One

The windowless walls at Acme Telesales were painted slate grey.

A sea of uniform desks filled the central hall, each one the same drab shade. The chairs were grey as well, and the telephonic headsets, and the complexions of the sales staff who wore them, and even the plastic plants.

The only splash of colour in the entire place was the baseball cap pulled down tight over Blaine Williams’ blond mop of hair.

It was fire engine red, and had the word ‘CASABLANCA’ written in large letters across the front.

‘Good morning to you, ma’am,’ said Blaine into the headset microphone. ‘No, no, I didn’t call last week. No, not even the week before. Why am I calling? Well, ma’am, I’ve got an offer... an offer for the silver generation...’

Click.

Blaine dialled again.

‘Hello, ma’am. Let me be blunt: Do you have trouble with your drains?’

Click.

‘Good morning to you, sir! Could I interest you in a case of Drain-O-Sure?’

Click.

A miniature buzzer mounted on the left of Blaine’s desk, number 52, emitted a muffled warning sound. Beside it was a black and white studio shot of Humphrey Bogart – with signature cigarette, fedora, and sullen stare. And next to it was an empty mug, Bogart and Bergman’s cheeks pressed together on the side.

In a well-practised movement, Blaine slipped off his headset, leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

‘For Christ’s sake! Beam me up to the mothership!’ he bellowed.