I open my mouth to yell his name, then notice that he’s stopped suddenly, on the steps up to the revolving entrance door. He pulls a phone out of his pocket. Slowly, I move closer. He’s facing the building, and has no idea that I’m approaching.
If he turns around and sees me, I’ll say, ‘Hi, Lewis,’ as if I wanted him to notice me. Which I did, until this phone call happened. Now I’m hoping I can get close enough to listen, unobserved. The change in his body language tells me it isn’t a run-of-the-mill conversation that he’s having. He looks braced, somehow – as if the outcome of the call matters to him a lot. Maybe this is what all high-powered business calls look like.
I creep as close to him as I dare, then duck in between two cars and kneel down so that I won’t be visible if he decides he’d like a change of view while making his call. I hear him say, ‘Are you ready for Daily Responses? What?’ he snaps. It sounds as if he’s been told something he wasn’t expecting to hear and doesn’t like it much. ‘Ten minutes late, yes. Where are you?’ he barks at whoever he’s speaking to. ‘And where should you be?’ he asks in the exact same tone after a short pause.
From cheery, haven’t-a-care-in-the-world tune-hummer to ice-cold Condemnatron boss in a few seconds. This is familiar; Lewis’s demeanour used to change with dazzling speed when I knew him. In a minute he might be humming merrily again.
I hope so. That’ll make it easier for me to pop up as soon as this phone call is over with my carefully rehearsed, ‘Hey, Lewis. You said I should come and visit you in Florida, so here I am!’
‘And what are you?’ he asks whoever he’s speaking to.
Is he hoping for a response along the lines of ‘I’m a complete and utter fool whose entire life is a comprehensive failure’? It sounds like it. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone’s out of a job before the day is over.
‘Good,’ says Lewis, sounding placated. Evidently his interlocutor has said the right thing. ‘I’ll see you later.’
Maybe the correct answer to ‘What are you?’, and the one supplied, was ‘On my way in right now to apologise profusely and beg your forgiveness.’
I wonder what Daily Responses is. Is Lewis on his way there now? It sounds like a strange kind of religious service – like the masses I used to attend at my Catholic school. They involved prayers and responses. VersaNova must have a daily ritual that’s the secular equivalent. This being America, it probably involves yoga, green tea and affirmations.
If Lewis’s colleague is ten minutes late, doesn’t that mean he is too? Maybe the colleague is supposed to be there already, before him.
He puts his phone back in his pocket, turning slightly. I duck down lower. Having him see me is one thing; being caught eavesdropping is another.
That could happen. He could, at this moment, be striding towards my hiding place.
All I can do is wait, crouch and pray. Time passes. No one appears. Once I think it’s safe, I stand up and rub the small of my back.
The steps are empty. There’s no sign of Lewis anywhere in the car park. He must have gone inside.
Damn.
Though it’s not necessarily a bad thing. Talking inside beats talking in a car park, assuming he agrees to see me. And if he refuses, I’ll know for certain that I’m on the right track. A Lewis Braid with no guilty conscience would come bounding out of his office to greet an old friend.
VersaNova’s lobby is covered, bottom to top, in glossy veined stone of an indeterminate non-colour. At its centre is a reception desk made of the same stone that looks as if it has grown up out of the floor. Three receptionists are lined up behind the desk, looking like hopeful contestants in a game show with a ludicrously high budget. Above their heads, there’s a large silver plaque embedded in the wall, bearing VersaNova Techologies’ logo.
Two of the receptionists are smiling too hard at me. I walk over to the third. She looks the least suspiciously radiant. ‘I’d like to speak to Lewis Braid,’ I tell her. ‘I just saw him arrive.’ On her name badge it says ‘Wayna Skinner’ and, beneath that, ‘I make sure to want from a feeling of abundance’.
As I suspected: yoga, green tea and affirmations.
I can’t see the badge of the receptionist on the far left – it’s too far away – but the one in the middle, Lisa Pearce, has some words of wisdom on her badge too: ‘Failure only lasts forever if I’m too scared to try again’. I might suggest they introduce similar badges at Bankside Park: ‘Camilla Hosmer. Lies, false accusations and sporadic racism keep me looking young’.
I think about what Lewis said on the phone about having a favourite life coach. Was it his idea to pin inspiring messages to the company’s receptionists? It wouldn’t surprise me, though the Lewis I knew had no time at all for new-age nonsense. America might have changed him, I suppose, or he might be cynically playing the corporate game. I wonder if he’ll be willing to miss Daily Responses in order to talk to me.
‘Do you have an appointment with Dr Braid?’ Wayna Skinner asks me.
‘No.’
‘Then you’ll need to make one. He doesn’t see anyone without an appointment.’
‘Can you tell him Beth Leeson is here? I think he’ll see me. Tell him I’ve come all the way from England, in response to his invitation the other night. I’m an old friend.’
‘Oh, I see. Awesome. Let me see what I can do for you.’ She picks up the phone. ‘Martha? It’s Wayna. There’s a lady here to see Dr Braid. A Beth Leeson. She’s an old friend he invited over. Thank you.’
I wish I could witness the moment of Martha telling Lewis I’m here: downstairs, in his building. What will he think? How will he react?
‘I sure will. Thank you, Martha.’ Wayna hangs up the phone. ‘He’ll see you. Please stand in front of the camera and I’ll take a photo for your pass.’
‘Camera?’
‘Up there. Can I see your ID? Passport?’
Luckily I still have it in my bag, from the airport. I trust my own ability to look after my handbag more than I trust any hotel safe.
With her friendly smile fixed in place, Wayna stares at my passport photograph and me for longer than anyone in an airport ever has. ‘My hair was different then,’ I tell her.
Finally she places a laminated pass in my hands with excessive care, as if she’s granting me access to the country’s nuclear codes. The photograph VersaNova’s camera has taken of me from on high makes my head look huge and my body tiny and tapering.
‘Take the elevator up to five and Martha will meet you there,’ she says. ‘Have a great visit!’
The elevator is good company. It lets rip with an exuberant, pre-recorded ‘Level! Five!’ as we come to a stop. The doors open and I step out into a beige-carpeted reception area. There are two sets of white double doors and four orange leather chairs lined up against one wall, but no Martha. I’m wondering if I ought to do anything apart from wait when one of the doors swings open.
‘Lewis.’
‘Beth! It’s really you! Is Dom with you?’
‘No. Just me.’
‘You should have brought the whole family. What a treat it is to see you!’ He strides over and wraps me in a hug. I think about resisting, even as I hug him back. In his best moments, this was what was great about spending time with Lewis. He could make you feel as if you were his favourite treat in a way that no one else could.