More like a school hall than a church.

Stackable chairs and tables, metal and plastic. Somebody carrying a metal ladder through a swing door at the back. Mobile screens, the kind they use in open-plan offices, to separate one section from another. That's what it was like at Wentworth Publishing, and I ended up screened into a corner. Secluded. People looking away if I came out. The silent treatment.

A bald man in a suit talking to a really pretty dark-haired girl. Really pretty. Perhaps she'll look over here. Perhaps I can catch her eye. But she's completely focussed on the bald man, who's insufferably self-important, talking and talking, rearranging his tie to make sure it's hanging straight. Eyes like black holes in his face. Like Chris at Wentworth.

Ingrid thinks I'm paranoid. I'm exaggerating. I ought to compromise, because we need the money. Think of the kids.

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