least once every day but these days she was too tired.
‘Morning, Mrs Green,’ said the fresh-faced security guard as she slid her recognition card into the slot on the barrier.
‘Morning, Lucas,’ said Frankie cheerily, suppressing the thought that he looked even younger than Alexei, standing there in his uniform as if ready to defend Dutton Insurance from invaders. The policemen were looking younger too. Was she finally at that age at which all the old clichés start becoming true? She headed across the Italian marble floor to the gleaming brass-fronted lifts that were the public face of the business.
These lifts were mirrored on the inside and Frankie could see herself from every angle.
As a girl, she had grown up confident in herself, confident in her tall, athletic body and never embarrassed about budding breasts or menstruation. In fact her only worry had been that her mother might run around brandishing a packet of tampons and screaming You’re a woman now! at the top of her voice when Frankie had finally had her first period.
Frankie had never dieted like the girls in her class at school, hadn’t denied herself food, had loved her body for the things it could do, the sports it could play. She was captain of the netball team and a fabulous long distance runner with those long, lean legs. In her teenage bedroom, she’d had a small haul of medals and trophies from track and field events.
For most of her life, her body had done whatever she asked of it and it never occurred to her to worry about curves here and there, or fine lines around her eyes.
Until now.
As she stood on her own in the lift, harsh lights accentuating every flaw, it struck her that the woman in the charcoal skirt-suit, the subtle pearl earrings, and the long, dark hair tied up neatly into a knot, looked old.
Frankie closed her eyes and waited for the lift to arrive at her floor, then marched out without another glance at herself. In her office, she switched on her computer and keyed in her password.
The instant messaging icon flashed that a message was waiting. It was from Anita, Frankie’s closest friend within the company, a mother of two who was second in command in the legal department. She clicked on it.
You in yet? Have gossip – not nice gossip.
Where are you? typed Frankie.
About to go to canteen. Need coffee. War when I left the house. Julie knows it’s my early day but she still hadn’t turned up when I was leaving, Clarice was on the kitchen floor screaming, Peaches was throwing baby porridge around and Ivan was glaring at me, as if it was my fault. I only got out by the skin of my teeth.
You should fire her if she’s late again. I told you about giving her written warnings.
It would be simpler to fire Ivan. Husbands are easier to come by than good nannies. See you in five?
Frankie grinned and set off for the canteen, walking at speed through the vast open-plan beige kingdom that was Dutton Insurance. She certainly didn’t believe that a husband was easier to come by than a nanny. Besides, Ivan was actually a sweetie. Francesca knew it was useless to point out yet again that Julie was invariably late, barely listened to half of what Anita said and was paid as much as the head of the UN Peacekeeping Force. Last time she had said this, Anita’s voice had veered into near hysteria as she protested that Julie was the one person in the world capable of managing her two children: ‘She’s been with us since Clarice was a baby and she’s the only person Peaches will settle with. Even Ivan’s mother can’t make Peaches go to sleep – and she had eight kids.’
‘Blimey, eight kids,’ said Frankie. She’d have loved more children herself, but not that many.
Anita was in the empty canteen pushing a tiny dark-red pellet into the trendy Nespresso machine that the Chief Financial Officer had installed on all the floors of the company two years before, when they’d achieved record profits, despite the state of the economy.
In ten minutes, the canteen – which served the executive floor – would be buzzing with people in early for the monthly status meeting, attended by representatives from all the divisions. It was a largely for-show meeting because all the real business was done behind locked doors, but the CEO was keen on making everybody feel a part of the team.
‘Have you heard anything?’ Anita said, as she waited for Frankie to get her coffee.
‘Heard what?’ Frankie said slowly, again feeling that low drag in the pit of her stomach.
It was obvious from Anita’s face that, whatever she’d heard, it wasn’t good news.
‘Heard that we’re in trouble, that there’s a takeover on the cards.’
‘Oh.’ Frankie reached for the nearest chair and sat into it. ‘Where did you hear it?’
‘Oh, the usual labyrinthine methods whereby gossip gets around. Someone in the executive dining room was overheard by one of the chefs who told his girlfriend on the third floor. I heard about it last night, haven’t been able to sleep. I mean, if we’re taken over by another company, loads of us are going to lose our jobs. What’ll I do? The mortgage is huge and we can only just manage it with both our salaries.’
She looked so distraught that Frankie, who had spent her working life mentoring colleagues, ignored her own shock and pain to comfort Anita.
‘Now listen here,’ she said, ‘it’s just a rumour. Companies thrive on that sort of stuff. Besides, whatever happens you can get through it. We can get through it. We’re made of stronger stuff. We’ve gone through childbirth! You had a ten-pound baby, Anita. There’s nothing you cannot cope with.’
The comment had the desired effect. Anita gave a snort of laughter.
‘Yeah, I guess,’ she said, shaking her head ruefully.
Baby Peaches had been a positive Goliath, taking after her tall, broad father rather than her petite five-foot-two mother.
‘I know there’s no medal for childbirth, but there should be,’ Frankie went on. ‘A ten-pound baby – you should get gold for that. No, platinum.’
They talked a while longer and then Frankie looked at her watch.
‘Time to move,’ she said, finishing her coffee. ‘Once more unto the breach and all that.’
She hurried back to her office, rumours of a takeover now adding to the turmoil in her mind. Stay focused, she told herself. Panicking never got anyone anywhere.
With the office still empty she decided to grab the chance for a speedy morning email to Emer and Alexei.
Beautiful Emer, currently in Sydney but thinking of moving to the US for a few months, was waitressing by day and putting years of piano lessons to good use by playing in the restaurant of a boutique hotel by night.
It’s incredible here, Mum, you’ve got to come out before I leave, she’d emailed only last week. I love it. The sun, the people, you’d love it. too.
If Frankie, who had read many CVs in her time, had to come up with one word to sum up her daughter, that word would be light: the shining light that flowed out of her like the sun. Emer was vivid and sparkling and prone to mischief. Frankie
