Before leaving the hotel room, she Facetimes Vern and speaks with Liam. The boy is elated to see her, burbling with excitement. But soon enough he grows distracted; she can hear his cousins yelping and laughing in the background. It brings her relief: he is happy and he is safe, glad to see her but not desperate to have her back. He’s resilient, cheerful and secure; life is still an adventure. She loves him all the more, feeling the connection arcing out through her phone, north to Port Silver. She tells him again she loves him before cutting the connection and ringing Martin.
When he answers, she hears the bustle of the city coming through the ether and into the silence of the hotel room. Is that what money buys? Silence in the big city; insulation? He tells her he’s on the tram, on the way to meet Bethanie Glass; that there is something he needs to find out, that he’ll be back soon. He says to stay in the hotel, stay safe.
‘Sure,’ she says. She hangs up, gathers her bag and leaves. Bethanie. She remembers her: young and vibrant. She is surprised to feel a spear of jealousy, of suspicion. It’s a long time since she’s felt anything like it; it reminds her of the days of Tarquin Molloy and Zelda Forshaw, like a taste of poison, creeping back into her thoughts, the past trying to reassert its hold over her. Fuck that. She holds tight to her resolve: she needs to act, she needs to push back, lest the past reassert itself.
The hotel lobby is small: small and expensive, designer furniture and original art. Boutique. The concierge is obsequious, almost servile, despite being old enough to be her father, as he guides her to a small room, wood panelled and plush carpeted, with new computers and a printer. ‘You won’t be disturbed, ma’am,’ he promises her, with a quick bow. Has he mistaken her for some sort of celebrity? Maybe she’s paying too much for their room.
The computer is new, the internet lightning fast; it’s surprisingly easy to find her old boss from Mollisons, Pam Risoli. Google. Is there nothing that can’t be found online? It takes her a little longer to track down a phone number. She breathes, looks at the number on the screen, hesitating, unsure whether she really wants to do this, resolve wavering momentarily. She closes her eyes, her mind winding back to those first days at Mollisons, to Friday night drinks at a bar down by the water. Tarquin shining, hair bouffant and mood expansive, his eyes dancing blue. She was happy, so happy, but also careful, not drinking too much, keeping her wits about her, trying hard to fit in. She found herself in a group of four with Tarquin and Raff and another trader called Phil, Tarquin doing his best to put her at ease. She was finding it difficult to make small talk: Raff was a head trader and one of the shift supervisors overseeing the bank’s round-the-clock deal-making, a serious man. The conversation shifted from markets and margins to the state of the economy here and abroad. It seemed as if Phil was attempting to impress Raff with his knowledge of the European bond market. She listened, trying to learn, to fathom the jargon and guess at the acronyms, doing her best not to embarrass herself or Tarquin. She could see Pam hovering in the background, a busybody vacuuming gossip for a Monday morning debrief. Then a woman sauntered over, inserted herself into the group: Zelda Forshaw, laughing at the men’s jokes, smiling broadly and flirting effortlessly with all the sincerity of an Instagram influencer. Mandy felt grateful for the diversion; she wasn’t troubled by Tarquin’s gaze shifting to Zelda. Perhaps Zelda, a woman of a similar age, might even be an ally.
That lasted until the bathroom, Mandy standing before the mirror, adjusting her make-up. Zelda entered, stood next to her.
‘You’re very pretty,’ Zelda observed.
‘Thank you.’ Mandy smiled at the other woman’s reflection. ‘So are you.’
Zelda nodded, as if acknowledging a universally accepted truth. ‘Tarquin Molloy. That’s some catch.’
Mandy was still smiling, still too happy to pick up on the undercurrent. ‘We’re going out together. Yes.’
‘I heard he organised your job for you. Are you enjoying it?’
‘Yes. Very much. Thank you.’
And now Zelda smiled too, though there was no amity in her eyes. ‘How’s your back?’
‘My back?’
‘Just remember, some of us got our jobs through hard work and on merit.’ And she left.
It was Pam who found Mandy, not weeping but mortified, in a cubicle. Pam, who comforted her, who ushered her out, who took her home to her new apartment. Who reassured her that she was good at her job and a valued member of her team. And who, for all her gossipy persona, never mentioned a word of it to anyone.
Mandy was dreading returning to work the following week. But on Monday she found that Pam had orchestrated it so she spent a part of each day in the team office, in Pam’s den, with the rest of the crew and away from the isolation of the trading floor. Mollisons had its own cafe, with subsidised meals and free coffee and cakes for employees, yet Pam had decided doughnuts were required from the shop across the road and made it Mandy’s job to fetch them, so the team could enjoy them in their office:
