Chapter 7: The Lobby

Ashworth Capital took up six floors of a glass building in the City, and its lobby had a reception desk the length of a bus.

I walked up to it at noon on Monday with a photograph in my hand.

Four receptionists in dark suits looked up together.

"I'm here for Rafe Ashworth," I said.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"I'm his wife."

There was a very short silence.

"Of course, Mrs Ashworth," said the one in the middle. "I'll let his office know."

"Don't," I said. "I'll wait."

I set the photograph face up on the marble.

It was the one the burns nurse had taken, blown up and printed.

A small right forearm, pink and wet and blistered from the wrist almost to the elbow.

"That's my daughter's arm," I said. "She is four. Please put it on his desk, and tell him I'll be here."

The receptionist looked at the photograph.

She did not look away, which I liked her for.

"I'll take it up myself," she said.

I sat down on the long leather bench by the lifts.

He did not come down for a long time.

In that time a dozen people crossed the lobby.

Every one of them knew my face from the Christmas party.

Every one of them slowed down.

Then the far lift opened, and Rafe came out of it without his jacket.

He had the photograph in his hand.

He crossed the floor to me fast, with his shirtsleeves rolled and a muscle jumping in his jaw.

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