The parrot-sitting job was meant to last seven weeks, possibly eight. Gwen would be notified by phone as soon as the Grands had booked their return flight.

Was trust not a factor? Didn’t they care about hiring a stranger who would be wandering in and out of their home for seven weeks? “I trust you,” Cecilia Grand had said over the phone. Now Gwen wondered if she was the only parrot-sitter who’d responded to the ad. Well, of course she was. Maybe the Grands had skipped town and abandoned a parrot who’d become an unbearable responsibility.

Gwen reconsidered. Everything had sounded sane and reasonable during the preliminary phone call. Cecilia answered Gwen’s questions and inquired about her previous work record. She asked for a work reference, which Gwen supplied. Cecilia might even have taken the time to check with her former boss. Gwen imagined the staff in the accounts section of Spinney’s Office Furniture hooting with laughter over supplying a reference for her role as parrot-sitter. Don’t be paranoid, she told herself. They probably don’t give you so much as a second thought.

When Cecilia had called Gwen about the crisis and early departure, she’d said, “I’m truly sorry I won’t be able to meet you to provide a proper orientation. But I can tell the kind of person you are just by talking to you. I know you’re honest. I’m completely confident.” Before Gwen had time to think up a reply, Cecilia rang off because she and her husband were short of time and facing a two-hour drive to the airport.

GWEN HAD FIRST come across Cecilia’s ad on the noticeboard at Marvin’s and had pulled off one of the tear strips for a lark. She’d taken it home and stared at the phone number. She imagined introducing herself to a parrot: I am Gwen. Recently retired, age sixty-three.

Maybe the job would not be entirely dull. Better than sitting at home imagining a replacement at her accounting desk in what used to be her tidy and familiar office. Better than thinking of the golden handshake and early retirement. Better than standing in the doorway of Brigg’s clothes closet, wondering what to do with his as-yet-undistributed belongings.

How difficult could it be to talk to a parrot? The job was about conversation, companionship. She had snickered to herself when she first read the ad.

Gwen knew, or believed she knew, what her former colleagues thought of her. Nondescript, quiet, fair-haired-but-greying Gwen. Five-nine, thin—perhaps a little too thin. Hard-working, good at keeping books, never a problem with accounts. Honest as the day is long, her manager said during his final tribute to her. When it became known that she’d put in her notice, the fourteen employees on staff, including the drivers of Spinney’s two delivery trucks, took up a collection and presented her with a painting: a tranquil scene of rolling hills and a placid lake. She thought it lacklustre as a piece of art. She wouldn’t want to travel to or be inside that particular scene, but what could she say? Without faltering, she thanked her workmates for the gift. The presentation took place during a farewell dinner at an Indian restaurant called Spice. Over the years, the company had often used Spice for seasonal celebrations or promotions, and when paying tribute to departing employees. The group sat around an extra-long table in one of the restaurant’s side rooms.