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no-brainer.
    The “creatives” did the design work; they had the upper floor to themselves, and Mac computers on which they would design logos and argue among themselves over whether a particular shade of red said vivacious more or less than one that looked exactly the same to me.
    My desk was situated about fifteen feet to the left of Anthony’s office and ten feet to the left of Max’s; more significantly, it was right opposite Marcia’s desk. Marcia, who had joined the company several months after me and who had already been given more accounts to lead, even though she was an account executive like me.
    Slowly, I made my way through the lobby to my desk, where I sat down heavily, put the bottle of water I’d bought at the tube station down in front of me, and turned on my computer. If I could lose myself in work, I told myself, the answer to the whole will issue would just come to me out of nowhere. The trick was not to focus on it.
    Fortunately, Marcia didn’t seem to be interested in giving me any thinking time, either. Marcia didn’t much like working, or, in fact, anything that interfered with her busy schedule of manicures, blow-dries, and facials. As far as I could tell she had gone into advertising in the hope of getting free stuff—she spent most of her time flicking through fashion magazines and only seemed to come to life for clients who were marketing shoes, handbags, clothes, or makeup.
    “So do you have the style sheet I gave you on Friday?” she demanded as soon as I sat down. “You know I needed it this morning, so you’d better have…”
    I forced a smile. Marcia had a way of talking to me like she was my boss or something. It was Max who had given me the style sheet to finalize, not her. But I told myself that now wasn’t the time to quibble. “It’s here,” I said quickly, pulling it out of my bag. “I’ll send you an electronic copy, too.”
    Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You did this over the weekend?”
    “Yes. I came in yesterday.” Yesterday. I almost felt like taking out a guitar and singing the Beatles song about all my troubles being far away.
    Marcia raised an eyebrow. “Really. So, good weekend? Other than working, I mean?”
    I shrugged. “It was…fine. How about you?”
    “Me?” Marcia smiled. “Oh, it was good, thanks. Dinner out, lunch with some friends, hit the shops. You know, usual sort of thing.”
    I raised my eyebrows quizzically. It always amazed me how much effort Marcia put into shopping, how excited she’d be about each new purchase, even though as far I could see each one looked pretty much the same as the ones that had come before. Belts, bags, shoes, sweaters, skirts…for what? Money down the drain, Grandma used to say. Money that could be spent on something useful.
    “Aha, I see Anthony’s out and about,” Marcia said suddenly as Anthony Milton’s door flew open and he and Max emerged. Immediately I went slightly red and turned back to my computer screen, while Marcia waved, flashing Anthony a huge, beaming smile, just like she always did. They started walking toward us and I glanced up to see Max staring at me. Anthony was, too. I blanched slightly; Anthony never stared at me. He usually barely seemed to notice me. Had I done something wrong? Had I made a mistake on some major account?
    They were just a few feet away. Max’s face was serious; Anthony’s, quizzical. And then, suddenly, I felt my heart sink. Not just sink, but fall like a lead weight to the bottom of my stomach. I’d given Mr. Taylor my business card. He’d probably called the office, asked for Mrs. Milton, been put through to Anthony…I couldn’t believe I’d been so stupid. Couldn’t believe my house of cards was about to come crashing down so quickly.
    Getting hotter by the second, I wiped my palms on my trousers and focused on my breathing. I had to think of an excuse. That, or I had to get out of the building before they could say anything.
    They stopped at