‘Can I help you?’ A man’s voice: pretty young, I’d guess.
‘Max Black sent me.’ I don’t elaborate.
I wait through the silence. The buzzer sounds, and the door swings back.
What’s inside is a surprise.
Isn’t that always the way, though? What’s inside, behind, underneath that first layer, waiting to be found.
Focus, I tell myself.
The professional front is not a front at all. This really is a laboratory, an expensive operation, and the people I can see through the wall of safety glass that separates the workplace from the reception area are the real deal, with white coats and studious expressions. They are of all ages and colours, tapping on computers, using unidentifiable equipment; these aren’t three college boys with bad hair, kitchen foil and a Bunsen burner.
Perhaps I should have expected better of Max.
No, no I shouldn’t. He liked them on the seedy side. The back street exchanges, money in envelopes. He got a kick out of all that. This is a development; perhaps one that happened after a skin change.
The workers don’t look at me. They must be used to visitors. This is certainly a room for that purpose alone – for the process to be observed. I look around me, at the upholstered chairs with curved arms and the pastel drawings of flowers on the walls. It reminds me of a dentist’s waiting room.
I would sit quietly and wait but I tell myself that I’m here for a reason. I shouldn’t have the patience or the personality type for waiting, right? Time is money. So I steel myself and tap on the glass. Everyone looks up, frowning in my direction. One of the white coats disengages from a computer and comes my way: an older woman with orange-rimmed glasses, bright, probably meant to be fun, but they give her a fierce and owlish look.
She puts her hands to the glass wall and a section slides back. The waft of air from the laboratory is cool and sweet-smelling. ‘Rose Allington?’
‘Did Max tell you I’d be dropping in?’
‘He did. He speaks highly of you. I’m Anna Mallory.’
We shake hands, and she slides the door closed behind her. So I’m not getting the guided tour.
‘It’s your name on the sign,’ I say.
‘One of them.’
‘So Max deals with you directly?’
‘He did, when he first signed up for the service. Since then he’s not come in person. A young woman has picked up the treatment package. But we’re expecting him in a month’s time, for an evaluation. To see how it’s going.’
The young woman – that would be Taylor, the bodyguard. ‘What treatment package is he on?’ I look around the room again, to make sure I haven’t missed it. But no, there’s no price list, no explanations. No written material at all.
‘I’m afraid that’s confidential,’ she says.
‘I have Mr Black’s confidence.’
‘In that case I suggest you ask him directly. How many questions do you have, Ms Allington? Should we sit down?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘We should sit down.’
So we perch on the chairs, both bolt upright, and I ask far more questions than I had intended to, mainly to annoy her. To see if she can be annoyed. Which, apparently, she can’t.
‘Who knew about Mr Black’s package? The times of delivery, say?’
‘Me. Employees who deal with delivery preparation. They’re all vetted carefully. I can supply you with a list of names, but I’d rather you didn’t speak to them directly unless absolutely necessary.’
‘How’s your online security?’
‘We employ a firm called Bastion Solutions to handle that. I took the liberty of asking them to check our records when Mr Black told me about the burglary. They reported no threats or compromises, but they are expecting your call.’
And so on, and so on. Every question I ask she’s already thought of, and with every stonewall I find myself getting more and more curious as to what she’s actually promised Max. Because she’s the kind of person who doesn’t promise what she can’t deliver.
‘When did you first meet Mr Black?’ I ask her.
For the first time her eyes flicker. So here it is – a lie. ‘Eighteen months ago.’
‘Did you approach him, or did he come to you? How did he find out about you?’
‘He phoned in an enquiry. I’d imagine he heard about us from somebody else in his line of work. We’re quite well known in the entertainment industry now, and nearly all of our clients come through a personal recommendation.’
‘Do you know which client recommended you to Max?’
She smiles. Well, of course she wouldn’t answer that. But the smile is thin, and unamused. We’re in territory she doesn’t want to traverse.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Never mind. I’ll ask him myself. Can I get that list of names? Employees with access to Mr Black’s records?’
‘I’ll email it. Could you?’ She hands me a pen and a small orange notepad that matches the shade of her glasses. When I flip it open I find only pristine pages; it’s brand new. I write my name, phone number and email address, feeling her eyes upon my writing.
‘Thank you,’ she says as I hand it back, and the way she says it makes me think that she’s won this confrontation. Something important has passed between us and I don’t even know what it is. Petra would have known. Petra would have solved this case by now.
We stand, and say polite goodbyes, before she taps in a code on the doorpad to release me back into the wild.
I walk to the hire car with no idea of what just really happened.
2007. BIG PICTURE.
It made for a strange evening – sitting in the dark with Petra, watching the screen. A story of romance unfolded, to the swoops and slides of well-played strings, and Max Black portrayed a dying businessman, hard and humourless, falling for his ditzy carer who brought sunshine to his final days. The actress was new to Rose. She had a miraculous complexion: so clean, so smooth. Rose spent the entire film wondering if it was digitally enhanced. Was anybody ever that beautiful? In comparison Max’s skin looked tight, tired. But he was meant to be dying, according to the script.
Afterwards they rode the tube to Phineas’s place, and sat around with him, taking three seats around a square table. Phin provided a jug of margarita.
‘To us,’ he said, once their frosted glasses were filled. Rose touched glasses with Phin, then with Petra, and drank.
The film was an easy place to start a conversation. Max the Object could be discussed as easily as one discusses the weather, or the decor, or the latest trash in the newspapers.
‘He looked old, didn’t he?’ said Petra.
‘Older,’ Rose conceded.
‘I hear he’s moving into directing movies,’ said Phin. ‘The girl I’ve got guarding him now says he’s working on a new project. He doesn’t do anything but work. She wants a change of assignment. Says he’s boring.’ He smoothed a hand along his bald head. ‘Even a movie star isn’t enough for the young now. They want adventure. Speaking of which…’
‘Yep, get down to it then, Phin,’ said Petra cheerily, pouring herself more margarita.
He switched his attention to Rose alone. ‘What made you want to go see that film?’
‘I just wanted to,’ she said, feeling defensive. ‘I like silly plots. Pure escapism.’ But it had been more than that – something to do with bringing two parts of her life together. She had, for the longest time, felt as if there were two halves to her that had twisted in opposite directions, like a cut peach around a stone.
And she had felt something powerful, watching Max with Petra beside her: that was definite. Max had once been all her own, and she had been his carer, his light; it had not been a concoction of the screen. Just as working with Petra was not a fabrication either. She tried to accept that she was all of these things: a bodyguard, a soldier, an investigator, a lover, a hater. Why did it matter? She didn’t know.