A week goes by with no response to our application, then another. I send an email checking they’ve received it. There’s no reply. I’m starting to get pissed off—they made us answer all those stupid questions, choose the photographs, write a letter: the least they could do is write back saying we haven’t made it to the next stage—when finally an email arrives from admin@themonkfordpartnership.com, subject “One Folgate Street.” I don’t give myself time to get nervous. I open it immediately.
Please come for an interview 5 P.M. tomorrow, Tuesday March 16, at the Monkford Partnership.
Nothing else. No address, no details, no indication if we’re meeting Edward Monkford himself or some underling. But of course the address is easily found online and it doesn’t really matter who we’re meeting. This is it. We’ve cleared every hurdle but the last one.
The Monkford Partnership occupies the top floor of a well-known modern building in the City. It has an address, but most people just call it The Hive because that’s what it looks like—a giant stone beehive. Among all the boxy glass-and-steel skyscrapers in the Square Mile it sits on the approach to St. Paul’s like some weird, pale chrysalis laid by an alien. And from street level it’s even stranger. There’s no reception desk, just a long wall of pale stone with two slits that must lead to the lifts, because there’s a steady stream of people coming in and out. All of them, both men and women, seem to be wearing expensive black suits and open-necked shirts.
I feel my phone buzz. Something’s flashed onto the screen. The Monkford Building. Check in now?
I touch “Accept.”
Welcome, Emma and Simon. Please take lift three and get out at floor fourteen.
I’ve no idea how the building has identified us. Perhaps there was a cookie embedded in the email. Simon knows about that kind of techy stuff. I show him, hoping it’ll excite him, but he just shrugs dismissively. Places like this—rich, moneyed, self-confident—aren’t his cup of tea.
There’s no one else waiting for our lift, apart from a man who looks even more out of place here than us. His hair is long and gray, unkempt even though it’s tied back in a ponytail. He has a two-day growth of stubble and he’s wearing a moth-eaten cardigan and shabby linen trousers. I glance at his feet and see he isn’t even wearing shoes, just socks. He’s eating some chocolate, a Crunchie bar, very noisily. When the lift doors open he shuffles inside and takes up a position at the back.
I look around for buttons but there aren’t any. I guess it only goes to the floors it’s programmed to.
As we go up, so smoothly there’s no sense of movement, I feel the man’s eyes traveling over me. They come to rest on my midriff. And there they stay, as he licks chocolate crumbs off his fingers. Awkwardly I put my hand where he’s looking and find my shirt has ridden up. A small patch of bare stomach is showing just above my trousers.
What’s up, Em? Simon says, noticing my discomfort.
Nothing, I say, turning to face him, away from the strange man, surreptitiously tucking my shirt in as I do so.
Changed your mind yet? Simon says quietly.
I don’t know, I say. In fact I haven’t, but I don’t want Si to think I’m not open to a discussion about this.
The lift doors open and the man shuffles off, still eating his Crunchie.
Showtime, Simon says, looking around.
It’s another big, sleek space, an open, light-filled area running the length of the building. At one end a wall of curved glass overlooks the City—you can see the dome of St. Paul’s, Lloyds of London, all those other landmark buildings, then Canary Wharf in the distance, the Thames snaking around the Isle of Dogs and off through the endless flat plains to the east. A blonde in a tailored black suit unfolds herself from a leather chair where she’s tapping on an iPad.
Welcome, Emma and Simon, she goes. Please take a seat. Edward will see you shortly.
The iPad must be where all her emails are, because after ten minutes of silence she says, Please follow me.
She pushes open a door. Just from the way it moves I can tell how heavy it is, how balanced. Inside, a man is standing at a long table, resting on his balled fists, studying some plans. The sheets are so big they only just fit on the table. Glancing at them, I see they aren’t printouts but actual drawings. Two or three pencils and an eraser are grouped in one corner, neatly arranged in order of size.
Emma, Simon, the man says, looking up. Would you like some coffee?
Okay, so he’s attractive. That’s the first thing I notice about him. And the second. And the third. His hair is an indeterminate blond, the short fair curls cropped close to his head. He’s wearing a black pullover and an open-necked shirt—nothing fancy, but the wool hangs nicely from his wide, lean shoulders, and he has a warm, slightly self-deprecating smile. He looks like a sexy, relaxed schoolteacher, not the strange obsessive I’ve been picturing.
And Simon clearly clocks all this too, or sees me notice it, because he suddenly strides forward and grasps Edward Monkford’s shoulder.
Edward, is it? he goes. Or Eddy? Ed? I’m Simon. Nice to meet you, mate. Swanky place you’ve got here. This is my girlfriend, Emma.
And I cringe, because this mock-cockney thing is something Simon only ever does with people he feels threatened by. Quickly I say, Coffee would be great.
Two coffees please, Alisha, Edward Monkford says to his assistant, very politely. He gestures me and Simon toward the chairs on the other side of the table.
So tell me, he says when we’re all seated, looking straight at me and ignoring Simon, why you want to live at One Folgate Street.
No: not a schoolteacher. A headmaster, or the chairman of the board of governors. His stare is still friendly but a little bit fierce too. Which, of course, only makes him more attractive.
We’ve anticipated this question, or something like it, and I manage to get out the answer we’ve prepared, something about how much we’ll appreciate the opportunity and how we’ll try to do the house justice. Next to me, Simon glowers silently. When I’ve finished, Monkford nods politely. He looks a bit bored.
And I think it will change us, I hear myself say.
For the first time he looks interested. Change you? How?
We were burgled, I say slowly. Two men. Well, kids really. Teenagers. I can’t actually remember what happened, not the details. I’m suffering from some kind of post-traumatic shock.
He nods thoughtfully.
Encouraged, I go on: I don’t want to be the person who just stood there and let them get away with it. I want to be someone who makes decisions. Who fights back. And I think the house will help. I mean, we’re not the sort of people who would normally live that way. All those rules. But we’d like to give it a go.
Again the silence stretches on. Mentally I’m kicking myself. How can what happened to me possibly be relevant? How can the house make me a different person?
The ice-cool blonde brings the coffees. I jump up to take one and in my haste and nervousness I somehow manage to spill the cup, the whole cup, over the drawings.
Jesus, Emma, Simon hisses, jumping up too. Look what you’re doing.
I’m so sorry, I say miserably, as the brown river slowly engulfs the designs. God, I’m so sorry.
The assistant rushes out to get cloths. I can see this opportunity slipping away. That dramatic blank list of possessions, all those hopeful lies I put in the questionnaire—they’ll all count for nothing now. The last thing this man wants is a clumsy coffee-spilling oaf messing up his beautiful house.
To my surprise, Monkford only laughs. They were terrible drawings, he says. I should have ditched them weeks ago. You’ve saved me the bother.
The assistant returns with paper towels and rushes around dabbing and wiping. Alisha, you’re making it worse, Monkford says sharply. Let me.
He bundles up the drawings so the coffee’s contained on the inside, like a giant diaper. Dispose of that, he says, handing it to her.
Mate, I’m so sorry, Simon goes.
For the first time, Monkford looks directly at him.
Never apologize for someone you love, he says quietly. It makes you look like a prick.
Simon’s so stunned he says nothing. I can only gape, astonished. Nothing in Edward Monkford’s manner so far has suggested he would say anything so personal. And Simon has punched people for less—far less. But Monkford only turns back to me and says easily, Well, I’ll let you know. Thank you for coming, Emma.
There’s a brief pause before he adds, And you, Simon.