and craned past the security guards to look. ‘Where is he?’
‘Same place you’re going, Mr Premier. Cabinet members this way,’ he said, indicating the other direction down the hallway.
‘Where are we going? What about – Mr Charleton?’
‘Mr Charleton will be fine.’
‘But – why aren’t we going that way? No. He has to come too. Colin,’ he called out, craning to see him. Colin turned around. The guards stopped.
‘I’m not going anywhere unless Mr Charleton comes with me.’
The first security guard sighed and turned to another of the guards.
‘He checks out, right, Stewart?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Alright. Damo,’ he nodded at him.
The third security guard stepped towards Colin.
‘If you’ll come this way, sir.’
For a split second visible relief washed over Colin’s face and then he smiled in that cheerful way of his.
‘Right then,’ he said, and followed.
4
The fire escape down Cressida’s building had become one long concrete column crowded with people, all shouting to be heard over each other and the exhaust fans that screamed above. In the green pools of light thrown by the exit signs, Cressida fell in between a man piggybacking a sequinned woman screeching with laughter and brandishing a cocktail glass, and another complaining about not getting the tray of drinks he had ordered from the bar on the top floor. In her three-inch heels she had to lower her foot to each step carefully before attempting the next, gripping the railing and trying to put out of her mind the people stacked behind her, while sweat streamed down her neck and made her head itch. You try doing this in Prada pumps, plus three glasses of alcohol, she told them, weighing up whether to take the shoes off. For the most part the crowd seemed drink-warmed and tolerant though, all solicitude and laughter in the departure from routine; the next time the line stalled she bent down and yanked her shoes off, apologising to the oyster patent-leather as she stuffed them in her bag.
The respite in her arches and back was immediate. Fuck. That was better. She looked up, assessing whether to wait for a gap in the crowd or try to assert her way back in. Then on the next landing she spotted the receptionist from Building & Construction and Winnie from Tax, and relief at the sight of familiar faces rushed in. Next to them was a frail woman with fine grey hair who also looked familiar. She stopped beside Cressida, her top lip beaded with sweat, and passed a bony wrist across her forehead. Ah, Cressida remembered, Brian Prendergast’s receptionist. The woman mouthed something at her.
‘Sorry – what was that?’ Cressida yelled, leaning forward. ‘It’s Esma, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ the woman said, breathing heavily but attempting a smile. ‘Thank you.’ She held her face close to Cressida’s ear. ‘I don’t suppose you’d walk in front of me, would you, just so I can grab you as I fall past?’
‘Of course,’ Cressida laughed. As conga twins the two of them inched forward, Esma’s thin fingers spiking Cress’s shoulders and Cress holding onto the railing for support. When they reached the bouncing torchlights of security on the ground floor, both fell against the wall to catch their breath. There was a hand towel in Cress’s gym bag somewhere, and with relief she found it and dabbed carefully at her sweat-glossed face, wondering at the same time why she was bothering – her mascara would already be resembling an ageing English rocker’s. But she could hardly meet Felipe looking like a drowned rat.
‘How will you get home?’ Cressida asked Esma, fishing around in her bag for a hand mirror before she realised it would be too dark to see anything by – she’d have to fix herself up at the Westin; hopefully there’d be enough time before Felipe got there.
‘Driving, I thought,’ she said, looking with some alarm out the plate-glass window onto the street. ‘How about you?’
‘I’m at the Westin tonight actually,’ Cress replied. ‘Minibreak.’
‘Oh gosh. I remember those,’ Esma laughed, mopping her face with a handkerchief. ‘Well – go on then, don’t let me hold you up!’
Cressida laughed, digging her shoes out of her bag and putting them on.
‘Thanks. Alright then. See you.’
They waved and Cressida rejoined the crowd heading towards the double doors onto the street, astonished by the number of people still coming down the stairs. It was amazing to think that she worked a few metres from these people every day, and aside from the Tax crew had never met any of them. Outside the revolving doors the heat of the day still soaked the air; thank God the Westin was only a two-minute walk. How good it would be to get underneath one of those hot, ludicrously plentiful showers in their suite. Except – oh shit. The suite. Tiffany Delux. She had booked her as a special treat for Felipe: three hours, full service. Oh God. The rate was five hundred dollars an hour, and bang, whoops, she didn’t have the promise of a coming partnership salary to pay for it now. What was she going to do – call her and cancel? God, it had taken enough courage – plus two glasses of white – to book her in the first place. And they probably had a massive cancellation fee. She stood on the kerb, wondering what to do. There was nothing for it. She’d have to phone and hope to get out of it with just an hour or something. But what on earth was the name of the place again? The web search page was blank though – Safari cannot open the page ... And when she dialled there was nothing but a loud beeping noise, and a screen that said Emergency calls only. Plus a missed call from Richard. Scato.
A man arrived in front of her, holding out a five-dollar note. His tie was loose and the front of his shirt was soaked with sweat.
‘Sorry, ’scuse me. Do you have any change?’ he said. ‘I’m trying to ring my wife.’
‘Oh,’ said Cressida, dropping the phone and going red. Relax, he can’t tell you’re dialling a brothel, she thought. ‘What, is your building blacked out too?’ she said, busying herself picking up the phone and fumbling for her wallet.
‘Are you kidding?’ The man frowned, nodding down the hill. ‘The whole city’s out. Why do you think there’s fifty people at the bus stop?’
‘Oh,’ Cressida said, looking. That’s right. The whole North Shore too. The bus queue stretched down the block, mingling with the line at the taxi rank next to it. A fire truck was inching through the traffic. Shit. What was the point of going to the Westin then? But that would mean Felipe would be waiting on the street. She quickly dug some change from her wallet and handed it to him, waving away the note. ‘Is your mobile not working either?’
At the bus stop people groaned at the sight of one full bus then another trundling past. On a third, two people hung off the back, and the groan turned to a cheer. He shook his head. ‘Can’t get through.’
‘Radio said they were prioritising Emergency calls. Access Overload Control,’ a man in the queue said, knowledgeably. In a strobe of flashing blue lights the fire truck lumbered up the kerb and four men swung down.
‘Do
