“Bankton must have a lot of money,” murmured Holton.
Carla smiled. “No, I have, but that’s not important. Sit down over there, Bob.” She motioned to a white couch by the window. “Would you like something to drink?”
“If you want one.”
While she fixed his drink she would be able to think of the right thing to say. She felt constrained still and her heart was beating rapidly. She prepared the drink deliberately and, satisfied that it was right, she turned and walked over to him. “Here you are.” Then she sat down beside him.
They looked out at the city. Carla sat straight on the edge of the couch, her eyes fixed on the tall buildings. She was conscious of Holton’s slow breathing beside her. The silence was becoming difficult; then he picked up his glass and ice clattered and the silence broke.
“Tell me,” she said, sitting back in the couch, “what do you do during the days? What does a broker do?”
He opened his coat and relaxed. “Not much, I’m afraid. I get all sorts of statistical books and I make out reports from them. It’s pretty dull.”
“How long are you going to have to do that?”
“I don’t know ... a year maybe. I think Mr Heywood—he was the fellow we met at the party—I think he’s going to move me out in the selling end.”
“You would like that?”