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Chapter Twenty
Titus
“Did you sleep well?” Alan asks.
It’s about 8:30 a.m., and we’re on our way to Acheron Pharmaceuticals, on the outskirts of Exeter. “Great, thanks,” I say. “It’s so quiet in that cottage, apart from the ducks and the owls and the moorhens and the swans…”
He grins. “Yeah, the bird life is guaranteed to get you up in the morning even if your alarm clock fails.” He takes the slip road off the motorway and drives down to a roundabout, then indicates at the second turning. I assume he’s heading toward the signposted industrial estate, but he passes the turnoff and continues north out of the city.
We’re both in business mode today. I’m wearing a dark-blue, three-piece, bespoke wool suit with a white shirt and a smart navy tie with white spots, because donning it makes me feel as if I’m putting on a suit of armor. Not that I’m preparing for battle, but when I’m suited up, I feel ready for anything.
I got a lovely surprise this morning when, as I was dressing, Heidi retrieved a velvet box from her bag and handed it to me.
“What’s this?” I asked, surprised.
“A good luck charm.” She gave me a nervous smile.
I opened the box to discover it contained a silver tie pin and cufflinks, each bearing a small Roman coin.
“They’re only copies of Roman denarii, of course,” she said shyly. “I bought them in Bath. You don’t have to wear them if you don’t want to.”
“Of course I’ll wear them.” Genuinely touched, I took them out carefully, slotted the pin over my tie, and inserted the cufflinks into the cuffs of my shirt. “I love them. Thank you so much.”
I brush my fingers over the tie pin now, thinking about how she hugged me afterward and wished me luck. It was such a sweet gesture. I try to ignore how it feels like a parting gift, because I hope that’s not how she meant it.
Alan’s wearing a dark-gray suit, and he’s obviously taken as much care over his appearance as I have—his hair is neatly combed, he’s shaved, and he’s polished his shoes. I think he’s a bit nervous about today. Obviously it’s his company, but he needs the board’s approval for such a large investment, and they’re going to want reassurance that NZAI will be able to carry out the research.
He slows the car as a sign for Acheron Pharmaceuticals looms ahead of us and turns left. The long drive is lined by trees, and it’s only when we turn the corner that I finally see where we’re heading.
My eyebrows rise. It’s a huge site, formed from what look like new buildings covering a few acres of land. Clear signs on the walls ahead of us indicate that the road left leads to a separate private hospital. I’m guessing Acheron has close connections with this, and it’s where the clinical trials will probably be carried out. Straight ahead is the main office block for Acheron Pharmaceuticals. To our right, the road curves around to the laboratories and the facilities where the medications are manufactured.
Alan drives ahead to the office block and draws up out the front—he has his own, named parking space, of course—and we get out and walk into the office block.
It’s everything I’ve come to expect from Alan Woodridge—elegant, smart, and swish, as Heidi likes to say. In the main lobby, the reception desk and the paneling on the walls is made from a light wood, while the carpet tiles are pale gray, making it feel large and spacious. There’s a generous waiting area with a coffee machine and a water cooler. Everywhere looks clean and sparkling. I have no doubt that he’s had people scrubbing and repainting the place. I bet this is how the King feels wherever he’s touring.
Alan signs me in at the front desk, introducing me to Iris, a woman in her forties who looks no-nonsense and efficient, but who gives me a warm smile when she finds out who I am. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Oates,” she says.
“Titus, please,” I tell her. “And stop, you’re making me blush.”
She chuckles, and Alan grins. “Let’s go up to my office,” he says, “and meet my team. Then I’ll take you on a tour.”
We head across the lobby, stopping three times so he can introduce me to people. Each time, he says, “This is the famous computer engineer, Titus Oates, from New Zealand.” After the third time, I chuckle and tell him, “Less of the famous, Alan.”
“Credit where credit’s due,” he says, pressing the button to call the elevator, and walking in as the doors open.
The elevator is glass walled and gives us a view across the offices as it rises to the fifth floor. We exit into another lobby, this one quieter. The carpet is plusher here, the wood of a darker hue, and there are oil paintings on the walls. We walk past an impressive boardroom with a table that seats twelve, and along a corridor that looks over a large central office filled with people starting their day, hanging up their jackets, and taking coffee cups to their desks.
“Everyone looks happy to be working here,” I comment, noting the smiling faces and the relaxed manner of the employees.
“We work hard here to have a pleasant working environment,” Alan says. “We have lots of social functions, competitions, rewards, that kind of thing. I like to think of myself like Dickens’ Fezziwig.”
That makes me laugh. “You’re not fat enough.”
He grins, leading me into an open-plan semi-circular lobby from which half a dozen offices radiate out. “Morning, Jade.”
The woman in her thirties with blonde hair in a bun smiles and gets up as we approach. “Mr. Woodridge, good morning. And you must be Mr. Oates.”
“Titus, please,” I say, feeling as if I’m fighting a losing battle. I hold out my hand, and she shakes it.
