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‘So sorry,’ says Julia. ‘Lunch went on longer than we meant.’
‘Blame me,’ says her companion. ‘Everybody does.’
Gemma wonders if she’s going to be expected to do the whole air-kissing thing, but Julia just turns towards the staircase. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she calls over her shoulder. ‘My business partner’s in town for the day. She’s going to sit in with us, if that’s okay.’
The woman nods to indicate that she is said partner, gives her a reassuring smile and holds out a hand. ‘Tatiana Meade,’ she says.
‘Oh, hi,’ says Gemma. ‘Gemma Hanson.’
‘Hanson? You’re not one of … ?’
‘Those Hansons?’ says Gemma. ‘I wish.’
The upstairs office is a drawing room. All big sofas and heavy drapes. A crystal chandelier, an ivory backgammon set, a naked marble woman in one corner. A haughty Siamese cat looks up from a cushion, gives Gemma the once-over, finds her wanting and goes back to sleep.
‘What a lovely room,’ says Gemma. It’s a bit old for her tastes, in all honesty, but there’s no point being rude. ‘I do love a Knole sofa,’ she lies.
‘You know what a Knole sofa is?’ asks Tatiana. She seems amused.
‘My stepmother has one,’ she says.
‘Ah,’ says Tatiana. She sits down while Julia picks up a folder from the desk. Gemma hovers for a moment, then decides she’s probably meant to sit as well.
‘Two, actually,’ she blurts, because she has a sudden need to let them know that there are Big Rooms in her life.
Julia opens a desk drawer and brings out a bottle and a tube of cotton wool pads. Picks up a magnifying mirror from the windowsill and brings it all over to where Gemma sits.
‘Now, if you don’t mind,’ she says, ‘if you could take that make-up off, so we can see what we’re working with?’
Gemma squirms with embarrassment, but obediently picks up the bottle. Smears some of its contents over her face, and starts wiping. The cotton wool comes away khaki and orange and dirty taupe, and she feels embarrassed again at the obviousness of her preparations.
‘I look about twelve without it,’ she warns them.
Julia picks up a Polaroid instant camera from the desk and walks about, popping off shots from different angles as Gemma wipes.
‘We’ll be the judge of that,’ says Tatiana. ‘And besides, young-looking can be very profitable. So tell me, Gemma, how old are you actually?’
‘Sixteen,’ she says.
‘Now, you are telling the truth, aren’t you?’ asks Julia.
‘Yes,’ she says, a bit offended.
‘Only we do need to know. It does make a difference. Legally. If you’re below a certain age you need a chaperone.’
‘And a tutor if you’re going to miss a lot of school,’ says Tatiana.
‘Nothing we couldn’t get around, of course,’ says Julia, ‘but it’s as well to know now, rather than finding ourselves in a bind because you didn’t tell us. And, you know – it’s good to know you’re truthful. From the start.’
‘Yes,’ she protests. She hates looking this young. ‘I’m sixteen! Really!’
Julia waves a photo in the air to develop, then slips it into the Perspex window on the front of the folder. Gets out a pen. ‘Date of birth?’
Is that a test? Gemma tells her. She writes it down on the front of the folder, beside where Gemma’s name is already printed in thick black marker pen.
‘And what stage are you at, at school, Gemma?’ asks Tatiana.
‘Waiting for my GCSE results.’ She finishes with her face, puts the lid back on the bottle. Casts around for a place to put the used pads. She’s about to put them into what she guesses is an ashtray when Julia sticks a manicured hand out in front of her, palm up.
