Death's Door. Meryl Sawyer

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      As usual, segregation had occurred and the women stood in their own small groups. Their preferred uniform was the pantsuit – in any colour as long as it was dark; grey, black, navy, occasionally burgundy or even teal. One of the few things Nicola liked about these events was not having to agonise over what to wear.

      Nicola politely smiled and shook her head as tray after tray of canapés were offered to her. She was always careful to avoid the greasy morsels at these functions. Dessert was usually worth saving space for and the last thing she needed was to be the butt, so to speak, of any wide-screen jokes making their way around the office.

      Where the bloody hell was Scott? She couldn’t stand here on her own for much longer. Ah, over there by the far wall. He saw her at the same time she saw him, and raised his glass in acknowledgement. She returned the gesture, with the addition of a forced smile.

      He was clearly occupied; she’d have to fend for herself.

      ‘You must make more effort to join in, dear,’ was something Ruth would have said, and had many times, bless her.

      It was only when she was older that Nicola realised how worried Ruth had been about her being an only child, and the impact it would have on her social skills.

      They really had been great parents; they’d got along better than any of her high school classmates, who could barely stand being in the same room as their parents. Nicola would nod in agreement when they rolled their eyes at how clueless their parents were. What she’d wanted to say was ‘actually, my parents are really nice’.

      And they were; she’d loved hearing about Ruth’s job at the library, but Paul’s work as a structural engineer she found fascinating. She would have gone down the engineering path herself if only she’d inherited his maths brain. But of course the thought was ridiculous; she had none of his DNA. They got on well, but they were very different.

      Nicola had realised that very early on, and had been plagued with a thousand questions along the way; like, did her biological mother prefer to be alone too? As she’d gone into puberty the questions had tended towards the more personal; did they have the same hair or eye colour? What about body shape?

      But she shoved every question back down as quickly as she could. Ruth was the only mother she had or needed; it didn’t matter that they were different. To think otherwise was hurtful.

      Nicola forced her thoughts back to the present and the masses of people mingling around her. The room had filled considerably and she could now hear the conversation of a nearby group of men:

      ‘So, Toby. Win, lose, or even outcome today?’ asked a man with dark grey hair circling a bald head.

      ‘Up today, thank Christ; shocker yesterday,’ said Toby, mid-forties in charcoal pinstripes.

      ‘Futures or CFDs?’ asked a younger chap with a hideous green paisley tie.

      What the hell were CFDs? She’d ask Scott. On second thoughts, she didn’t care enough to bother.

      Finally, Nicola recognised someone she knew, a woman with sharp square spectacles and spiky dark hair. She’d met Yvonne several times before and instantly liked her. She was a fellow career woman and – unlike most of the women she seemed to meet at these things – hadn’t spent their first evening boring her about what her kid had done that day in childcare. Actually, Nicola didn’t know if Yvonne and her husband, a senior manager at a rival firm to Scott’s, even had kids.

      ‘Yvonne, hi,’ she called from just outside the group. The etiquette was to wait until invited by someone stepping aside to give you space to physically join.

      ‘Nicola, great to see you,’ Yvonne said, placing her glass on a passing tray and pulling Nicola into a hug. ‘Thank God you’re here,’ she whispered near Nicola’s ear before releasing her. She turned back to the group who had resumed their chatter, smiled at them and said, ‘I’m really sorry, girls, but there’s something that I just have to discuss with Nicola.’

      Before Nicola knew what was happening she’d been gripped by the elbow and dragged over to the nearest table.

      As she went, she noticed two of the other women in the group had confused looks on their faces; as if they were trying to figure out why she was familiar. She got that a lot. What the hell was Yvonne up to?

      ‘Thanks for rescuing me,’ Yvonne said, flopping into the nearest chair. ‘I swear, the next time someone asks me if I went to the opening of that new boutique today I’ll scream. As if I have time to shop during the week!

      ‘Hey, fantastic news about your Walkleys. Congratulations!’ Yvonne said, slapping Nicola on the knee.

      ‘Thanks,’ she said, beaming back. ‘It was …’ she started, but was interrupted by the emcee tapping his glass into the microphone and booming that it was time for everyone to be seated.

      ‘Good timing,’ Yvonne said.

      As the table filled up around them, Nicola put her handbag on the next chair to save it for Scott. She removed it when she noticed he’d sat at the next table over. Bastard.

      She smiled at a nervous looking young woman in a dress with shoe-string straps who claimed the seat.

      ‘I’m Bianca,’ said the young thing in barely more than a whisper.

      ‘Hi, I’m Nicola,’ Nicola said, offering her warmest smile as she gripped the limp hand. The girl couldn’t be more than twenty; still a child, she thought, suddenly feeling very old.

      She was about to ask if it was Bianca’s first time at one of these functions. The answer was obvious but she wanted to help erase the startled rabbit look from the poor kid. Who was she with?

      She peered past Bianca and offered her hand to her companion, an equally startled looking young lad. ‘Hi, I’m Nicola.’

      ‘Tim,’ he said, ‘Tim Robinson. I’m with KLR – started a month ago. Learning the ropes of futures at the moment; mind blowing.’

      Nicola nodded and smiled while wishing he’d shut up and let go of her hand, but at the same time feeling a surge of sympathy for him. If he didn’t toughen up quick he’d get eaten alive. She’d heard enough from Scott to know what a cut-throat world share trading was. Perhaps he wasn’t going to be an actual trader, but someone’s assistant.

      ‘Hey, aren’t you on television?’ Tim asked with a flushed face.

      ‘Yes I am. Excuse me,’ she said, as she felt a gentle bump from Yvonne. She sat back to allow the waiter to put a bowl in front of her.

      ‘Thank you,’ she said, picking up her spoon to tackle pumpkin soup, complete with an artistic swirl of cream and sprig of parsley. Standard mass-produced convention centre fare. No doubt the next course would be a choice of either chicken or beef. She pitied the vegetarians; their meals always looked like ghastly afterthoughts.

      While they waited for dessert, a fifteen minute presentation was given. Nicola and Yvonne couldn’t see the screens from where they were sitting, and neither could be bothered shuffling around. But both Tim and Bianca dutifully moved their chairs. You’ll learn, Nicola thought to herself.

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