I was nursing the unpalatable coffee when a door was flung open somewhere out of sight, smacking against a wall; angry voices crashing into the lobby. Charlene busied herself, loudly ordering a car for Bailey in ten minutes (my heart sank further at the little time this left me) – but, despite her best efforts, I caught every word.

‘You’re fucking mad, Pa. You’ll make yourself a laughing stock. You only do it to be provocative, that’s what pisses me off so much.’

An imperious Cockney drawl replied, rough as a rake on gravel, the words drowned by the phone now ringing on Charlene’s desk. She snapped into it officiously.

‘Of course it’s my right.’ The first voice again. ‘I’m embarrassed you’re even considering it. It makes us all guilty by association. Mum’ll go mental.’

‘You get on with what you’re good at, all right, Alexander, whatever that might be, and let me get on with what I’m good at.’ A chair scraped across tiles. ‘And when I want your opinion, or your mother’s, I’ll ask for it.’

‘You couldn’t give a toss about either of our opinions, that’s exactly my point. I give up.’

A tall man strode out into the lobby and then stopped at the sight of me. Furious yellow eyes blazed down at me, a newspaper rolled tightly like an offensive weapon in a rather scarred hand, knuckles grazed on two fingers. He looked like he was contemplating hitting me over the head with the paper. I attempted a charming smile.

The other voice was on the phone now. ‘And get that fucking Big Issue git out of my doorway, all right? It don’t look good for business.’

There was the clatter of the receiver being dropped into its cradle, then a barrel-chested man strolled indolently out of the office, hands in pockets.

‘Aha.’ Malcolm Bailey leaned in the doorway, studying me. ‘Maggie Warren, I presume.’ A statement: a man who always knew he was right; a strong, cruel face, a prize-fighter’s stance.

I stood quickly, aware that my flaming skin was now clashing with my hair most unattractively. ‘Yes. Yes, hello.’ I stepped forward to shake Malcolm’s hand, my cigarettes falling to the floor as I did so. The younger man and I both bent to retrieve them, clashing heads in the process.

‘God, sorry.’ I rubbed my forehead with an embarrassed smile.

He didn’t speak; just handed me the packet inscrutably. I noticed how chewed his fingernails were.

‘So you’ve met my son, Alexander,’ Malcolm smirked. He was much shorter than the younger man, but he seemed giant-like now in his superiority. ‘This is his place, you know.’ Was that pride or contempt in his tone? I couldn’t quite fathom it.