The Cinderella Plan

by Abi Silver

  Constance had not anticipated Judith to have any interest in cooking; she imagined her only attracted by cerebral matters. And she could visualise the sucked-lemon expression which would have hijacked Judith’s face when greeted with the colloquial shortening of her name which the celebrity chef had used. To Judy, To Judy, To Judy. She murmured the words under her breath, but each time seemed just as irreverent as the last.

  At the far-left side of the shelf, Constance spied an old-fashioned photograph album, the type her mother kept, crammed full of childhood holiday snaps. She slid it out from its position and her hand caressed the dusty cover.

  ‘Is it OK if I look at your photo album?’ she called out.

  Judith appeared in the doorway, a pair of oven gloves over her left shoulder, an amused expression on her face.

  ‘Look at anything you like,’ she replied. ‘I have no secrets, although you’ll find it very dull, I warn you.’

  The sound of a key in the lock heralded Greg Winter’s arrival, and he swept into the room, removing his coat and hanging it away as he entered. Constance had a glimpse of his private face, focused and earnest, before he spotted her.

  ‘I must be late if you’re having to fend for yourself,’ he said, stretching out his hand to her. ‘So nice to meet you, after everything I’ve heard.’

  ‘I think you’ll find Connie’s very self-sufficient,’ Judith called out, ‘and she’s welcomed the time to take a good look around.’

  Constance blushed and Greg focused on the photo album she had tucked under her arm.

  ‘Don’t let her embarrass you,’ Greg said, still smiling. ‘She likes to pretend that she values her privacy, whereas she actually relishes a bit of exposure, now and again.’

  He took the album from Constance and flicked through the pages.

  ‘I’ll show you the best picture,’ he said, ‘but probably not Judith’s favourite.’

  He pointed to a snap of Judith, taken with her sister in their teenage years. Clare was older, but Judith stood a head taller, gawky, angular and ill-at-ease before the camera, one leg sticking out in a display of awkwardness. Clare, in contrast, was a mass of curves, arms thrown open, a wide inviting grin stapled across her face.

  ‘I already know which one he’s showing you,’ Judith shouted. ‘And before you pass comment, there’s nothing wrong with being a reserved teenager. I suspect Clare regrets being quite so welcoming of all comers now.’

  ‘See. I told you she didn’t like it. I think photographs, especially old ones, can be very revealing,’ Greg advised, conspiratorially, before replacing the album on the shelf. Then he turned his attention to the wine Constance had brought.

  ‘Good choice, I think,’ he said. ‘Did Arnie recommend it?’

  ‘If Arnie is the man in the shop around the corner, then yes.’

  ‘Judith tells me you’re always working, no down time.’ Greg poured himself a generous serving, checked the level in Constance’s glass and then settled himself on the sofa, sinking back into the cushions, his long legs stretching out to straddle the rug.

  ‘No more than anyone else,’ Constance replied.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Judith called from the kitchen again, ‘she’s even more of a workaholic than I am. Has your Mr Whatsisname promoted you yet?’ She leaned around the door frame.

  ‘Mr Whatsisname is Mr Moses, and I don’t think he does promotion,’ Constance said.

  ‘But your high-profile cases must have brought lots of work in for everyone?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Oh she’s too modest, Greg. I did tell you.’

  Greg laughed, and the glow from the table lamp caught his heavy brow and highlighted the grey edges to his close-cropped curls.

  ‘Not a bad quality in a person,’ he joked, ‘but in short supply around here.’

  ‘Shall we eat?’ Judith asked, ignoring his jibe. ‘I missed lunch again. Do you mind Connie? I know it’s not good form to throw your guest straight in to the food. You can stay as long as you like afterwards, really.’

  ‘I’m always happy to eat. I hope you haven’t gone to too much trouble.’

  ‘Ssh,’ Greg put his finger to his lips, ‘don’t say that. It’s the first time she’s cooked in weeks.’

  ‘I heard that you know,’ Judith called out from the kitchen and Constance giggled.

  ‘She hears everything,’ Greg said.

  ‘I heard that too.’

  ‘I saw your Trixster app has really taken off,’ Constance began, sipping from her wine as she sat down at the table.

  ‘It’s done pretty well, yes,’ Greg said. ‘I think it’s almost peaked, to be honest, but Judith doesn’t like to talk about it.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Because she didn’t think of it herself.’

  ‘And Pinocchio?’

  ‘It’s been refined even more, and now it’s gaining mainstream acceptance. Since we dropped the transparency aspect that Judith was so keen on, we’ve improved the reliability enormously. People don’t realise that with AI you have to sacrifice one in order to enhance the other.’

  Constance held her glass out for a refill.

  ‘Judith was keen on transparency?’ she said.

  Greg swallowed his wine.

  ‘Did I say Judith? I meant Claudia, the lawyer who used to advise me, in the old days before I was rich and famous.’ He laughed. ‘They’re using Pinocchio now across the board for recruitment. The army particularly likes it. And they say it will be in US courtrooms in the next twelve months.’ He paused, as if expecting a cutting retort from the kitchen, but nothing was forthcoming. ‘But, as you asked, I have a new venture which is more acceptable to Judith, within these four walls only for now.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Garden centres. There are a couple of ailing ones we’re buying up and we’re going to give them a makeover, improve selection, encourage more people to grow plants which are particularly good for wildlife, introduce interactive exhibits and a new mode of delivery.’

  ‘In what way “new”?’

  ‘Well it won’t surprise you to know that there’ll be an app to use. You choose your plants either on site or remotely via the app, you get advice on location and care, and a nice young person, probably a school leaver and possibly someone with previously low career expectations, will deliver your selection and, if you like, help plant them all for you.’

  ‘So a kind of bespoke garden makeover, but from your local garden centre. What’s it called?’

  ‘That’s still work in progress, but I like “From Little Acorns…”.’

  Constance beamed. ‘Sounds very interesting.’

  ‘Greg does seem to have the Midas touch at the moment.’ Judith joined them with a large casserole dish, which she deposited on the table. ‘And, of course, he has the funds now, from his other, more commercial projects.’

  ‘It’s early days but it’s part of a drive to get more young people involved in environmental issues and in working in the community. Judith likes it because it’s something tangible.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Judith replied. ‘Nothing like getting one’s hands dirty.’ She laughed at herself.

  ‘What are you working on at the moment?’ Judith asked Constance, as she lifted the lid off the tureen and an exotic smell wafted through the room.

  Greg coughed exaggeratedly.

  ‘Oh, sorry. I had promised not to talk shop too much. We can do that afterwards when Greg retires to smoke his pipe in the drawing room, then.’

  Constance looked around her, in confusion, as she hadn’t spied any other living space, before realising that Judith was joking. Judith retreated to the kitchen one last time and returned with a basket of bread.

  ‘Don’t let me stifle the conversation,’ Greg said. ‘Go on. Judith will only kick me under the table repeatedly, till y
ou tell her what you’re up to. She has steel toe caps on her shoes, you know.’

  ‘OK.’ Constance took a moment to examine both their faces; Judith alert and curious, Greg relaxed and bemused. ‘How much do you know about driverless cars?’ she asked.

  ‘Only what I’ve read,’ Judith replied, ‘that we’ll all have them in the next ten years and they’re the answer to all the world’s problems, including third world debt and human trafficking. Why? I suspect you’re not looking for a recommendation.’

  ‘Did you read about the family hit by a car outside their house yesterday?’

  ‘Yes I did. Terrible mess. Two children killed. Oh no! It wasn’t one of those cars.’

  ‘Yes. A SEDA. British-made. They’ve kept that part out of the mainstream press so far but it’s all over the internet. There’s lots of photos too.’

  ‘I didn’t know we had them out on the roads yet.’

  ‘They’ve been keeping it quiet,’ Greg chipped in, ‘but more than one company is trialling them. It’s all around the country, in quite a few cities.’

  ‘And who is to blame for the accident?’ Judith asked.

  ‘They don’t know yet. The car’s in a secret location and the driver’s in hospital. The driver needs a lawyer, that’s how I know all this. There’s pressure to arrest him but they haven’t decided what to do yet.’

  ‘Did Dawson call you?’

  ‘Not this time. It was a lawyer working for SEDA.’

  ‘Interesting, and I can see it could be tricky, if the car was driving, that is. What did you say?’

  ‘I said I would let him know.’

  ‘Oh Connie. You must take it.’

  ‘I’m not sure I was the only one he contacted.’

  ‘So you need to let him know before the others do. This could be the first case involving one of these cars, new law. How thrilling.’

  Greg stopped eating and stared at Judith.

  ‘And two dead children. And the mother injured,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I know that,’ Judith replied. ‘You don’t need to play my conscience. It goes without saying that it’s an absolute tragedy. That poor family. But two thousand fewer deaths per year, insurance premiums cut by eighty per cent. That’s how driverless cars were sold to us, if I remember correctly. There must be some very red faces in high places right now. And the driver should not be held liable if he relinquished control. Even so, he’s going to need a good set of lawyers. You must see that, Greg?’

  Greg resumed his eating but with less interest than before.

  ‘Has she persuaded you yet?’ he asked Constance.

  ‘Oh stop it! You’re the one who’s always motivated by “innovative” responses to things. Well this is the pinnacle of innovation. We have to be in on it. To prevent another similar tragedy if nothing else.’

  ‘She is very convincing, I have to admit,’ Constance replied.

  ‘You wouldn’t have it any other way, Connie. Let’s at least take a look at the papers and talk to the driver. It could be really fabulous. And no one touches that car before we do.’

  31

  PETER WAS SEATED in his office in Whitehall the next morning, reading an essay on the proliferation of electric charging stations across the UK. Progress was apparently slow, but it was also steady. And, importantly, the writer believed they were reaching the critical mass which would finally make electric cars viable. Of course, the supermarkets wanted compensation for their ‘lost parking spaces’, which Peter considered ludicrous, especially because surveys had shown that most of them were never more than seventy per cent full. But he needed to keep them on side, so compromises would have to be made.

  He allowed himself to be diverted by the many emails which were flooding his inbox this morning. It wasn’t the first time. He had picked up the academic paper earlier, in the hope that it would distract him from the barrage of attention his grumbling mailbox was receiving. But even with his phone on mute, he was aware of the tiny vibrations which indicated yet another missive arising.

  Top priority was Alan’s message, demanding a full enquiry into the SEDA collision and telling Peter to be ‘on hand’ to brief him at any moment. It was followed by links to all the newspapers with their varied coverage of the crash, none of it remotely helpful or positive.

  Then there were a series of polite enquiries from journalists to ‘catch up’ or ‘get an update’ from him, ‘just generally’ on the progress of the Autonomous Vehicles Bill and any remaining hurdles. Peter marvelled at their audacity. These were the same people who had printed the stories he had just read, pretending they only wanted to chew the fat, when what they really craved was something juicy and ‘exclusive’ to add to the story about the tragedy.

  He noticed a message from Toby. He poured himself a coffee and read it through slowly.

  Hi Peter. I’m in charge in James’ absence, it said. Could we meet please?

  Peter frowned, then he read the words aloud. He patted his stomach a few times and looked up Toby’s number on his phone. Then he deleted the message, took a sip of coffee and returned to his reading.

  32

  JAMES STEPPED out of his taxi at SEDA’s offices and groaned as his broken ribs shifted beneath their hastily-wrapped bandage. He had paid little attention to the nurse’s entreaties to ‘hold still’ before he left the hospital. Now he realised, too late, that this had been short-sighted.

  He could see Carol and Jane at their posts, although Diana was not there. Of course, it was Thursday. Diana didn’t work on Thursdays; she took her nutritionist course instead. He had joked that she should develop a healthy eating programme for the office. She had taken him seriously and her suggestions for their ‘vegan makeover’ were now sitting in his inbox awaiting review.

  He pushed open the door and walked as briskly as he could manage across the atrium. Carol leaped up and ran towards him, her wailing stopping him in his tracks. To his enormous surprise, and a great deal of discomfort, she threw her arms around his neck.

  ‘James. We’re so pleased to see you. They said you were in hospital. Are you hurt?’

  He waved her away with a scowl. Jane was standing too, but remained behind her desk, smiling in his direction.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ she said. Always the consummate professional, he could rely on Jane when matters of good taste were on the agenda.

  ‘Thank you, both of you, for your concern. I am a little sore but otherwise unhurt. Just keen to get back to work. Is Toby around?’

  The two women exchanged glances.

  ‘He is,’ Jane replied. ‘If you wait a moment, I’ll find him for you.’

  ‘No need,’ James strode on. ‘I suspect I know where he is. But if you find him first, just tell him I’d like to see him straightaway.’

  The door to James’ office was ajar and a glass of half-consumed orange juice sat on his desk. His swivel chair was rocking gently as he approached. James halted in the doorway and listened hard for any sounds of company, before walking over to his PC. It was switched off, but the monitor was warm. A feeble knock at the door and Toby appeared.

  ‘Hello James. I wasn’t expecting you so soon.’ Toby attempted a welcoming smile.

  ‘No. Obviously not. Would you like to finish your juice?’ James said, holding out the glass. ‘Seems a shame to waste it.’

  Toby tiptoed forward and reclaimed his drink, dabbing at the watery mark it had left on the shiny surface and then wiping his hand on his trousers.

  ‘I was just keeping an eye on things for you,’ Toby said.

  ‘I can see that. As you should. Thank you. But now I’m here. I’ll just need a few minutes to check my inbox. Is there anything urgent?’ James slipped effortlessly into work mode. ‘Did we hear back from Hamburg and are we any further on with that change on the ABS we discussed?’

  ‘It’s all
fine. They’re working on it. Are you sure you’re OK to be at work?’ Toby surveyed his boss through narrow eyes.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘What about your car?’ Toby said.

  ‘My car?’ James raised his voice.

  ‘The crash.’ Toby lowered his by a corresponding amount. ‘What’s going to happen? Have they said?’

  ‘I really don’t have the time or the inclination to talk about it now…unless it was something particularly urgent?’ He glowered at Toby.

  ‘There were some calls, but they can wait.’

  ‘What kind of calls?’

  ‘Carol fielded one this morning from a journalist. Wanted to speak to you. When she said you were out she left her number and asked for a comment. There’ve been others too. Quite a few.’

  James leaned back in his chair and tidied his pens into a straight line.

  ‘Is it true you don’t remember what happened?’ Toby asked.

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Bruce called, after you went to see him. Is it true though?’

  ‘Yes. Look. I understand Bruce sent some wording over yesterday, for a statement to the press.’

  ‘It’s in your inbox. But, I wasn’t sure it, well, gave the right message.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘We could put a positive spin on things, I was thinking,’ Toby spoke with his eyes on the ground and the surface of his untouched juice rippled and swelled.

  ‘How positive?’

  ‘I know it’s not much, but we could major on how things could have been worse in a normal car, I mean, the side bars might have protected you. And the baby and mother were saved. And maybe other pedestrians too. I know it’s terrible about the family and we have to tread really carefully, but if we’ve got all this attention, it’s an opportunity, isn’t it? To focus on all the positive safety features.’

  James’ fingers idled on his keyboard space bar.

  ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘No “positive spin”. In fact, we’re not going to “spin” anything.’