After the Golden Age (Golden Age 1)

In the heart of the building, the office spaces were efficient and elegant. Gray berber carpeting led down hallways with recessed lighting. Silk plants in brass stands decorated corners. The Plaza hired staff just to keep those plants dusted. Accounting firms, law firms, investment firms, insurance companies—all had offices here, marked by frosted glass fronts with their names painted in neat black letters. Originally, Celia’s chief interest in working for Smith and Kurchanski had been that their offices weren’t located in West Plaza.

Dr. Arthur Mentis’s office was marked only by a brass nameplate on a wood-stained door at the end of a hallway. Not a prime location, but he didn’t need much space. He wanted to work here so he’d be close to the Olympiad’s headquarters. And Warren gave him the place rent-free.

She knocked.

“Arthur? Are you here? Can I come in?” She knocked again. And again. If something had happened to him, she’d have felt it. She knew she would have.

In much the same way, something told her that he had to be here.

“It’s Celia. Will you let me in? Arthur!”

At that, the door opened. He might have been waiting just on the other side, debating about whether or not to open it.

She could see why there might be a debate. He looked awful. Face frowning, hair ruffled, he wore his shirt unbuttoned, baring the undershirt. He leaned on the open door and the frame, holding a bottle of scotch. He didn’t smell of alcohol; he only looked drunk. The bottle was full and unopened. He was showing some kind of emotion—which one, she couldn’t guess.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

“I was worried about you.”

“You shouldn’t worry about me.”

“Can I come in?”

He stepped aside and swung the door open. When he wandered away, she closed it.

His office suite had two rooms. The front was a calculated, elegant public face, with a soft leather sofa, antique desk, bookshelves, and inoffensive Impressionist artwork on the walls. The back door of this room was open, leading to an inner office. Curious, she walked back there. She expected him to stop her or to intercept her; this felt like an invasion. But he didn’t. He kept his back to her.

The back room might have been an office once. There was a desk, some shelves filled with books, a filing cabinet. Now, a pile of clothes lay on the surface of the desk, shirts and trousers waiting to be washed. A foldaway cot, sheets and blankets mussed, sat in a corner. A minifridge with a hot plate and electric kettle sitting on top of it occupied another corner. It looked like a dorm room.

Also on the desk, a half-dozen empty orange prescription bottles clustered together.

“You’ve been living here,” she said.

“Why not? I spend most of my time here. It got so it seemed a waste to go anywhere else.”

“It … it doesn’t seem right, not for you. Not—” Not for someone she admired, looked up to. He’d always seemed so put together. Even she’d managed to build a life for herself. But him?

He was leaning on the door frame, watching her study the odd scraps of his life. He stared at her. He could see it all. All her thoughts were written across her face.

She pointed at the scotch. “Are you going to share that?”

“You can have the whole thing. I got drunk once. Years ago. Pulled everybody in the house with me. First year at university, there were five of us living in a flat in London. They all had hallucinations, screaming fits, and massive hangovers. Even the ones used to drinking a dozen pints in an evening. And it wasn’t even that they had hangovers, but their minds convinced them they had. My mind convinced them they had. I haven’t had a drink since. Can’t bring myself to do it now—I really don’t know what you see in the stuff. I’d probably tear the whole building down. I’ve never lost control since that time. I’ve never done much of anything.”

She came to lean on the wall next to him. She took the bottle away, pulled out the cap, and took a swig. Rolled the liquid over her tongue before swallowing. Not the best, but it burned going down, and that was what mattered. It even dulled her headache. She set the bottle down on the desk.

“Mom and Dad think you have a life,” she said. “They think you have a psychiatry practice, a home to go to. Hobbies. But you come here, pop a few sleeping pills, and that’s it, isn’t it?”

“Celia, why are you here?” he said tiredly.

She caught his gaze and invited him to look at the scenes playing behind her eyes. She studied his expression, looking for that flicker of change, hoping to see something in him that might reflect his thoughts. He was too used to keeping that mask on.

But he brought his hand up and traced the line of her jaw. Then the hand dropped, and so did his gaze.

She took his face in her hands, pressing his cheeks, not forcing him to look at her, but drawing herself close to him. She spoke in his ear, so he could hear the words as well as feel her thoughts.

“You are the only person who has never been disappointed in me. It hurts me to see you unhappy.”

He gripped her arms. “Celia, you don’t understand. I cannot be in love with you. The way I am, it would hurt you, and I refuse to do that, I cannot—”