“Yes, well. My predecessor was a great admirer of yours.” Lady Di let that hang for a moment. Claude Whelan had been a great admirer of a number of people, but if you were offering marks, only Emma Flyte would have scored a perfect ten. There was a girl on the Hub he’d kept an eye on too—Josie, her name was—but where she scored highest was in proximity. That and the T-shirts. He’d been a good man, Claude Whelan, but thank god he’d had his flaws, else he’d still have his hand on the tiller. “So much so, he may have allowed himself a little . . . bias.”
“And you plan to redress the balance.”
“Fair and transparent,” said Taverner. “That’s how our processes should be. Apart from all the classified stuff, obviously.”
“I was brought in because the Dogs were being used for First Desk’s private purposes,” Flyte said. “Under my watch, that’s been stopped. Are you sure it’s fairness and transparency you’re keen on?”
Her refusal to allow the Dogs to become Taverner’s poodles was the basis of the women’s antagonism. That and her being younger than Taverner. Sisterhood might be powerful, but Anno Domini was a bitch.
“Let’s not get bogged down in detail,” said Taverner. “Every First Desk is a new broom, that should be obvious. And the qualities I’m looking for in the head of the internal security section aren’t necessarily going to match those that so, ah,
“So you want rid of me. On what grounds?”
Beauty alone ought to do it, thought Taverner. The fact that there was no actual regulation outlawing Flyte’s kind of looks didn’t mean there shouldn’t be: at best it was a distraction; at worst, there’d be duels fought and blood shed. Not that Flyte had ever capitalised on her appearance, but then, an elephant didn’t capitalise on its size. Which didn’t mean it didn’t knock trees down.
“Nobody’s said anything about getting rid.”
“And yet you want my performance reappraised.”
“To take recent developments into account.”
“These being . . . ?”
That I’m fucking First Desk now. Did Flyte really need that said out loud?
Taverner glanced around. She hadn’t changed rooms since her elevation; was still on the Hub. Her predecessors had mostly occupied an upstairs office, with views of the park: sunlight and gardens, and a neverending procession of au pairs trying not to lose the kids; down here, through her glass wall, Lady Di could watch the boys and girls as they monitored the hot spots and kept the world on track. This was where the job got done. And part of the job, now, was consolidating her own position; not for the purposes of petty revenge, but to ensure that when tough decisions were needed, she could take them without a chorus of dissent in the background. That, and also for the purposes of petty revenge. Because it would be foolish to deny the satisfaction involved.
It turned out, anyway, that actual words weren’t required. The look on her face was all the response Emma Flyte needed.
“Perhaps it would be simpler if I just cleared out my locker.”
“Good heavens, no,” said Taverner. “Nobody’s talking about dismissal. No, what I had in mind was a role more in keeping with our revised sense of your abilities. And not a demotion. More of a . . . sideways move.”
The glimmer of understanding in Flyte’s eyes was worth more to Taverner than a new pair of shoes.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Oh, I don’t think I am,” said Taverner. “No, I think Slough House is the perfect place for you, in the circumstances.”
And was pleased to imagine that no hint of her triumph showed itself on her face.
Her coat had faded to the colour of dust, and wrapped within it, she might disappear on the staircase of Slough House; grow invisible against a tired carpet and age-stained walls. Did this happen to everyone? Or only to women?
She wore a hat too. Not many people did these days. Hers was a dull purple—dulled by time, because it had seemed deeper, more vibrant, when she’d bought it. But maybe it was the eyes that faded, diluting all they viewed to feeble ghosts. Maybe she was wrong about her hat and coat; maybe she dazzled without knowing it. That thought almost produced laughter, an impulse easily stifled, here on the staircase. These walls had heard a lot of things, but laughter didn’t figure high on the list.
(These weren’t colours, of course. Except that they were; they were reds, the colour of blood.)
Her gloves were black, mind, and her shoes. Not everything faded. But her hair had been blonde once, and while—strand by strand—it perhaps still was, when she looked in the mirror it was grey. This seemed proof enough. It had been a long time since anyone came closer to her than her own reflection.
All my colours, thought Catherine Standish. All those primary splashes life was once drenched in; it was down to shoes and gloves now. Everything else lay in shadow.
