was, right down to the soles of his shiny black Loake shoes.
Sabrina simply smiled at her when she’d told her where she was going.
Outside, the wind was even icier. She glanced at Rose’s house as she passed. It looked dead, except for a light on upstairs. Had she taken Alek to the movie? She didn’t have time to find out.
At Canary Wharf station the metallic grey escalators were crowded. The steel and glass canopy above seemed to be holding up the gunmetal clouds as she came up to street level.
She could sense people getting ready for the weekend, for their Friday night out. No matter how many offices were gutted by redundancies, there was always an appetite for a good time in London. If anything, she’d heard it had increased in the past year, as people threw caution to the four winds.
This was BXH’s world.
As she crossed the road on Bank Street, past the gleaming towers of fund managers and little-known banks, she shivered as the ice-sharpened wind cut into every exposed piece of skin.
What does this say about our marriage if I have to go to his office to find him?
As she came up to the BXH building she noticed the airplane-wing shape of a black Mercedes S-Class standing at the curb. A trickle of white smoke was slipping from its exhaust.
Paul Vaughann had an S-Class. As she passed the vehicle she gave it a quick glance.
There was someone in the back. Her snow-blonde hair was hard to miss. It was Vaughann’s wife, Suzanne. She was staring at her.
She didn’t nod, or shown any sign of recognition. Was she surprised? No. They’d met only once. That time she’d had the demeanour of an ice sculpture too.
She was probably waiting for her husband to come out of the BXH building. With the bonuses he’d notched up in the last few years there wouldn’t be any change in their lifestyle, whatever happened about the merger.
She felt underdressed as she entered the marble and glass canyon-walled reception area of BXH, but she didn’t care.
The place had been designed to look like the home of money. Intimidated was how you felt in other, lesser institutions. Here the feeling was of total awe. There was a hush in the air, broken only by the click of heels, a big shiny gold logo filled the far wall, and the smell of money, of leather and sweet marble polish, was hard to ignore.
She waited in line, like a supplicant, at one of the queues in front of the reception desk. There was a group of five, mainly Chinese, businesspeople in front of her.
They were muttering among themselves. They looked sleekly prosperous in their well-cut suits and shiny hair. The security guards on each side of the reception desk overseeing the glass turnstiles, which were the real access points to the building, looked like heavyweight boxers.
Behind the reception desk there were four model-type receptionists, all wearing black uniforms and with TV-advert hair. They must have spent half their spare time keeping themselves glossy.
It was her turn.
The girl behind the desk smiled, her pencil-line eyebrows raised, as if she too was surprised to see Isabel standing there in her fashionably torn jeans and slightly distressed suede jacket, but she was far too polite to say.
‘Can you ask my husband, Sean Ryan, to come down, please?’
Isabel returned the girl’s smile with equal insincerity. She had emphasised the word husband. She knew that for many of these receptionists the pinnacle of achievement would be for them to marry one of the bankers who slipped past their desks every day with few sideways glances.
‘Certainly, Mrs Ryan. Please wait over there.’ The receptionist pointed at a cluster of black leather sofas to her right. They weren’t in the best position in the foyer, the Chinese were occupying that, but it wasn’t the plumber’s entrance either.
She went to her allotted place, anxiety burrowing through her gut, as if it was trying to break out.
‘Please be here,’ she whispered to herself.
She watched the
Sabrina simply smiled at her when she’d told her where she was going.
Outside, the wind was even icier. She glanced at Rose’s house as she passed. It looked dead, except for a light on upstairs. Had she taken Alek to the movie? She didn’t have time to find out.
At Canary Wharf station the metallic grey escalators were crowded. The steel and glass canopy above seemed to be holding up the gunmetal clouds as she came up to street level.
She could sense people getting ready for the weekend, for their Friday night out. No matter how many offices were gutted by redundancies, there was always an appetite for a good time in London. If anything, she’d heard it had increased in the past year, as people threw caution to the four winds.
This was BXH’s world.
As she crossed the road on Bank Street, past the gleaming towers of fund managers and little-known banks, she shivered as the ice-sharpened wind cut into every exposed piece of skin.
What does this say about our marriage if I have to go to his office to find him?
As she came up to the BXH building she noticed the airplane-wing shape of a black Mercedes S-Class standing at the curb. A trickle of white smoke was slipping from its exhaust.
Paul Vaughann had an S-Class. As she passed the vehicle she gave it a quick glance.
There was someone in the back. Her snow-blonde hair was hard to miss. It was Vaughann’s wife, Suzanne. She was staring at her.
She didn’t nod, or shown any sign of recognition. Was she surprised? No. They’d met only once. That time she’d had the demeanour of an ice sculpture too.
She was probably waiting for her husband to come out of the BXH building. With the bonuses he’d notched up in the last few years there wouldn’t be any change in their lifestyle, whatever happened about the merger.
She felt underdressed as she entered the marble and glass canyon-walled reception area of BXH, but she didn’t care.
The place had been designed to look like the home of money. Intimidated was how you felt in other, lesser institutions. Here the feeling was of total awe. There was a hush in the air, broken only by the click of heels, a big shiny gold logo filled the far wall, and the smell of money, of leather and sweet marble polish, was hard to ignore.
She waited in line, like a supplicant, at one of the queues in front of the reception desk. There was a group of five, mainly Chinese, businesspeople in front of her.
They were muttering among themselves. They looked sleekly prosperous in their well-cut suits and shiny hair. The security guards on each side of the reception desk overseeing the glass turnstiles, which were the real access points to the building, looked like heavyweight boxers.
Behind the reception desk there were four model-type receptionists, all wearing black uniforms and with TV-advert hair. They must have spent half their spare time keeping themselves glossy.
It was her turn.
The girl behind the desk smiled, her pencil-line eyebrows raised, as if she too was surprised to see Isabel standing there in her fashionably torn jeans and slightly distressed suede jacket, but she was far too polite to say.
‘Can you ask my husband, Sean Ryan, to come down, please?’
Isabel returned the girl’s smile with equal insincerity. She had emphasised the word husband. She knew that for many of these receptionists the pinnacle of achievement would be for them to marry one of the bankers who slipped past their desks every day with few sideways glances.
‘Certainly, Mrs Ryan. Please wait over there.’ The receptionist pointed at a cluster of black leather sofas to her right. They weren’t in the best position in the foyer, the Chinese were occupying that, but it wasn’t the plumber’s entrance either.
She went to her allotted place, anxiety burrowing through her gut, as if it was trying to break out.
‘Please be here,’ she whispered to herself.
She watched the
Similar Books
