Chapter Five
Rebecca“It’s your mother’s birthday next week.”
“I know. Have you heard back about the play park yet?” I ask.
My father sets his fork on the table and dabs efficiently at his mouth with a napkin before leaning back in his chair. We’re not in an office at Quartey Workshop, we are not even in a company car on the way to an important meeting.
No, we are at a restaurant.
During business hours.
And not just any restaurant—not someplace fast, convenient, inexpensive. We are at a French restaurant in Spitalfields with several courses, with an elegant (if rather fussy) menu, and a wine list longer than many bestselling novels.
The building used to be a chapel, and so light pours through the stained glass windows and floods the space, illuminating the wooden trusses of the Vi
