Minnie had never been someone to turn heads in the street; she just didn’t have that head-turning quality. She knew if people talked to her, took time to acclimatise to her features, then she might be deemed ordinarily pretty, but it wasn’t the kind of beauty that would stop a stranger in their tracks. When she was with Leila, people turned to look, though usually that had more to do with Leila’s outlandish hair and outfit than anything else. Minnie wondered if people who dressed unconventionally were after the kind of attention usually reserved for the strikingly beautiful people. Leila would say it was a case of not caring, of wanting her exterior to match the way she felt inside. Minnie had no idea what a reflection of her inner self would look like. Maybe that was her problem – she didn’t know who she was.

Minnie had always yearned to blend in, to not draw attention to herself. Attention meant criticism, attention meant being teased. She had read an article about how beautiful women, especially models, find growing older particularly hard. They are so used to turning heads in the street that as the gazes from strangers fall away, they lose their sense of identity. Maybe it was better to be invisible in the first place and never know what you were missing. Minnie’s thoughts turned to Tara. She must have been someone who turned heads when she was younger. Would aging have been harder for her than for Minnie’s mum, who had always been a little bit stocky and plain? Was it her receding beauty that caused Tara’s frailty, that air of vulnerability Minnie had sensed? Then she remembered the fear in Tara’s face at the smashed lamp, the panic in her eyes. She couldn’t imagine that kind of pain had anything to do with the outside world – there had to be something more going on.

She walked aimlessly on, not looking where she was going. When she looked up from the pavement, she realised she was outside Tantive Consulting. Had she walked here accidentally, or had her subconscious led her here? It was five in the afternoon on a Saturday, but the lights on the fourth floor were on. Apologising to Quinn Hamilton was the next point on her list.

1 February 2020

Minnie pressed the buzzer. She didn’t expect anyone to be there at the weekend. It was probably the kind of office where lights were left on twenty-four seven, ruining the planet one light bulb at a time. Then again, Quinn was probably the kind of workaholic who couldn’t switch off at the weekends. She thought it with a mental sneer and then chastised herself for her hypocrisy – she was that person too.

A sound came over the intercom.

‘Hello?’ she said.