For a Song [#Wattys 2015]

Chapter 4

Hilly

The offices of Winton and Trout were intimidating. Sitting on the quay, this huge glass building loomed over me among other huge glass buildings in the industrial park outside of the city. Inside, everything was was all sleek and chic, with big shiny grey floor tiles, glass coffee tables with leather arm chairs in the reception room. Behind the desk, where a large flat screen displayed a slideshow of various business men shaking hands with other business men under the headline Winton and Trout: delivering premium law services globally, the receptionist sat in a neat shift dress. She took one look at me, and seemed to be visibly struggling not to tip her head at me like a dog trying to work out long division.

This was at about two o'clock on the following Monday and I'd cycled like crazy so I could get to the office and then back again in my free period, leaving me dishevelled and pretty conspicuously pit-stained in one of Izzy's baggy shirt dresses worn over my jeans. Probably not the typical person who comes walking through the doors of a premium law office in the week.

"Can I help you?" she asked. Not snottily, to her credit.

"I need to see Phil-Phillip. Um, please."

"Okay, Phil-Phillip who?"

"I don't know his last name," I had to confess which made her frown slightly and say,

"Right...this is a fairly large company. We do have more than one Phil, I'm afraid."

"He's a lawyer," I added which probably wasn't all that helpful given that I was currently standing in the reception of a law firm. I cast my mind back to the last time I'd seen Phil to come up with any distinguishing features that might help narrow down the parameters. "Young guy. In his early twenties. Short. Built. Brown hair. Green...maybe grey eyes...or brown," I tried pathetically . Before I remembered and tacked on quickly. "He was specialising in pensions law!"

That was a detail that I managed to recall because my mother also specialised in pension law and that it was duller than dishwater and I couldn't possibly fathom why anyone would choose that if they really felt they had to be a lawyer and there were murderers and rapists and episodes of Law and Order out in the world.

"I can call that department," said the receptionist with a sigh, perhaps noticing my desperation and taking pity on me. "But we are quite busy. Who should I say is asking after him and what it's about."

"Just say Alison and David Engel's daughter is here. He'll see me."

Though in all honesty, I didn't know that he would. Really, for all I knew, he'd panic and have security escort me out- too many bad memories to deal with that he could easily . Or he'd want to wreak some small amount of revenge on my family and do it by having security escort me out of the building. Or he just wouldn't care enough about an episode of his past to make time in his busy schedule and have security come and escort me out so I'd leave him alone and stop wasting his time. I pictured a lot scenarios really and most of them ended up with the big looking bouncer bloke standing in the corner of the room kicking me out and onto my arse.

To my surprise though, the receptionist made the call and nodded, "He's on in his way down." Which sent a mild thrill of panic through me. I hadn't been at all nervous on the bike ride down; I had rehearsed what I was going to say about a thousand times in my head and just kept thinking about Izzy and that interview with the smug asshole who'd stolen her song. I'd been pretty full of courage and bravado just twenty minutes ago. But it was the same kind of fake courage that comes with downing one too many pints of cider on a Friday night. And once it wears off all that you're left with is the hangover.

The jaw bitingly, arse-clenchingly awkward hangover standing in front of me in a suit.

"Hilly?"