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Bette’s car nosed gingerly through the traffic as she sat in the quiet, insulated back seat reading her notes. It felt daft sometimes. The journey wasn’t even two miles, she could walk it easily, but on days like today half an hour to concentrate was precious. Not to mention the weather . . .
‘What is wrong with this country?’ she murmured, looking out at the grey, blustery street as her phone pinged with an alert.
She checked the lock screen, smiled, then went back to her notes. There was a musical guest today, singing a cover of ‘Don’t Stop’ by Fleetwood Mac. She tapped her pen against her lip, trying to recall that song . . . Didn’t Tina sing that in the shower? Or was it while she was cooking? In the early days, she played music everywhere in the house . . .
The car moved off again and fifteen minutes later Bette was stepping out and striding up a wide, horseshoe-shaped courtyard towards a row of glass doors that were continually in motion at one of the world’s truly 24/7 workplaces.
A quick good morning and a flash of her pass to the woman on reception, and then she was in the lift up to the fourth floor, stepped out, said hi to someone she knew, and into the staff kitchen to make up a flask of green tea – more hellos, quick catch-ups about the weekend – then her assistant found her and they walk-and-talked down the corridor before disappearing into a door labelled ‘WH Production’.
An hour later Bette was talking with the same assistant – Kyle – as everyone left the room.
‘I swear, I’ve never seen it,’ Bette insisted.
‘Well, I wouldn’t tell anyone that,’ Kyle laughed, and then he tapped the shoulder of the young woman in front of him. ‘Hey, Becky’ – Kyle pointed at Bette – ‘never seen Harry Potter!’
‘What?!’ Becky’s eyes were huge.
‘You said not to tell anyone and then you tell her?’ Bette protested.
The young man just laughed and walked away, leaving Becky staring at Bette in a way that Bette had become used to.
‘If you want to go and see it sometime . . .?’ the young woman said, biting her lip.