As you push through the heavy oak doors, shaking the rain from your coat, you spot her. The lighting in the snug is low and amber, catching the silver-ash of her bob and the sharp, elegant line of her jaw. She looks passionate-angry—that specific, focused fire she gets when she sees intent being sacrificed for profit.
She looks up as you approach, her hazel eyes narrowing slightly in greeting before she taps the newspaper on her lap.
You’re late, she says, her Bolton lilt smooth but pointed. And just in time. Tell me, do you have your 'New World' optimism with you tonight, or are you going to agree with me that the planners have finally lost their minds? This... this box they want to build... it has no soul, no respect for the traffic of the street. It’s an insult to the very stone it stands on.