James
Richard and I enter Reception together; suited, booted and briefcased.
Kirstie glances up from her desk. “Good morning, Mr Haswell. Good morning, Mr Alexanders.” She’s dressed in standard ‘office-wear’; white blouse, dark jacket and a straight skirt cut to an inch above the knee. Her hair is pinned neatly back and up, and a touch of colour at lips, eyes and cheeks highlight her strong features.
“Good morning, Kirstie,” I return. Our concierge is always efficient and professional when at work, usually issuing a polite ‘Meet and Greet’ smile. Today, the smile seems forced.
Richard glances around the foyer: the tree, the tinsel and decorations, a four-foot-high plastic Labrador wearing a Santa hat and a sign around its neck: A dog is for life. Not just for Christmas. It sits by the
