I gaze down at her bespoke Italian mahogany desk, and out of respect only briefly allow my eyes to scan across it. There are only a few paper files, closed and lined neatly next to one another, and the thick sterling silver fountain pen I have seen her use for signing documents sits a few inches in a perfect vertical line away by itself. I notice the only desk drawer is open slightly, and I let my gaze fall upon the contents. A few pieces of writing paper, a few more pens and tucked underneath, just poking out, a photograph. Only half a face is revealed but it’s one I recognise – I had seen it often enough as a child. There is a manicured hand slung over the shoulder within the half of the photograph I can see. My fingertips ignite, only inches away from the image because I want to confirm my initial recognition and discover who the arm belongs to. I steal a glance at the doorway and listen for footsteps, then I arch my body so I can slip the photo out as though I’m not actually committing to the act. I pinch the edge and pull it out another couple of inches. Then I see the two beaming faces of Caitlin and Hackett. It must be a fairly recent photo as Caitlin is sporting her recent cropped locks. It looks like a selfie from the angle and it has been taken outside, a blur of green and browns in the background. I imagine Caitlin on a visit back to Saxby, grabbing Hackett for a snap. I hadn’t imagined he would still be working there, and I wonder if Caitlin had paid him a personal visit to his house in the village on one of her rare excursions back to Dorset.
A clearing of a throat causes my fingers to let go of the photo. I look at the doorway, my heart pounding in my throat.
‘Ah, you’re here.’ Caitlin is wearing a white blouse tucked into a black pencil skirt. She isn’t wearing shoes, which is why I didn’t hear her. I now spot a pair of black stilettos under the desk, which I step away from. She walks towards me, a large black folder in her hand.
‘I was about to leave you a note, wasn’t sure if you were coming back,’ I say, hoping that explains why I am so close to her desk.
‘Sorry about that, Mabel needed me to…’ Caitlin trails off as she arrives behind her desk and looks down at the open drawer. Then she looks up at me, her eyes assessing me momentarily. ‘… Anyway, I’m here now.’ She gives the drawer a firm shove with her leg and looks up at me with an inquiring smile.
I walk around and flop into the soft chair opposite. I wonder if this is where Ava had been sat minutes earlier. Should I apologise again for being late? Then I remind myself how long it took Caitlin to respond to my text and how she answered it as though she had read it seconds before.
Caitlin takes a deep breath in, opens the file she is carrying, flicks through a few pages, then slams it shut. I’m about to speak again, when she cuts in before me.
‘I haven’t had any lunch yet – shall we step out?’
It’s almost four thirty when we arrive in the crowded café along the high street and join a long queue towards the counter. It doesn’t surprise me that it’s only now that Caitlin is thinking about lunch – she is usually here until seven during the week and then eight or nine o’clock on a Friday to tie things up before the weekend, when she finally kicks back and relaxes. It amazes me how quickly she is able to make the transition from high-profile commercial solicitor to slob and couch potato. I always thought as someone who spent an inordinate amount of time in the countryside as a child, Caitlin would relish the outdoors, and with spending such a long time in this office, she would be off running or hiking at the weekend. But Caitlin sleeps until midday on Saturday, mooches about in her pyjamas until five, reading the papers whilst Chuck is off rowing or playing tennis, then she and Chuck wander to Waitrose to grab some food and cook and drink red wine until they pass out about midnight. Then they do the same thing again on Sunday. By Monday, she is back in the office by eight sharp.
She is still childless like me – funny how we have both arrived at our early thirties without starting a family. From where I stand next to her, I look at her pale skin, a vast contrast to my golden colouring. Even without the outdoor activity, her freckles in the summer are as prominent across her nose as they were when she was a child. I know she hates them. However, I notice for the first time just how much she has begun to look like Ava. With the way she has cut her hair short, and even though she has coloured it from dark brown to a copper colour, she is a mirror image of her mother. I can say that more confidently now that I had just seen Ava in the reception, but something is stopping me from mentioning my near run-in with her mother.
‘It’s so busy,’ Caitlin says impatiently, trying to survey how many
