I have approximately ninety seconds to look like a person who has not been in pyjamas all morning.
I make impressive use of them.
By the time the elevator opens, I am in jeans and a clean top with my hair pulled back and my coffee replaced with a straight spine and the expression of a woman who was absolutely not just lying on a couch with her feet in a man's lap reading campaign briefs.
Rhys's mother is nothing like Nora and exactly like her simultaneously.
Margaret Callahan is tall, silver haired, with the kind of face that has spent seven decades being interested in everything around it. She walks into the apartment with the unhurried authority of a woman who has earned her opinions and is comfortable sharing them, and she stops when she sees me and does the full assessmen
