Goodmans of Glassford Street Read Online Free Page A

thinned out on each floor and only a couple of people were left to emerge on the third floor. She went up to the fourth floor. The lift door pinged and the soulless voice that always made her think of Doctor Who ’s Cybermen announced, ‘Fourth floor. Doors opening.’
    She looked down the rather sombre corridor, doors breaking up the brown and cream wall at regular intervals. The parquet floor, dark brown with years of polish, clicked beneath her heels with metronome regularity as she headed towards the door at the end of the corridor. She cast a brief glance at the staff canteen on one side, as she passed the various offices, her tread slowing slightly as she neared Tom’s office. The office was suspended in silence and Tom’s empty chair reawakened the panic inside her that would never go away.
    Every night she went home to his empty armchair beside the white marble fireplace, above which was the gilt-framed picture of Tom’s father, the proud founder of Goodmans. The house, like the store, had belonged to Goodman Senior and she loved it as much as Tom did. The three padded armchairs and large sofa were all covered in pretty floral prints with a cushion on each chair and three on the settee, picking out one of the colours of the print material. At the moment, the cushions were in a warm rust colour. But there was also a set of pale green cushion covers in the linen cupboard. The ceiling was high, with ornate plasterwork in a pale cream like the curtains. The carpet was in a delicate shade of fawn, with a darker fawn fireside rug. It was a large room. So were the dining room and the kitchen and the five double bedrooms upstairs. The drawing room, however, was the most splendid-looking room, in true Victorian style. After a long tiring day at the store, she returned home and sank into her usual armchair beside the fire. The fire used to be alight and glowing with logs. Now there was an electric imitation coal thing in the fireplace. It looked completely out of place framed in such marble splendour, with the brass fender across the front and tall ornamental vases on the mantelpiece above.
    Heaving herself up, she went through to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. She couldn’t be bothered cooking anything and so she just absently crunched through a bowl of cereal. The evening stretched bleakly before her. She dreaded facing one of her CSI: Miami DVDs. She decided to go and visit the children. She felt a bit guilty at turning down the chance to be with them earlier. Douglas hadn’t been pleased then. Maybe he’d be all right now.
    It was a thought to trail away back into town. Even to travel there and back by taxi seemed daunting. Was she really getting old and tired? Sometimes she was tempted to sell the house in Huntershill and buy a flat in town. Near the store perhaps? That would save so much travelling to and fro. The house in Huntershill was so isolated, surrounded by trees and a wild garden of bushes and shrubs. Huntershill, of course, was famous because Thomas Muir had once lived in the area. He had been a reformer in the eighteenth century who had been transported to Australia, captured by pirates en route and ended up fighting in the French Revolution.
    The sensible thing would be to sell up and buy a flat in the city. Moving house would be a terrible upheaval, though, and it would be such a wrench leaving this old house that had always meant home to the Goodmans.
    She gave herself a mental shake, lifted the phone and dialled the taxi number. The roads were surprisingly quiet and she reached George Square more quickly than usual. It was with gathering unease that she stood with her ear close to the intercom, listening for Douglas or Minna’s voice inviting her to come up to their flat. But it was the nanny’s voice that crackled in her ear. The door opened and Abi went into the hall and took the lift up to the Benson’s penthouse. She was relieved to find that Douglas and Minna had gone to a