonging to the Foreign Secretary, who was
about to return and drive away.
The present cohered into the fact of Charles sleeping beside her, her husband after all these years, as strange as any dream. They were in their new house in Westminster, possibly with horrors
hidden beneath the new paintwork but nothing that pressingly needed doing. They were properly in now and just needed to make it a home. Books were the problem, boxes and boxes of them stacked in
every room. There just wasn’t the wall space, no matter how ingenious they were with new shelving. They would have to get someone in for that; it was already apparent that it would be no good
relying on Charles.
And it was Saturday, so no work, though she would have to go in for an hour or two on Sunday. Today they were to drive to Sussex to pick up the keys and formally take over the rented cottage.
Some of the books would go there, of course. She looked forward to that, but then remembered that there was no silver lining without a cloud. They were to have dinner with the landlord, Jeremy
Wheeler. She recalled him from when he worked with Nigel as a big, fat and boastful man with a surprisingly attractive – perhaps necessarily quiet – wife. What was her name? She’d
have to ask Charles.
The invitation had come via Katya Chester. Sarah had demurred at first, pleading that the cottage was unfurnished and that they wouldn’t want a late-night drive back to London after
dinner. But they’d then been invited to stay the night, which would be even worse. The last thing either of them wanted at the moment was to spend the weekend as the guests of virtual
strangers, tiptoeing around.
‘We can’t,’ Charles said when she told him. ‘No question. He’s just wrangled his way onto the parliamentary Intelligence Services Committee. It’ll be bad
enough appearing before them with him preening himself as former colleague and now our landlord, without having spent cosy weekends with him. Wouldn’t look good.’
‘Could we not go at all, then? It would be much nicer not to but it’s a bit awkward to say no when he knows we’re down there and have the time.’
‘We could say yes to dinner and spend the night at the cottage.’
‘On what? The floor? It’s completely unfurnished.’ Charles’s lack of domestic awareness could still surprise her. Already he seemed to treat the packing cases as
permanent, sitting or putting things on them without any apparent thought of unpacking.
‘I’ll book a hotel, then.’
‘That will look rather pointed.’
‘It is, with reason. I’ll explain to him.’
‘And is it still up to me to get back to his Snow Queen
Don’t say they were asked and didn’t know them. On mobile phones, just say that a more restrictive policy is under consideration and that DS – director of security – will
announce and implement any changes in due course.’
She looked relieved. ‘I think they were all a bit taken aback by that.’
‘Not as much as I was to see people with phones all over the place. And laptops – Michelle had hers on the desk and referred to it. Though I suppose that’s different if
they’re just locked into our own system.’
A mobile rang. After a moment’s puzzlement he groped in his jacket pocket, switched it off and pushed it across the table. ‘Life. One damn thing after another. Don’t give it
back until I leave the building’.
5
S arah was awoken early on the Saturday morning by the bleep of a text but couldn’t remember where she had left her mobile. She stared at the
ceiling while the components of the present reassembled themselves. She had dreamt a kaleidoscope of the Brussels apartment she had shared with Nigel, inhabited in her dream by Miss Sage, the
red-faced, white-haired headmistress of her primary school. Miss Sage had lost her wire-haired fox terrier and they were searching a green Morris Minor belonging to the Foreign Secretary, who was
about to return and drive away.
The present cohered into the fact of Charles sleeping beside her, her husband after all these years, as strange as any dream. They were in their new house in Westminster, possibly with horrors
hidden beneath the new paintwork but nothing that pressingly needed doing. They were properly in now and just needed to make it a home. Books were the problem, boxes and boxes of them stacked in
every room. There just wasn’t the wall space, no matter how ingenious they were with new shelving. They would have to get someone in for that; it was already apparent that it would be no good
relying on Charles.
And it was Saturday, so no work, though she would have to go in for an hour or two on Sunday. Today they were to drive to Sussex to pick up the keys and formally take over the rented cottage.
Some of the books would go there, of course. She looked forward to that, but then remembered that there was no silver lining without a cloud. They were to have dinner with the landlord, Jeremy
Wheeler. She recalled him from when he worked with Nigel as a big, fat and boastful man with a surprisingly attractive – perhaps necessarily quiet – wife. What was her name? She’d
have to ask Charles.
The invitation had come via Katya Chester. Sarah had demurred at first, pleading that the cottage was unfurnished and that they wouldn’t want a late-night drive back to London after
dinner. But they’d then been invited to stay the night, which would be even worse. The last thing either of them wanted at the moment was to spend the weekend as the guests of virtual
strangers, tiptoeing around.
‘We can’t,’ Charles said when she told him. ‘No question. He’s just wrangled his way onto the parliamentary Intelligence Services Committee. It’ll be bad
enough appearing before them with him preening himself as former colleague and now our landlord, without having spent cosy weekends with him. Wouldn’t look good.’
‘Could we not go at all, then? It would be much nicer not to but it’s a bit awkward to say no when he knows we’re down there and have the time.’
‘We could say yes to dinner and spend the night at the cottage.’
‘On what? The floor? It’s completely unfurnished.’ Charles’s lack of domestic awareness could still surprise her. Already he seemed to treat the packing cases as
permanent, sitting or putting things on them without any apparent thought of unpacking.
‘I’ll book a hotel, then.’
‘That will look rather pointed.’
‘It is, with reason. I’ll explain to him.’
‘And is it still up to me to get back to his Snow Queen
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