Chapter 8: Have your cake and a free car

It was the seventeenth of May 2015. Rome, where I had been only four weeks ago, was but a dim memory. Fortunately Caroline’s face as she toppled over and fell into the drink was still available in my mind in Hi-Res. The weather was lovely for late spring and we had a chance to have ‘Sunday Morning Coffee And Something Nice’ in my back yard. I had baked a chocolate cake, which had turned out rather well. Didn’t look like much, because glazing cakes is actually very difficult, but it tasted nice. Thanks, BBC Good Food! Besides, I’d sprinkled cocoa powder over it and that made it look ‘rustic’. With a couple of marzipan roses on top it looked fine.

My parents were there, as were Kelly’s mum and dad. I had also invited Peter and Caroline, but there had not been a definitive reply. Melody’s mother was on vacation for the first time in years, sponsored by us: she was visiting family on Martinique. There were only about 1.500 images of Edwin on her iPad (and I was visible in at least five of them) and there’s a story that goes with each and every one of them, so I wondered how she was going to pass the time with her relatives...

Melody had offered to accompany her, but the old lady had decided that Edwin should not be without his mother for so long. As Mel was anything but keen to visit the island, given that she was only one year old when the family moved to Paris, she hadn’t put up too much of a fight. Mel tries to be a good daughter, even though her mother is almost psychotically grumpy and mistrusting, but Edwin was a great excuse to just stay home. I’m so glad that Mel and my dad have more or less adopted each other. If I ever lay a finger on her, the last thing I will see is the silhouette of my own father, swinging a baseball bat. And that is as it should be, because if I ever raise my hand to Mel I ought to be culled.

Edwin was the star of the event, as he always is. He was just two days shy of turning one year old, and had begun to walk. Cornering was still hard and for balance he still had to raise his hands, which had earned him the nickname ‘Dr. Zoidberg’, although only Kate, Kelly and I really got that one. He didn’t speak yet, although he would shout ‘KAK!’ at irregular intervals. That’s ‘poop’ in Dutch. I’m pretty sure it’s a coincidence, as we don’t use that word around the house. But it’s still funny, much like the abbreviation for London Underground Lines, which I once saw printed on a coffee mug in a gift shop. My Uncle Jan has it now. In exchange, he sent me one from the Katholieke Universiteit Tilburg, of a very small series printed after they were allowed to call themselves a university but just before someone figured out the acronym and they officially changed the name to Katholieke Universeit Brabant in less than twelve hours. (Kut means cunt in Dutch, lul means dick. I am 42 and should be ashamed of myself, especially because I gave that mug to Peter Fox and pretended it was my Alma mater. He now makes a point of drinking coffee from it whenever we have a management meeting.)

I was in the kitchen with my mother, loading trays with cups and saucers. Mum wanted to put milk and sugar in dad’s cup, so I gently slapped her hand.

“Stop doing that, mum!”

“But he’s used to it,” pleaded my mother. Don’t worry, she’s anything but meek. She’s just set in her ways. It’s strange to see your parents turning into stick-in-the-muds. My mother used to manage a retirement home using just a smile, a desktop phone and a notepad.

“It’s confusing as hell for the rest of us and he’ll only ask if you remembered to do it. Just don’t. Fill that thing with hot water, if you would. The wine cooler.”

“Okay, but why?”

“I’ll use it to warm the knife before cutting the cake.”

Mum made a sound. A grunting, snorting, extremely disdainful sound.

“What?”

“You’re only a butler on TV, you know. Will you be wearing your white gloves, hmmm?”

My mother has once said, after a glass of wine too many, that ‘she didn’t raise me to be a butler’, because she isn’t all that pleased with being known as Carstairs’ mother. I then asked if she raised me to be a Wehrmacht officer, because she doesn’t mind pointing out her son starred in a war movie. She flipped me off for that. And rightly so.

“Just a trick I picked up from Paul Hollywood.”

“Is he one of your showbiz chums, then?”

“I don’t have any showbiz chums, I watch The Great British Bake Off like anybody else.”

Kelly joined us in the kitchen. Eighteen years old and she still skipped as she walked, although I suspected that had more than a bit to do with the fact it made her breasts bounce. They stopped bouncing when she stopped walking, because she’s still young.

“I’m a showbiz chum, aren’t I?” she said, and rested her chin on my shoulder. “Hi, Mrs. van de Casteele. How are you?”

“Hello dear. You’re open early,” said mum, as her eyes flashed briefly towards Kelly’s cleavage. I couldn’t see it as she was standing behind me, but my mother clearly could.

“I’ll wear a vest,” said Kelly, suddenly acting demure and giving my mother a peck on the cheek. Then she punched my shoulder, as I was chuckling because of what mum said.

“Hey, thanks for backing me up, Carstairs!”

“Well, she’s right, isn’t she?” I laughed. “I was going to say the same thing!”

“British girls always show too much,” said mum, filling the cooler from the hot tap. “Never did get used to that. Alfred likes it, though. I just think it’s common. You’re a beautiful young woman, Kelly. There’s no need to flaunt it. Especially not here.”

“I just don’t want to look like a snowman. Can I help?”

“Open the doors for me,” I said, as I picked up a tray. The doorbell rang. I had a feeling who it might be, so I handed the tray to Kelly and went to answer it. Peter and Caroline were on my doorstep, holding a box of small cakes.

“Hello, may we still join you?” asked Peter.

“Absolutely! Glad you could make it!”

“I’m very sorry for not calling ahead, Martin. Minor communications breakdown between Peter and myself. We did bring cake, just in case you wouldn’t have enough. Hello dear, so very ... muah ... good to see you ... muah.”

Peter came in behind her and mimed two sarcastic kisses at me.

“More chairs then?” said my dad, who had come inside to see what the delay was. “Hi guys, come in. Ooooh, more cake! I was worried there.”

I understand there are people who don’t like their family, who avoid them, or at least try to limit exposure. I’ve heard stories of drunk relatives starting fist fights, of feuds that lasted for decades or even until death. And I’m really glad my family is nothing like that, because family is everything to me. Family and friends, I might add. I don’t really differentiate. Once you’re in, you’re in.

Perhaps that’s just ignorance. Perhaps it’s the sort of shortsightedness you get growing up rich, in a family where there’s never a need to fight over money and where nobody has to flee into the arms of alcohol or drugs. If that’s you, if your family is a mess for whatever reason, I’m sorry for you. Make your own family, is all I can say. (And yes, I know that sounds dumb. I don’t know you.)

For me, though, it’s the single most important thing. And having so many people here only reminded me of the ones missing: Samantha and Susan, for starters. Harry, who had been invited but had to work. Annabelle, my former secretary whom I didn’t see nearly enough of now that I lived abroad. I found myself hesitating to close the door, staring at the corner in the hopes of seeing Susan’s Volvo pull up. But they hadn’t even been invited, because Samantha has a crush on me and that means I can’t see her anymore. More than a crush, really. Poor thing...

“You okay?” asked Kate, who’d come to find me.

“Yes, coming,” I said, closing the door. She blocked my way to the garden.

“Looking for Sammy?” she guessed.

“No. Just making sure Peter didn’t block anyone in.”

“Sure. Lie to me. That always works.”

“Kate, be nice.”

She stood on her toes, put her arms around my neck, hoisted herself up the last few centimetres and kissed me.

“I will. I just want to see you happy.”

“I am happy. Let’s have cake.”

We had a lovely morning in the garden. I had to put a parasol up after about an hour, because it became a bit too hot for some of us. My parents didn’t mind. I think they’re lizards. But Caroline and I like to keep out of the sun, so I found myself sitting next to her.

“Haven’t seen much of you recently?” I remarked.

“Don’t tell anyone, but very occasionally I work for a living,” she smiled.

“I know that full well. But given that I’m a company director, why the secrecy?”

“Plausible deniability, my dear.”

“Oh, that inspires me with confidence!”

“Relax, Martin,” she grinned. “Nothing illegal. Well, not in the UK at any rate. I’m sorry dear, but you are the one who introduced the concept of compartmentalization to Keller & Fox. Need to know. Unless this is a formal request as a director, in which case...”

“No, it’s okay. If you can’t tell me about it, then don’t.”

“In a few months or so. When it has all played out. Now, would I be wrong in saying you’ve lost a few pounds?”

You can guess I was quite keen to talk about that instead!

“Yes. I took your advice to heart. I’ve been watching my diet even better, and I’ve kept up the exercise.”

“Yes, Peter tells me you’ve chosen Armstrong as your personal gym.”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration. But they do welcome extra players for some events. Tom and William aren’t the best of actors and I quite like pretending to be a Somali warlord or a Russian arms dealer.”

“Good! Take as many of their courses as you like. Although I’d like to see you at the office tomorrow morning, if that’s convenient. Will you be in?”

“Uhm, yes, of course. Can you tell me what it’s about? Excuse me ... DAD! Stop eating the crumbs off the stand and just have another sodding piece of cake, man. I’ll only end up eating it if you don’t. Who are you saving yourself for, anyway? Sorry, you were saying?”

Caroline winked at my dad.

“You can afford it, Alfred. And I’m certainly not taking it back home with us. Well, Martin, if you must know; there is a specific offer on the table for you.”

“Oh, right. Not another bloody movie, is it?”

“No, we are all very much aware of your disdain towards the motion picture industry.”

“Is is that thing with Diana? The play? Haven’t heard from her so far.”

“Haven’t you? Are you sure? She said she was a bit nervous about contacting you. I guess she meant it. Perhaps you should contact her yourself. Would you do that?”

“Sure. So what’s your thing?”

“My ‘thing’ as you call it, is an offer from a car manufacturer. They are looking for someone to represent them over the next few years. A face for the brand, so to speak. You are up for consideration. In fact, you’re on the shortlist.”

“Are you kidding me? A commercial?! You’re forever telling me I should stop accepting them and I have. And now you’re bringing me one? This is rich!”

I noticed Kate was following our conversation, even though she was two seats up and on the other side of the table, speaking to Kelly. That doesn’t matter: she’s a bit like a bat, in that she can just turn her ears and tune in.

“Martin, don’t mock me. It’s a bit more than a commercial. It would be a commitment for several years. You’d shoot a series of commercials, certainly, but you would also be attending their events and presentations. And it would require exclusivity, or at least you’d need their permission for any other projects.”

“Doesn’t sound like something I’d like to do. Be a car salesman? Asking permission? Sod that. We’re doing a documentary series soon!”

“I’m sure they’d be fine with anything you choose to do alongside Kelly. And you don’t even know the brand yet.”

“I’ll bet it’s one of those Chinese brands. One of those death trap cars, that impale all passengers and decapitate the driver if you so much as hit a curbstone. Like Chery or Dongfeng. Copycats of European brands. Use the horn and your asbestos steering wheel catches fire.”

“And you wouldn’t be interested in that?”

“No.”

“Shame. Considering what it pays...”

I should learn not to mess with Caroline. Of course she’d have the last laugh. Still, I am not without means and I was never interested in ostentatious wealth, so I said:

“Go on then?”

“Are you sure you want to know? Since you’re not available,” she said, seemingly no longer interested in the subject.

“Sure. Hit me.”

“Twenty-five million pounds.”

It turned out quite a few people at the table had been listening in. I could tell, because my father yelled ‘FUCKIN’ HELL!’ at the top of his voice, only to be slapped by my mother. Kelly just yelped, Peter gave a wry laugh and I don’t know what Ron said because his wife screamed over it.

“What’s the brand?!” demanded my father. “And what do you have to do for that kind of money? Build every car by hand?! I’m his dad, I’ll do it for half!”

“Actually, it would be a five year commitment to shoot at least four commercials per year, voice all their production documentaries and do a number of personal appearances. So it’s more like five million a year to drive a car around exotic locations and shake a few hands. But sadly, Martin indicated he’s not interested.”

“What’s the brand?!”

“Here it comes,” I said, praying it would be something awful. Ssangyong. Chevrolet. Tata. Foton. Mahindra. Please, let it be a trash can with panel gaps the width of Letterman’s front teeth. Some overpowered piece of shit that wouldn’t pass an emissions test if it were painted gold and Donald Trump himself filled out the score card. Something that came with a magnet on a piece of string, to catch all the bits that fell off between the factory and the showroom. Something listed in the dictionary as a synonym for ‘rust’. Please...

“It’s for Asten, Martin.”

I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Asten? Never heard of...”

Caroline shook her head.

“You’re not listening. I said: Aston Martin.”

“YOU IDIOT!” bellowed dad. “HE’LL DO IT! HE’LL DO IT!”

“KAK!”

The next five minutes were ... interesting. I’ve never heard so many people calling me an idiot, or insinuating it at the very least. I hadn’t even said ‘no’ yet! Caroline had to put a stop to it, which she did by dinging a glass of white with her knife. I’m sure she knew that is against etiquette, but so were quite a few others things going on at the time, most notably Googling how many Ferraris I could buy with that kind of money, to give away to family members. My dad has no shame.

“Please ... PLEASE ... Everyone, I beg of you ... Please be quiet. Alfred? Thank you. I must clarify a few things. First of all, this is not a done deal. Not by a long shot. There are other candidates, although they are mostly athletes and professional racing drivers. Second, I made a mistake in sharing this with Martin in company.”

“I’ll say,” I mumbled. That earned me an angry glare.

“Although that should teach you that if I inquire if you are available for a private meeting, baiting me into telling you what it is about is a bad idea. I take SOME responsibility for this, but not all. Third, the amount named is before Keller & Fox take our usual thirty percent and also less taxes. And finally, this is not free money. Not by a long shot. Now, I’m perfectly fine with all of you pressuring him into joining me at the Qatar Touring Car Championship on May the 21st, because I imagine he’ll need some persuading and I haven’t got the time, but please do not antagonise him. You all know what he’s like once he decides against something.”

Everyone mumbled, for some reason. Like I’m some sort of habitual obstinate contrarian or something!

“What’s in Qatar? Aston Martin is only down the road. Warwickshire, right?” asked Ron Newman, who had been desperately looking for someone to debate the advantages of mid-car engines with, but had found only my mother.

“Yes, but their senior management will be in Qatar. The race isn’t all that important, but they have recently branched out into speed boats and real estate. And it would be a great opportunity to introduce Martin.”

“Sounds exactly like what Martin likes to do,” scoffed my mother. “Brown-nose a bunch of toffs.”

“That is why I am joining him,” explained Caroline. “If he’ll go. We’d have to leave this week. Tuesday, if at all possible. Wednesday at the latest. The races are held over the weekend, which falls on a Friday and a Saturday in the Arabic world.”

Everyone looked at me.

“Kak,” said Edwin, as he hoisted himself up on my knee and demanded to be picked up for a cuddle. And so I did.

“Hello, little man. So what do you think? Should daddy go and play in the sandpit, with a racing car?”

“No racing is required,” said Peter. “Just schmoozing. You’ll have upset them in a matter of minutes. I wouldn’t even take luggage if I were you. Just disembark, pass immigration, insult and annoy them and head back to the airport. Job done and you’ll have cost K&F 7.5 million quid.”

Everyone giggled. Seriously, is that what people think of me?! But there was a very simple way to solve this.

“Mel? Should I?”

Mel, the only person who had not been calling me an idiot, although that was mostly because she had been keeping an eye on Edwin, rubbed my shoulder.

“Give it a go, at least. I’m sure you had to schmooze when you still ran your business. And you’re a nice guy. I’d pay twenty-five million to get you exclusive, if I had it.”

I may have mentioned it before, but it bears repeating: I hated the social part of business meetings to the extent that I’d often take one of my managers along, made him our lead delegate and have him do all the drinking and karaoke while I pretended to be the company accountant and just sat in a corner, praying for the socializing to be over. Which could take a while, especially in Asia.

“Right. Qatar it is,” I sighed.

“Perhaps I should come along,” said my dad. “As a backup.”

The Qatar Touring Car Championship is perhaps not quite the biggest event on the international racing calendar. They only have a race track because bored expats and Arab showboaters were becoming a menace on the public roads. Qatar, the tiny wart-like peninsula stuck to Saudi Arabia’s Gulf coast, isn’t an oil state, but more of a gas giant. The entire country is only a quarter the size of The Netherlands (or 4/5ths the size of Connecticut) but it sits on a vast reserve of natural gas. They also have a little bit of oil, but so does everyone else in the region.

This gas is liquefied and shipped to countries such as Korea. Switching on a pump is not the most demanding of tasks, so the population of Qatar consists of around 300,000 useless layabouts, all getting fed from the state trough. Nobody does any work there, except for the few poorly connected souls who have to run the government departments, such as immigration and motor vehicle licensing. We can’t all be the fifth cousin of the Emir’s third wife, after all. Someone’s got to check the passports and you can’t have immigrants doing that. But by and large, Qatari men don’t work and women aren’t supposed to.

The men will claim to work but what that means is that they make introductions, or they ‘sponsor’ people who come in to do some actual work. You can’t work in those countries without a sponsor, you see. Anything that requires a technical education is done by white people, who can fuck right off when their contracts end. Anything that requires raising a sweat is done by immigrants from India, Pakistan and the Philippines. We’ve all heard the stories of the death toll from building the sports stadiums for FIFA 2022, haven’t we? We all know how these Arab states import foreign labourers, exploit them, essentially detain them in remote compounds and send them home in a coffin. It’s the Republican dream come true. Well, Qatar is no exception. Although they host news station Al Jazeera, a thorn in the side of many Arab regimes, they don’t actually have a free press. They jail tourists who share a hotel room whilst not being married. They jail women for disobeying their husbands. And it’s probably best if you’re not gay and lay off the wacky tobacky during your visit, unless you enjoy squat toilets and concrete walls. I sometimes wonder why Republicans hate Muslims. After all, sharia law and the Republican idea of heaven are virtually identical. The main difference I see is that Republicans are fine with alcoholism. Don’t separate a drunk and his bottle!

If you can ignore all that abuse, which many white people find surprisingly easy, Qatar is quite a jolly country. It’s very safe, traffic notwithstanding. It’s not much to look at, being nature’s cat litter tray, but they compensate for that with some amazing architecture. They’re one of those places where the Dutch are creating virtual islands in silly shapes just off the coast, so the rich can build houses in which they don’t actually go and live. It’s about as good a property investment as buying an actual sandcastle during a hurricane, but if you pay us, the Dutch will show up and build you an island. God can’t be everywhere, after all. And he doesn’t build to order. We do.

Another good thing about Qatar is Qatar Airways. I’m best buddies with them, you see. I once flew to New York and served lunch to a little boy, who had spotted me in First Class and was then laughed at by everyone around him as he told them Carstairs was on board. The crew asked me to pay him a visit, which I did. It got some traction on Facebook, so Qatar Airways felt they owed me one and I cashed in on that when we needed to ship the crew of Fatherland, the movie I was in, to the Czech Republic. They did it for a free promotional shoot of me and Kelly: she sat in a First Class seat and I served her a drink dressed as a steward. The tagline was: ‘Our service is simply ... very good, Sir.’

Caroline and Peter often travel by private jet, but Keller & Fox doesn’t own one. Instead, we use a private charter agency. It costs between ten and fifteen thousand dollars an hour to rent a smallish jet engine airplane (and a pilot, or two), so there are a few routes where they usually take regular flights. It depends on how well-served their destination is, which airlines fly that route and how good their business class is. Apparently Qatar Airways from London to Doha was deemed good enough for Her Majesty Caroline Keller. A First Class return is only eight thousand pounds, which is considerably cheaper than renting the jet for fourteen hours.

Caroline was very apologetic as she explained this to me as we were going over the trip in her office, but I didn’t care. It’s not as if that jet is all that great, really. It’s tiny, so it shakes and bumps a lot more than a regular size plane. It isn’t one of those walnut-panelled airborne gentlemen’s clubs you see on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, either: it’s basically just a few business class seats, there’s a self-service fridge and if there’s a meal the co-pilot comes out to heat it up for you. You can also book a cabin attendant, but there are very few things more annoying than being watched by an effeminate Filipino man who is bored out of his skull and replenishes your peanuts as soon as you’ve had just one.

“You don’t mind, do you, Martin? It’s just that this trip is paid for by us and Peter felt the odds of you getting the gig were relatively small, also because you are quite a bit older than the other contenders.”

“That and me being a boorish, autistic freak who antagonizes everyone he meets, apparently.”

“Don’t be silly, dear. Of course you’re not. But you are headstrong and not influenced by financial incentives. Dignity and loyalty are, as ever, your strength and your weakness.”

“I’m still going, aren’t I? That’s my price, apparently: twenty-five million pound Sterling. It’s obscene, I don’t mind telling you. It doesn’t sit right with me at all.”

“Actually your price is about two hundred and fifty pound Sterling, which is what you charged to voice an ad for a double glazing company via Black Magic Studios last year, to do those boys a favour. But we’ve discussed that before. And you are welcome to decline the money. I’m sure the shareholders of Aston Martin would love that. Maybe they can give the millionaires who buy their cars a bit of a discount of your behalf?”

I shook my head.

“I know how the world works, Caroline.”

“Yes. You just don’t agree with it. Do you know I was told that a Formula One racing car costs an average of forty million dollars? And they last about one race, maybe two. If you consider that, having your commitment for five years for a mere twenty-five million is cheap.”

“Aston Martin doesn’t do Formula One. But we’ve established I’m a whore, so let’s move on.”

Caroline smiled and topped up my glass of diet Coke. She keeps a few cans in her private fridge, just for me. I had a view of a painting on the wall behind her. It’s based on a picture taken by Peter Fox and shows Caroline as a ballet dancer. She was as stunning then as she is today, although that scene was at least twenty-five, if not thirty years ago. She’s doing a barre exercise in a white ballet outfit, though minus the tutu, in a room with a wooden floor and an open window. The wall behind her needs a lick of paint, the floor has dents in it and she actually looks as if she wouldn’t mind a sandwich, but the sun warms her as she is focused on her routine. There was a time even Caroline Keller was poor. She only lived to dance. I’m told the original picture was taken in Rotterdam, but you can’t tell from the view out the window, as it is washed out by the bright sun.

“This Calvinist streak of yours runs deep, I know. Poor boy ... If only you weren’t so talented, right? Ahhahhahh...”

Calvinism is more than a theological point of view. It’s essentially a distillation of the Dutch national character: don’t boast of your successes, don’t flaunt your wealth, don’t obsess over money, restrain your emotions, work hard, live frugally and stick to your principles. (On the other hand: we couldn’t come up with something like Disneyland or a Double Down to save our lives.)

Now I may have faint traces of one or two of these characteristics, but certainly not all of them. Not to the extent I’d like to, anyway. Caroline says it is what appeals to her in me and I do tend to overplay it for comedic effect.

“And anyway, you can always give the money to some of these floating Africans you’re so concerned with. Minus our commission, obviously.”

“That is VERY crass!”

Caroline actually looked embarrassed, which was the first time I witnessed that.

“Yes ... It is. I’m sorry. Peter used the term ‘floating Africans’ and I thought it would make you laugh. But you’re right, it’s nothing to make fun of.”

“Make a donation, then.”

Her embarrassment disappeared like a handbag during a Moroccan scooter race.

“We give sizeable donations to various charities, Martin. The list is on our Intranet. I think that buys me one faux pas per annum. Can we move on to the second item on the agenda?”

“Sure. Let me bask in your wisdom.”

“If only you would...”

She took a sip of orange juice, because not even Caroline Keller drinks before lunch. Well, not on weekdays. Actually, she doesn’t drink all that much. She mostly holds glasses, I’ve learned.

“I’m sure you understand that Aston Martin is mostly interested in your Carstairs character?”

“Well, I assumed they weren’t considering a middle-aged IT manager from Leiden as their flag bearer. But I assumed it would be about me as an actor, really.”

“Well, obviously it’s a mix. But the Inspector and Colonel Meisel aren’t really the type to drive an Aston Martin, are they?”

“They won’t be selling many cars to butlers, though. Rich actors, yes. Their staff: not so much.”

“Ah, but Peter and I have discussed this. You are up against athletes and racing drivers for this. Your unique selling point is that Carstairs is practically synonymous with Britain at this point. Not with ostentatious wealth or risk taking, but with dignity, loyalty and class. Nobody cares that Carstairs works for a living, but he does get paid and with his own money he then buys an Aston Martin. That’s our pitch, you see? It’s the car a real gentleman buys, even if he has to save up for it. That should be the theme to the campaign, we feel. Aston Martin should be a car you’ve earned, one you’ve worked for.”

“I see. That’s quite a good idea, actually. So I’m going to have to be Carstairs in Qatar?”

“Well, that would be nice. But not possible for any length of time, obviously.”

“Sure it is!”

“Oh, I’m sure you can do a presentation, or sit through dinner in character. But keeping it up for the long haul is impossible. So we...”

“I’m sorry, but I’m telling you it’s not going to be a problem. I can be Carstairs all day and all night.”

Caroline was quiet for a few seconds, as she sized me up. Her phone pinged, but she ignored it. After all, her secretary was just a few metres away. Above us, a sensor decided the room was getting a bit too warm and the quiet hum of an electric mechanism was heard as a silk screen covered the opening in her ceiling, protected by a glass dome. The shade gently slid over her delicate face. I’d put her at thirty-eight at most, if I didn’t know any better.

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This Is Your Carstairs Speaking

Ron Dudderie

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