Chapter 8: Uzer’s Office

The car idled beneath the unassuming brick façade of Footscray’s commercial strip while Purdey adjusted her lipstick in the rear-view mirror and rechecked her collar’s line. The invitation had arrived like any client brief—succinct, promising, inconveniently timed. Ian had mentioned a cycling acquaintance weeks earlier in the offhand way of someone cataloguing small advantages; the coincidence of a developer calling minutes after his name had surfaced lodged in the softer architecture of her mind, though it took over a month for him to call. Precision had trained her to notice seams in circumstance, those places where chance met calculation.

She repeated a mental inventory, fingers drumming against the leather steering wheel. A major commission might alter the practice’s trajectory, funding ideas that had lingered too long on sketch paper, breathing life into concepts that deserved more than graphite existence. A private dinner with a potential patron might finish with nothing but papers signed and a handshake—or it might open doors to something transformative. The work of architecture required a constant negotiation between appetite and restraint, between vision and practicality. Her hands, used to measuring angles and tolerances, betrayed a slight tremor. Opportunity arrived as an engineered opening; the question remained which opening to accept, which door to walk through.

Grabbing her portfolio and tablet from the passenger seat, Purdey stepped out into Melbourne’s midday sun. The heat bounced off the asphalt, creating ripples in the air that distorted the storefronts across the street. Sweat threatened to form at her temples, but she willed it away. First impressions meant everything, and she couldn’t afford to look anything less than polished. She wore her most impressive professional outfit: a tailored charcoal skirt suit with a silk blouse underneath, the fabric cool against her skin despite the warmth of the day. The skirt stopped just above her knees—perfectly appropriate while still showing off her legs, a deliberate choice for an industry where presentation often mattered as much as substance. Would they notice the effort? The thought nagged at her as she straightened her jacket.

The building’s exterior gave no hints of what waited inside. Plain brick, weathered signage, cracked concrete steps leading to a nondescript entrance. Faded posters hung in windows filmed with city grime. Nothing suggesting a thriving development company occupied the space. Purdey hesitated, double-checking the address on her phone, anxiety rising in her chest. This couldn’t be right. Had she misread the email? Wasted hours preparing for the wrong meeting?

But when she pushed through the doors, everything changed. The dull exterior transformed into something entirely unexpected beyond the threshold.

Inside, the reception area erased the mundanity of the street. Marble underfoot, a discreet receptionist with an efficient smile, and a corridor whose light softened the hard lines of the city into something presentable.

“Ms. Tan? Mr. Patel is expecting you. Second floor, end of the hall.”

The elevator rose with a hushed thrum and opened to reveal more luxury—rich hardwood floors, subdued lighting, expensive furnishings. Purdey walked slowly down the corridor, her heels clicking rhythmically against the polished surface.

At the end of the hall stood an imposing wooden door. She knocked twice.

“Come in,” a voice called from inside.

The mahogany door into Uzer’s suite opened on a room furnished with exacting taste—bookcases aligned like rows on a plan, a desk whose grain suggested permanence, a leather chair with the imprint of deliberate use.

Uzer moved with a careful economy of gesture. His handshake was dry, steady.

“Ms Tan,” he said, voice controlled as the room. “A pleasure.”

Likewise, Mr. Patel.” She extended her hand, which he took in a firm grip that radiated warmth through her palm.

“Please, call me Uzer.”

His office was twice the size she’d expected, with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases and a seating area around a glass coffee table. Afternoon sunlight streamed through tall windows, catching dust motes that danced in golden beams.

“Your office is impressive,” Purdey said, setting her portfolio on his polished desk, the leather cover making a soft thud against the wood.

“I prefer substance over showing off. The outside stays ordinary; inside is where I create what matters.” His gaze lingered on her face, dark eyes intense and searching. “I suspect you understand creating beautiful things behind unassuming facades.”

Heat rose to Purdey’s cheeks, a flush she could feel spreading down her neck. “Shall we discuss your project?”

He made the office describe itself for a heartbeat: power contained, design signalling rule rather than whim. The subtle scent of sandalwood hung in the air, mingling with leather and fresh coffee from a carafe in the corner. He did not launch into flattery; instead he spread drawings across the desk with a whisper of paper against wood and let the lines speak. Purdey read them like a language, attending to implied loads and light, imagining cantilevers she could sleight into being, her fingers tingling with the urge to reshape what she saw.

Purdey leaned over the plans, immediately absorbed by the possibilities. The preliminary drawings were good but lacked vision—like a sentence without poetry. She could already see opportunities for improvement, her mind racing ahead to completed structures that seemed to rise from the flat paper.

“Your current design is solid, but the flow between indoor and outdoor spaces could be enhanced. And these balconies—” She pointed, bending further over the desk, feeling the cool surface against her forearms, “—could be cantilevered to create more dramatic lines while improving the views.”