be got over with, a ritual that must not be al owed to set her teeth on edge merely because she knew it was, inevitably, coming.
‘Thank you, dear,’ Margaret said.
She put her bag on the floor, and her briefcase on the desk. The windows were screened with vertical venetian blinds, and Margaret went across the room, behind Glenda, to open the slats and let in more of the unenthusiastic morning light.
‘I thought the bus would be late,’ Glenda said. ‘What with the fog. But it wasn’t. It was almost early. I had to run, you should have seen me, running down North King Street. No wonder I look a mess, al that running.’
She paused, waiting for reassurance.
Margaret, trained by Dawson in the art of sidestepping the obvious, said as if Glenda hadn’t spoken, ‘Glenda, dear. Has Bernie Harrison cal ed?’
‘Not yet,’ Glenda said. She put her hand to her hair and tucked a frond or two behind her ear. ‘Do I look a mess?’
Margaret glanced at her.
‘No, dear. You look exactly the same as usual.’
Inside her handbag, her mobile began to ring. As she reached inside to find it, the telephone on Glenda’s desk began to ring as wel .
‘Margaret Rossiter,’ she said into her mobile.
‘Margaret Rossiter Agency,’ Glenda said simultaneously into the landline phone.
‘Yes, dear,’ Margaret said to Bernie Harrison’s secretary. ‘No, dear. No, I can’t change today’s meeting. We have to decide today because—’
‘I’m sorry?’ Glenda said.
‘It’s very rare to be offered the Sage as a venue,’ Margaret said, ‘and if you’l forgive me, dear, I shouldn’t be discussing this with you, I should be speaking to Mr Harrison. Could you put him on?’
‘Mrs Rossiter is on the other line,’ Glenda said.
Margaret walked towards the window. She looked out into the street. Bernie Harrison’s mother had worked in Welch’s sweet factory, and now he drove a Jaguar and had a flat in Monte Carlo.
‘Now, Bernie—’
‘What sort of important?’ Glenda said. ‘Could I ask her to cal you back?’
‘Wel ,’ Margaret said, ‘if you can’t make later, you’d better climb into that vulgar jalopy of yours and come and see me now.’
Glenda inserted herself between Margaret and the window. She mouthed, ‘Something important,’ stretching her mouth like a cartoon fish.
‘One moment, Bernie,’ Margaret said. She took the phone away from her ear. ‘What now?’ she said to Glenda.
‘A girl,’ Glenda said, ‘a girl on the phone. She says it’s important. She says she must speak to you.’
Something chil y slid down Margaret’s spine.
‘What girl?’
‘She says,’ Glenda said, ‘she says her name’s Amy. She says you’l know—’
Margaret gave Glenda a little dismissive nod. She put her phone back against her ear.
‘Bernie. I’l cal you back in fifteen minutes. You just tel your client that even Josh Groban would jump at the chance to sing at the Sage.’
She flipped her phone shut and held out her hand. Glenda put the landline receiver into it.
‘Are you al right?’ Glenda said.
Margaret turned her back. She said into the phone, ‘Yes? Margaret Rossiter speaking.’
There was a fractional pause, and then Amy said, ‘It’s Amy.’
‘Amy,’ Margaret said.
‘Yes. Amy Rossiter.’
‘Is—’ Margaret said, and stopped.
‘No,’ Amy said. Her voice was faint and unsteady. ‘I tried your home number but you’d gone. That’s why I’m – wel , that’s why I’m ringing now, because you ought to know, I’m ringing to tel you about – about Dad.’
‘What—’
‘He died,’ Amy said simply.
‘Died?’ Margaret said. Her voice was incredulous.
‘He had a heart attack. He was rushed to hospital. And he died, in the hospital.’
Margaret felt behind her for the edge of Glenda’s desk, and leaned against it.
‘He – he
