? More like friends than lovers ? Easy and comfortable ? Soulful and intense ? Tempestuous and explosive ? Perfect but short-lived

The questions on the application form seem to get odder and odder. To begin with I try to give each one careful consideration, but there are so many that by the end I’m hardly even thinking about my answers, I’m just dashing them off on instinct.

They want three recent photographs. I choose one taken at a friend’s wedding, a selfie of me and Mia climbing Snowdon a couple of years back, and a formal portrait I had done for work. And then it’s done. I write a covering letter, nothing over-the-top, just a polite note emphasizing how much I like One Folgate Street and how I will strive to live there with the integrity it deserves. Even though it’s just a few lines, I redraft it half a dozen times before I’m happy with it. The agent said not to get my hopes up, that most applicants never get past this stage, but I go to bed really hoping I will. A new beginning. A fresh start. And as I drift off to sleep another word floats into my brain as well. A rebirth.

2. When I’m working on something, I can’t relax until it’s perfect.

Agree ? ? ? ? ? Disagree

THEN: EMMA

A week goes by with no response to our application, then another. I send an email checking they’ve received it. There’s no reply. I’m starting to get pissed off—they made us answer all those stupid questions, choose the photographs, write a letter: the least they could do is write back saying we haven’t made it to the next stage—when finally an email arrives from [email protected], subject “One Folgate Street.” I don’t give myself time to get nervous. I open it immediately.

Please come for an interview 5 P.M. tomorrow, Tuesday March 16, at the Monkford Partnership.

Nothing else. No address, no details, no indication if we’re meeting Edward Monkford himself or some underling. But of course the address is easily found online and it doesn’t really matter who we’re meeting. This is it. We’ve cleared every hurdle but the last one.

—

The Monkford Partnership occupies the top floor of a well-known modern building in the City. It has an address, but most people just call it The Hive because that’s what it looks like—a giant stone beehive. Among all the boxy glass-and-steel skyscrapers in the Square Mile it sits on the approach to St. Paul’s like some weird, pale chrysalis laid by an alien. And from street level it’s even stranger. There’s no reception desk, just a long wall of pale stone with two slits that must lead to the lifts, because there’s a steady stream of people coming in and out. All of them, both men and women, seem to be wearing expensive black suits and open-necked shirts.

I feel my phone buzz. Something’s flashed onto the screen. The Monkford Building. Check in now?

I touch “Accept.”

Welcome, Emma and Simon. Please take lift three and get out at floor fourteen.

I’ve no idea how the building has identified us. Perhaps there was a cookie embedded in the email. Simon knows about that kind of techy stuff. I show him, hoping it’ll excite him, but he just shrugs dismissively. Places like this—rich, moneyed, self-confident—aren’t his cup of tea.

There’s no one else waiting for our lift, apart from a man who looks even more out of place here than us. His hair is long and gray, unkempt even though it’s tied back in a ponytail. He has a two-day growth of stubble and he’s wearing a moth-eaten cardigan and shabby linen trousers. I glance at his feet and see he isn’t even wearing shoes, just socks. He’s eating some chocolate, a Crunchie bar, very noisily. When the lift doors open he shuffles inside and takes up a position at the back.

I look around for buttons but there aren’t any. I guess it only goes to the floors it’s programmed to.

As we go up, so smoothly there’s no sense of movement, I feel the man’s eyes traveling over me. They come to rest on my midriff. And there they stay, as he licks chocolate crumbs off his fingers. Awkwardly I put my hand where he’s looking and find my shirt has ridden up. A small patch of bare stomach is showing just above my trousers.

What’s up, Em? Simon says, noticing my discomfort.

Nothing, I say, turning to face him, away from the strange man, surreptitiously tucking my shirt in as I do so.

Changed your mind yet? Simon says quietly.

I don’t know, I say. In fact I haven’t, but I don’t want Si to think I’m not open to a discussion about this.

The lift doors open and the man shuffles off, still eating his Crunchie.

Showtime, Simon says, looking around.

It’s another big, sleek space, an open, light-filled area running the length of the building. At one end a wall of curved glass overlooks the City—you can see the dome of St. Paul’s, Lloyds of London, all those other landmark buildings, then Canary Wharf in the distance, the Thames snaking around the Isle of Dogs and off through the endless flat plains to the east. A blonde in a tailored black suit unfolds herself from a leather chair where she’s tapping on an iPad.

Welcome, Emma and Simon, she goes. Please take a seat. Edward will see you shortly.

The iPad must be where all her emails are, because after ten minutes of silence she says, Please follow me.

She pushes open a door. Just from the way it moves I can tell how heavy it is, how balanced. Inside, a man is standing at a long table, resting on his balled fists, studying some plans. The sheets are so big they only just fit on the table. Glancing at them, I see they aren’t printouts but actual drawings. Two or three pencils and an eraser are grouped in one corner, neatly arranged in order of size.