Turning Point by Barbara Spencer

Seventeen stories below, the cars and people appeared no bigger than ants. A long black limousine, its pennant sharp and clear even from a distance, pulled away from the underground car park. Casually, his gaze followed it, watching it peel off round a traffic island and recognised the Russian flag, with its three horizontal bands of colour, white, blue and scarlet. Whoever it was had either finished work for the day… or had a lunch engagement. Lucky them.
    Suddenly starving, Scott moved away from the window. A waitress carrying a tray of drinks approached, a teenager, little older than him. He smiled his thanks, accepting a glass of orange juice from the heavily laden tray, wondering if he dare ask if there was anything to eat.
    He glanced round the room noticing Llana Brigson, the Secretary of State, locked in conversation with his father and another woman. Scott vaguely remembered her putting a question to his dad and wondered which country she represented, although it didn’t take a genius to guess what they were talking about – research into an antidote for Styrus.
    â€˜Who’s that?’ he said to the waitress, pointing with his glass.
    â€˜Emma Arneson, the Norwegian representative.’
    The waitress’s dark hair was tidied away under a half-cap perched on the back of her head. It was thick, the strands heavy and long. Idly Scott wondered, how long. She wasn’t wearing make-up but she didn’t need it; her skin tanned and her brown eyes large and luminous even without mascara. And, despite that awful black uniform with its white apron, very pretty.
    â€˜You Swiss?’
    The girl smiled flirtatiously, her smile twisting the corners of her mouth. ‘Would it make a difference if I was?’
    Scott blushed and hastily took a sip of his orange juice. ‘Well… er…
no
,’ he admitted, surprised by his boldness.
    This wasn’t like him at all; he usually hung back when it came to girls. He had to be desperately bored to actually start up a conversation – except she was nice, and far more interesting than the people busily chatting up his dad. He eyed the Secretary of State who had moved across the room, her voice like a river in full flood, a little circle of people gathered round her listening respectfully.
    Scott found himself smiling again. When in Rome do as the Romans do. ‘Where do you come from then?’
    â€˜I’m Turkish, a student.’
    â€˜So have you been working here long?’
    Scott caught the sentence. How boring was that? Why couldn’t he ever dredge up something fascinating that would keep her glued to his side? The flashback of that fateful voyage on the river hit him; trying to talk to Hilary – and failing miserably. The girl leaned on one hip, gazing up at him. It was a great feeling. Girls should always be shorter; it made you feel strong and invincible.
    â€˜I do a couple of days a week; it pays my tuition and lodgings.’ Her English was good, although she hesitated before speaking as if thinking of the words in Turkish first before translating them. But that only added to her charm. She shifted the heavy tray from one arm to the other, staring down at it. ‘There’s no spare cash for socialising or boyfriends,’ she said, all at once sounding shy. Her eyes flew up to meet Scott’s. He took a hasty step backwards, startled by their intensity.
    â€˜What about you?’
    â€˜I’m here with my dad,’ he said, his confidence increasing by the second, hunger now only a vague memory. ‘He was addressing the General Assembly earlier.’
    â€˜Isn’t he that scientist – the one they’re all talking about who invented that germ that gets into computers?’
    â€˜It’s a virus. They’re different. Germs are what we catch.’ Scott caught a glimpse of his father at the far side of the room. He hadn’t moved, still wrapped in conversation with Emma