The cab dropped us off in an apartment block forecourt that looked like an Audi dealership. Emma hobbled through the foyer and over to the lift, pressing the illuminated arrow with her shaking hand tipped with broken fingernails. I watched her hunched over in the glow of the lift panel, trembling and breathing like an old woman. When the lift arrived, she pushed the button for the penthouse. The apartment was well-furnished and decorated, but looked like it had been abused by a teenager home alone. Skimpy outfits lay strewn about the furniture, the PVC and Lycra at odds with the fine leather of the three-piece suite. ‘Would you like to watch TV?’ she asked, picking up the remote for the huge plasma TV lurking in the corner. She tried to tidy up, staggering about with piles of her work clothes gathered up from the couch. ‘I really should be going, anyway.’ ‘Please stay. I have something I need to show you,’ she mumbled, turning away to limp into another room.
