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the company’s prosperity, when it could afford to use posh lawyers and accountants. Which of the two J. W. Wells & Co was he didn’t know, but it was a reasonable bet it was something of the sort; chartered actuaries, maybe (he had no idea what chartered actuaries did for a living), or just possibly stockbrokers or merchant bankers. Vultures, in any case. But, since they’d afforded him an unexpected outing and possibly a chance of a quarter-pounder with cheese, regular fries, large vanilla shake, he was prepared to give them the benefit of the doubt until such time as they did something nasty to him.
    On the way in he nearly barged into a short, broad, bearded man with enormously thick-lensed glasses and a funny-looking cloth bag stuck under his arm. He stepped aside (the man looked so much like Mr Magoo that Colin couldn’t rely on him to avoid a collision) and let him pass before going in.
    A distinctly old-fashioned revolving door hustled him into a rather daunting, oak-panelled front office. He paused to take in his surroundings.
    ‘Did it get you?’ said a musical voice from behind the broad, elegant reception desk.
    ‘Excuse me?’
    ‘The door.’ The voice belonged to a startlingly attractive blonde. Good heavens, Colin thought mildly. ‘It nips your ankles if you don’t watch out.’
    ‘No, I’m fine,’ he replied self-consciously. ‘Um, I’m Colin Hollingshead, I’m here to see—’ He couldn’t remember, so he dug the bit of paper Dad had given him out of his top pocket. ‘I’m here to see Ms Clay.’
    ‘Oh.’ For some reason, the startlingly attractive blonde didn’t seem entirely pleased. ‘All right, I’ll let her know you’re here. You’d better sit down.’
    There was a lot of space in the front office, entirely uncluttered by chairs. ‘Right,’ Colin said.
    ‘Through there.’ The startlingly attractive blonde (she wasn’t quite so appealing with her eyebrows ruckled together like that) nodded at a doorway in the far distance. ‘She won’t be long.’
    The carpet was deep and springy, like bog moss. He felt as though he was leaving a trail of footprints in it.
    The waiting room was small and curiously depressing. The chair Colin selected turned out to be wobbly — one false move and it’d probably disintegrate under him - and the best the magazine stack on the table could offer was the Sunday Times colour supplement for 16 April 1987. He spent the first five minutes of his wait flicking through it, and the remaining four staring aimlessly at the light fittings on the ceiling. It was still better than cramming brochures into envelopes, but the margin was tightening by the second.
    ‘Hello.’ He looked up and recognised her. ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting,’ she went on, I was on the phone. I’m Cassie Clay.’
    ‘Like the boxer,’ Colin replied before he could stop himself.
    Cassie’s rather wan smile gave him a rough idea of how many times she’d heard that one before. ‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘Now, I’ve got all the draft papers here, but there’re a couple of points I’d just like to run over with you, because they’re slightly different from what I discussed with your father after the meeting.’
    ‘Actually.’ Colin looked away. ‘There wouldn’t be very much point, really. I’m just the messenger, you see. I don’t know what all this is about.’
    ‘Ah.’ She frowned. ‘In that case, if you could just let him know there are a few changes, and I’ll send him a letter to explain them.’
    At that moment, if asked to put a cash value on himself, Colin would’ve suggested a figure somewhere between Ł1.50 and a pound. Odd; because although he had practically a complete set of character defects, an inferiority complex was one of the few gaps in his collection. There was something about this girl, however, that made him wish he wasn’t so obviously unfit for human consumption. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘I’ll do that.’ She put a green folder