Kismet Page 7

  Anna is thrilled. It is a delight to make Sahina laugh and to be called sweetie, and on a wave of excitement a raft of possible questions bubbles up within her: why does she have so many plants? Why did she form her new firm in Vauxhall? Why are all her staff so young and attractive? Why is the sign on the gate so bland? What is the origin of the mantra ‘Never Stop Exploring’? These questions fill her mind to such an extent that they have nudged away the memory of the first question that she actually has to ask, and she slides the piece of paper from her notebook and has a look at the list one last time.

  ‘Right,’ she says, squiggling on a blank page to test her biro. ‘Can you … er … tell me what it’s like being a powerful woman in an industry dominated by men?’

  Sahina looks up from the notebook and considers Anna blankly.

  ‘You mean compared to being a powerful man?’

  ‘Er. Yeah.’

  ‘You think I know what it’s like to be a man?’

  Anna chuckles, hoping this is a joke, but Sahina’s face remains blank. She is sitting stiffly straight in her chair, as if a rod is stretching her back to its maximum length. Her fingers are knitted together on her lap.

  ‘No. Sorry. I mean: what’s it like being surrounded by men, to feel that you’re, you know … outnumbered?’

  Sahina shrugs this question away with a tiny lift of one shoulder. ‘How do I know? I only have one experience. What can I compare it to?’

  Anna instinctively jots down the answer in her notebook in longhand, before realising she hasn’t received an answer, or not one she can use. She considers rephrasing it more subtly, but fears she’ll get the same response. She decides to move on, but she feels rattled by Sahina’s reaction, and the memory of the second question isn’t at hand. It is something to do with sophistication. Why are women architects not thought of as sophisticated, something like that. But this doesn’t sound right. Her pen hovers over her notebook as she struggles to remember; a bead of sweat escapes her armpit and trickles down over her ribs.

  ‘Do you think one of the main issues in architecture is that women lack sophistication?’

  Sahina’s chin falls downwards and she says: ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Ambition!’ says Anna. ‘Sorry, I misspoke. Do you think that women lack ambition?’

  Sahina continues frowning at her, then says, simply, no, she doesn’t think that. Anna writes this down, then moves to the next question. To make sure this time she slips the folded list of questions from within her notebook and has a peek.

  ‘Why do you think,’ she begins, noticing that Sahina is looking down at her notebook with wide eyes. ‘Why do you think so few women become powerful architects?’

  Sahina is frowning at Anna now, her lips askew with distaste.

  ‘These questions of yours,’ she says, nodding towards the notebook propped on Anna’s knee. ‘Are they all going to be like this?’

  ‘Um. Like what?’

  ‘About women.’

  ‘Um. Yes. I mean, kind of. The series is about women. Did your assistant not say?’

  ‘Not my assistant!’ snaps Sahina, with such venom that Anna shrivels inwardly. ‘We do not have assistants. Or managers. Just people. You spoke to Vicky, she does communications. What do you mean, it is about women?’

  ‘Um. It’s called Women at the Top. It’s about … women who are prominent. Leaders in their fields. Such as yourself.’

  ‘I am not a leader! What did I just say?’

  ‘Sorry. I mean … famous women.’

  Sahina now leans back and peers at Anna slantwise, leaving a pause that gives Anna time to reflect on the fact that she is losing control – this isn’t good, isn’t good at all.

  ‘And who is behind it?’ says Sahina, her big eyes narrowed. ‘Where did the idea come from?’

  Anna considers saying that the series was devised by Paula, Head of Digital, a black lesbian, but there is a hint of mischief in Sahina’s eyes that makes Anna sense she might know the answer to this question already. Her eyes are so clear and liquid and alive compared to the surrounding craggy skin that Anna thinks suddenly of rock pools, and those perfect glassy ponds within the jagged black stone. She decides to tell her, in the most offhand, matter-of-fact way she can muster, that the series is being made in collaboration with a sponsor.

  ‘A sponsor?’

  ‘They pay for the advertising space around the article. We retain full editorial control,’ says Anna. Sahina asks who the sponsor is, and laughs when Anna tells her.

  ‘Romont!’ she repeats. ‘The watch people. Very good. I hear the watches are very nice. I’ve never had one. Have you?’ Anna shakes her head, then looks at her own digital Casio: the time is 2.46 p.m.

  ‘It’s good to know where you’re coming from,’ says Sahina, shifting around in her seat. ‘Clem didn’t say you’d be representing the watch people. Now, carry on: you were saying about the women.’

  ‘I’m not representing anyone,’ says Anna. ‘Like I said, they have no—’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ says Sahina, flapping her hand about, and urging her to forget all about it and carry on with the questions. But when Anna does so, and begins repeating the question about why so few women become leading architects, she cuts her off.

  ‘Stop,’ she says, with the authority of a referee. ‘You’re doing it again. You’re asking me about something I am not. You should ask that question to someone who isn’t an architect. You, for example.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You are a female. You are not an architect. Why are you not?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Anna. ‘Lots of reasons.’

  ‘There’s your answer. Lots of reasons. Write that in your little book.’

  On principle, Anna doesn’t write it down, and instead searches for the next question, a good, solid one, that will regain control. She cannot remember it; her thoughts are scattered.

  ‘But maybe you should have been,’ continues Sahina. ‘An architect, I mean. Maybe you would like it more than what you’re doing now. Maybe you would have been good at it.’

  The stress within Anna is raised another notch. She looks down at her notepad and feels like Sahina’s cunning, narrow eyes can see right into her soul, and the truth that she doesn’t belong here. Is this a panic attack? For a strange moment she considers running away, but tells herself to calm down and keep going with the damn questions. Her memory has been completely wiped, and she takes out the piece of paper again. The page quivers in her hand and the printed words jumble into a kind of word salad, the emboldened brand values floating free of the rest. She shifts around in her chair, tries to shuffle herself out of this panicked and confused state, but only succeeds in releasing a small cloud of body odour from within her armpits. It is a meaty, stale smell, and it reminds Anna of being in the cafe in the bus station. How nice that was, she realises, sitting there, thinking up her idea of the amusement park of piles of rotting beef, streams of sour milk, a house built of mouldy cheese. That is where she really belongs – sitting in a drab cafe, surrounded by the lost and unemployed, coming up with ideas that make no fucking sense.

  ‘Whenever you’re ready,’ says Sahina. ‘What’s the next question Romont has given you? If you want, I can read from the list myself? I know what they want.’

  This time Anna’s stress hardens into annoyance. She is annoyed at the list of stupid questions, at Stuart for deleting all the good bits, at Sahina for suggesting that she can’t think for herself. She reaches down for her bag, takes out her mineral water and has a sip and then puts the bottle away, along with the list of questions. Then she zips up the bag and looks at Sahina and attempts a smile.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ she says. ‘I had a moment. Now then: which of your buildings do you think is the most sophisticated, in terms of design? The Biscuit Tin, the Mujahi Doheen, or maybe one of the early ones from Washington State?’

  Sahina appears startled by this name-dropping and blinks a few times. Then she composes herself and, fina
lly, begins speaking. She says that the main purpose of her career, to the extent that one exists, is to rid architecture of silly concepts such as sophistication, which only try to make buildings more important than the people that use them. This sentiment completely contradicts the Romont brand values, but it feels good to be writing in her notebook again, and while jotting it down Anna formulates her next question; she has six minutes left, and resolves to keep Sahina speaking, no matter what. Anna asks what advice Sahina would give young people who want to become architects. Sahina aims her eyes up at the network of air ducts and metal tubing, and says pithily that they should just be architects. Anna writes this down as well, thinking it could be a nice ending line, and then as she is about to ask a question about Islamic architecture, they are interrupted.

  ‘Sahina?’ says a voice from behind Anna’s shoulder. ‘Sorry to butt in like this. I need you to confirm something. Right now.’ A young Asian guy is holding an iPad and a small digital pen, aiming both at Sahina.

  ‘Excuse me,’ says Anna. ‘We’re right in the middle—’

  ‘Sorry, these are the last seats on the flight to Beijing,’ he says. ‘They will only hold them another five minutes.’ Anna watches in disbelief as Sahina takes the iPad, fishes some glasses from a pocket and peers down her nose at the screen. It is 2.57 p.m., and Sahina seems to be in no hurry whatsoever. She even asks jokily if the young Asian guy would like to go in her place.

  ‘Sure, I could make the final pitch,’ he says, with a giggle. ‘I just say the building will be fabulous, right?’

  ‘No, not the building,’ smiles Sahina; ‘say the people you’re talking to are fabulous. Most government guys wouldn’t know a tasteful building if it was built around them. Which it probably could be, given how long they sit around.’ She winks at Anna as she says this. ‘No, the trick is to make them feel special. Flattery, after all, is what most big business comes down to.’

  She signs the iPad, and Anna has nothing to do but write down exactly what she just said about tasteless government officials. Then the young man walks away and Sahina asks: ‘Now, where were we?’

  It almost doesn’t feel worth trying to keep going, but in the faint hope that her next meeting will be delayed, Anna asks a question about ambition in young architects. Sahina makes a speech about young people being too fixated on certain goals, says that they should explore, do interesting things, go on adventures, and that when she was young she walked across a desert. She says that all young people should walk across deserts, that the only aspirations they have are set by Kismet and a few other major corporations. Anna writes all this down, and follow-on questions queue up in her mind – what did she eat in the desert? Where did she go to the toilet? What desert was it, anyway? – but before she can ask any of these, she hears a clack of footsteps approaching.

  ‘It’s time to go, Ms Bhutto,’ says another colleague, this time a black man in a suit.

  ‘Please,’ says Anna, desperate. ‘Can I just have a few more—’

  ‘Sorry,’ says the man. ‘The car is waiting.’

  ‘I’m sorry too,’ says Sahina, pushing her large body to her feet. ‘But that went well, didn’t it?’ She pats Anna on the head as she passes, and then is gone. Anna looks down at her notes. The page is an illegible scrawl. She looks up and the baby-faced guy is looking at her from the neighbouring pod. He smiles at her and shrugs, as if to say: what did you expect?

  *

  Five minutes later, Anna is standing outside the front gate. She steps one way and then the other on the pavement, and then leans against the brick wall. She is dazed, and isn’t sure what just happened, or what she should do about it. After Sahina left she remained sitting until another staff member, a woman this time, appeared to usher her out. This woman said various things that Anna didn’t hear, and when they reached the front door she was surprised to find she could barely talk – her farewell came out as a garbled hybrid of goodbye and thank you. Now she wonders if she should go back in and demand ten more minutes with Sahina – she can wait around all day if she has to – and that this time she answer her questions properly. While she considers this, the small door in the gate bearing the plain sign opens, and two young men step out, no doubt employees of Sahina, sharing a joke as they do so. One is of south Asian extraction and wearing tight-fitting green trousers, the other is a freckled redhead who is making wisecracks in an Australian accent. More striking than their looks is the easy grace of their movements: as they depart along the pavement they project the same effortless finesse as everyone else in the building, as if their entire being is lubricated in health, happiness, money, success – in a word, class. She realises she was completely wrong when she thought, on her way in, that the people inside were just people. They are intelligent and successful people, overflowing with the attributes that she lacks. This makes Anna realise that she can’t storm back into the office and request more time, because the only person at fault was her. She hadn’t memorised the questions well enough, lost her composure too easily, was unable to regain it once it was lost. In short, she wasn’t good enough, and doesn’t belong in there. For years she has masked this at work, but Sahina could see it immediately – she is just a middle-England nobody, acting the part of young media professional. And now she has to return to the office, with a handful of illegible notes, and her shortcomings will finally be exposed to all.

  Anna feels she might cry. But she also breathes and has a sip of water and in time succeeds in making herself calm down somewhat. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. The thing she said about the desert was interesting enough, as was the stuff about young people being too beholden to Kismet and corporations, even if it probably goes against the brand values. She will listen to the transcript, reread her notes and see what can be salvaged. She isn’t sure she can face Stuart just yet though – he will no doubt summon her immediately to the Quiet Room for a debrief – and she wonders if she can go somewhere else. A man in a T-shirt and hi-vis vest walks past, swinging his bare arms, doing that walk that construction workers often have, as if their whole bodies need to collaborate in shifting those massive, mud-caked boots. The sight of him reminds Anna it is a pleasant day. The sun is warm and the air is still and the distant buildings are pleasantly misted. It occurs to her that she could walk too, along the Embankment and through Whitehall and Trafalgar Square; the fresh air will clear her head, and help her think of something to say to Stuart. Yes, she decides, she will walk.

  At that moment, the small door in the gate flies open again, and a different class of individual appears beside her: he is tall and suited and middle-aged, and looks in a hurry. He sets off in the same direction as the construction worker, then looks back and straightens up when he sees Anna standing against the wall. His hand is clutching a phone, which he holds up to his nose before looking back at Anna and smiling.

  ‘There you are,’ he says, in a clipped accent, taking small, slow steps towards her on the pavement. He is smiling at her with anticipation and happiness in his eyes, as if she is a close friend. ‘I thought I was going to have a chase on my hands.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she says, shaking her head at him. ‘What’s going on?’

  His slow, floating approach is halted five feet from her. The smile fades from his long, clean-shaven face, and a dark crease appears between his eyebrows.

  ‘Oh. You haven’t seen it?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I thought you’d … well, anyway, you’d better take a look.’

  He lifts his phone up towards Anna. She glances at the man’s face – he is now wearing a grave, almost pained expression – and then down at his phone, which is shaking slightly in his hand. The glare from the sun obscures the screen and all she can see is the reflected outline of her own head. Then she recognises the familiar road layout of Kismet, and two overlapping dots.

  ‘The thing is,’ he says, ‘we’ve got rather a high match.’

  As he says t
his her eyes trace the outline of a number above one of the dots: 81. The sight makes her head recoil and in a continuation of this reversing motion she takes a step along the street, away from this tall, suited man, and squints at him through the lens of this alarming information. He must be in his mid-forties, at least. She fishes her phone from her bag, opens Kismet and presses the dot on her map; the number 81 flashes on her screen. It has to be a mistake – it is the highest score she has had with anyone, ever. It is the highest score she has even heard of anyone getting.

  ‘I assumed you’d seen it,’ he says.

  ‘No,’ she says, looking both ways along the street. She feels dizzy again, and reaches out to steady herself against the wall.

  ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘I’m fine. Sorry. You’ve caught me at a funny time.’

  ‘We needn’t do this right away.’

  This. What is this?

  ‘No. I’m okay. Just …’ She takes a deep breath and looks down at her smart black brogues; opposite her feet are his brown suede shoes, and her eyes trace upwards to see he isn’t as smart as she first thought: his trousers are khaki, his jacket is made from a crumpled linen material similar to her own, and he isn’t wearing a tie. His hair is dark and close-cropped, with grey around the temples, and his square-jawed face is irrefutably handsome, though in a generic kind of way: he looks like the sort of middle-aged actor you see in adverts for credit cards or razor blades.

  ‘The way you were standing there, it was as if you were waiting,’ he says, his smile causing lines to crease around his blue eyes. ‘My name is Geoff.’

  The name is so surprising and disarming that Anna makes a short, spluttering laugh.

  ‘Geoff,’ she repeats, smiling back at him. She says her name is Anna, and for a moment they just stare at each other. She imagines the number 81 flashing above his head, and this sets off a silent explosion within her chest. She wonders if his face only seems generic because he is the kind of man she has never considered herself with, and if it would be different if he belonged to her; surprisingly, the idea makes him seem more attractive already. She still thinks there has been a mistake, that it must be a Kismet misfire, but this makes meeting him seem like a good idea, a harmless diversion. He must take her silence for hesitancy or concern, for he says that maybe they should do this another time, if she’d prefer.