The following day, tidily dressed in a crisply pressed white blouse, knee-length black shirt and inch heeled court shoes, I alternate between excitement and nerves. My Master drives me to the office. “Good luck," he says, giving me a peck on the cheek, and squeezing my hand.
Checking in the bathroom that my long hair, rebellious at the best of times, has not escaped the multitude of pins keeping it firmly under control, I present myself at reception.
“I have an appointment with Mr Haswell. I´m..."
I stall...
What am I called?
“Ah yes, Charlotte Conners isn´t it? Mr Haswell said to send you right in." The receptionist waves me towards the door.
I tap.
“Come in."
Richard Haswell is sitting on a low seat overlooking a vast cityscape. Wall to wall windows give a bird´s eye view of most
