Chapter Four
The building is absolutely massive. And shiny. It is not what I was expecting in the slightest and my legs start to tremble slightly as I look up at the fifty-gazillion windows that stare out across the River Thames. I’m not ready for this and I don’t know what I was thinking. People like me don’t belong in places like this. This is for the sparkly, beautiful people who have the world at their feet – not the middle-aged mothers who had to get up at an ungodly hour so that they could attempt to put some make-up on and sort out their uncooperative hair and organise the packed lunches and do last night’s washing up and then change their outfit four times, the first three because of a crisis of confidence and the last time because of fear-sweat.
But if I want even the slightest chance of continuing with my writing career then I need to pull myself together and get a grip because my editor wants to see me to discuss my second book and I can’t just run away. Tottering slightly on my fabulous but impractical author shoes, I push open the huge door and walk inside. I am woman and I will not allow my fears about ‘belonging’ to stop me from pursuing my own dreams and desires.
Besides, I’m here now so I might as well go in, fraudster or not.
The reception area is even more intimidating than the exterior. Security guards lurk menacingly, eyeing everyone with suspicion, and I immediately feel guilty and want to avoid eye contact with them. But that makes a person look even more suspicious, so I do what I always do when I feel guilty by suggestion and overcompensate.
‘Good morning!’ I trill, making firm eye contact with one of the guards. ‘Isn’t it a beautiful day? A little chilly, perhaps – but then it is autumn, after all! And winter will be upon us before we know it!’
He narrows his eyes until I can barely see his pupils. ‘Move along to the desk, please, Madam.’
This is the problem with London. Nobody wants to have a conversation. It was the same on the train. The man sitting opposite me actually moved seats after I tried to engage him in some casual chitchat.
It’s me.
I know it is.
I talk when I’m nervous. I’ve always been that way.
An incredibly well-groomed woman is typing efficiently on her keyboard as I approach the desk. She doesn’t look up and so I stand quietly for a full one point three seconds and then launch into my friendliest banter.
‘Gosh! You’re fast at typing, aren’t you? I wish I were that quick. It takes me forever to write one page which isn’t very good when you consider that I’m trying to make a living out of it!’
She mutters something into her headset and I stop talking. Eventually, after what feels like forever but my watch assures me is less than thirty seconds, she looks up and gives me a tight smile.
‘Name?’
‘Hannah Thompson,’ I say, beaming widely. ‘My name is Hannah Thompson.’
‘Here to see?’
‘Binky,’ I tell her. ‘She’s expecting me.’
The receptionist peers over her glasses. ‘And does Binky have a surname?’
I laugh nervously. ‘I’m sure she does but I can’t remember it right now.’
She looks me dead in the eye and I swear, for a brief moment, my heart stops beating.
‘That’s going to be a problem, Madam. We have over three thousand people working in this building and I’m going to need a little more to go on.’
I laugh. ‘But surely you must know whom I mean? You can’t possibly have more than one person called Binky working here?’
She tuts. ‘I know of at least three Binkys on the fourth floor alone.’
This is ridiculous. I have not come all this way and psyched myself up for nothing. I lean casually onto the desk and give my brightest teacher-smile.
‘Well, can you just look for my name then? Maybe that will shed some light on which of the Binkys I’m supposed to be meeting.’
‘Your name isn’t in the system,’ she intones. ‘I’ve got a Twinky Malone meeting Binky Sanderson at eleven-thirty but nothing for a Hannah Thompson.’
‘That’s me!’ I shout. ‘I’m Twinky Malone. And I’ve remembered now – it is Binky Sanderson who I’m meeting!’
‘How convenient,’ mutters the receptionist.
‘Not really,’ I tell her. ‘It would have been much more convenient if I’d remembered her full name when you first asked me, then we could have avoided all this hassle.’
She stretches her hand out across the desk and my tension fades. Maybe I was wrong about London. Maybe people do want to communicate and engage with others. Perhaps they’re all just waiting for someone like me to jolt them out of their hard shells, through the power of friendliness and chitter-chatter. Maybe I should start a business, travelling around the capital city dispensing joi de vivre wherever I go.
I reach out and grasp her hand.
‘It’s lovely to meet you,’ I gush.
‘Identification,’ she barks, yanking her hand out of mine. ‘I was asking for your ID. To prove that you’re Twinky Malone.’
Oh. My bad.
‘I don’t have any,’ I confess, my heart sinking. ‘It’s my pseudonym and so I don’t have any official paperwork with it on. Is that a problem? What do other authors do? Should I find someone to issue me with some fake ID? Do you know anyone who can help?’
The receptionist sighs deeply and taps something onto the screen.
‘I’ve sent an alert to Binky Sanderson and she’s on her way down. I can’t give you a visitor pass until she vouches for you and you can’t get through the security gate without a pass.’ She points behind me to a row of occupied chairs. ‘Take a seat and she’ll be here shortly.’
I nod gratefully and head across the polished floor to a free seat where I sink down gratefully, glad to have a moment to prepare myself. This place is insane, from the over-the-top flower displays to the works of art on the walls. I can’t quite believe that I’m here. I gaze around, soaking it all in, desperate not to miss a single thing.
There’s a sudden surge of activity, with people entering the building and rushing up the stairs on the other side of the security gate. I crane past them to admire the view of the autumn sun sparkling off the river.
‘Did you see her!’ hisses the young woman sitting next to me and I whip my head round to look at her. ‘Oh. My. God.’
‘Who?’ I ask. ‘Who was it?’
‘I can’t believe you didn’t see her!’ she howl-whispers, her eyes staring wildly at the people who are just moving out of sight at the top of the stairs. ‘She was standing right in front of you. You couldn’t miss her!’
‘Who was it?’ I repeat, feeling cross with myself. Scarlet is very interested in anything celebrity-related and I could have won myself some real brownie points if I’d gone home with some kind of a story to tell. Although the reality is that it doesn’t matter who I might see today because I’m not actually here. The kids think I’m out on a course for school and while I don’t enjoy lying to them, it’s far better than the alternative option of telling them the truth.
‘Your one off the telly!’ the young woman huffs, rolling her eyes at me. ‘You know? The blonde one? Does a load of stuff with the brunette one. She’s funny.’