The Beautiful Indifference by Sarah Hall

Author:Sarah Hall [Hall, Sarah]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

After navigating the unfamiliar road system, I found a car park near The Agency’s address. The building was on a quiet street. Its façade was unremarkable: three-storey, Edwardian, pale brick, like most of the others in the row. The door was heavy and black and looked newly painted, its lustre like liquorice. There was a brass plaque chased into the masonry with an engraved street number, and above that a bell and an intercom. There was no name, nor the name of any other company listed in the building. It looked like an ordinary corporate town house, containing any number of nondescript offices. I walked away, waited for a few minutes nearby, ridiculously holding my phone to my ear. No one entered or left the building. I walked the length of the street, looking up at the corners of the end buildings, and then I walked back and rang the bell. Almost immediately a buzzer sounded inside and I heard a heavy mechanical click. I pushed open the door, turned to look at the empty street, and quickly entered.

Inside the passageway there was a polished wooden side table and a painted glass lamp. The walls were eggshell-coloured. There was silence until a vehicle drove past on the road outside, its engine muffled. My heart was tapping behind my breastbone. A bitter taste had risen in my mouth and I wished I had not drunk so much coffee before leaving the house. Ahead, at the end of the passageway, stood an elegant staircase with spiralled iron rods and an exquisite curving balustrade. I was about to move and go up it when a door to my right opened. A young dark-haired man in a suit came out. He extended his hand.

Hannah? You found us alright?

I nodded, took his hand, and he placed his other gently on the back of my wrist.

Yes, thank you.

He nodded. Of course. I’m Alistair. We spoke on the phone. Let’s go into the office, shall we? That’s a beautiful suit. Westwood?

He had a soft, burred accent, Scottish, perhaps pared from the Highlands. He held the door for me and I entered the room.

There was a large cast-iron fireplace with decorative tiles and trivets. A vase of white stargazers stood on the mantel. A desk was pushed against the far wall; on top were a slim white laptop and the intercom hub. An armchair and a sofa faced each other across a low table. The carpet was Regency blue, and the room had been wallpapered in a pale green period design. It was a richer interior than the passageway, and smelled newly cleaned. The young man waited for me to catch his eye and then he spoke.

OK. First things first, welcome to The Agency. Thank you for coming.

There was a pause, and then he asked, Would you like a coffee? I shook my head. He brought his hands together in front of his chest, the fingertips steepled. It was a demure gesture, or it was artful; either way he seemed too young for such mannerisms.

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