Toni’s weekend is over—she somehow found herself a boyfriend, Tim—but now it’s back to work. She has to finish her report on the business’s healthcare plan, hopefully getting back a proofread draft from Mallory without too many issues spotted, then submitting it first thing Tuesday. She knows a lot rides on this, perhaps even her job. Will it work out for Toni? Will it be received as well as she feels it’s good? Or will her boss, Greg, get up to his usual rubbish of throwing chaos at her? She has a plan for Greg, though.

---

Please note the first of what will hopefully be many short stories, and possibly novellas, in the Toni With An i/Light Avenue world was released last week; Not Strong Enough to Run. Featuring Steph and Trevor, and a new character, nurse Paul, it’s set roughly ten years before Toni With An i and fills in some (many?) background details. Or at least gives clues as to what’s going on in the yes/no/maybe? LGBTQ+ bar that is Light Avenue.

---

I don’t know how many times I’ve groaned this morning. I’m exhausted. Absolutely shattered but I can’t sleep, for some reason. I did sleep, and slept well, but now I’m just awake.

Nothing bad is going through my mind, nothing is bothering me. It’s just one of those things. I am simply awake. I don’t think I’ll even get dressed but I spent the stupidly early hours, at least before official work starting time, going through the exercise clothes Steve bought me. At some point I’m going to have to get a floor length mirror, less of a concern when you’re wearing boring man clothes but I am completely certain I want to be looking my cutest now.

Sitting in front of my laptop I check my emails, nothing important has come in. And there’s been no calls from Greg. I switch on the TV with my personal laptop hooked up to it and play some of the football games from the weekend in the background, just listening to the commentary, occasionally glancing at it, and hearing the roaring of the crowd, along with the odd apology that inappropriate language may have been picked up by the stadium microphones.

Eventually, bang on 11am, Mallory’s edits from my report on our healthcare plan come through. Explaining in her email she seems pretty happy with it, she has a few suggestions, some grammar and clarity edits, along with a few typos the spellcheck wouldn’t be able to pick. Her immediate suggestions are good, and I appreciate them. Then I’m going through the entire document mostly approving her changes.

I think the document is done. It’s ready. I’ll give it a few hours without looking at it and have one last check. I’ve done the best I can. I’m certain of that. I just hope it’s enough. I know this is a test. I know it’s possible my job rests on it. I know someone at the office knows about the real me, and they’re seeing if I’m worth the hassle with continuing to work there.

With nothing else to do I’m pulling the boned chicken thighs out of the oven, enough for the week, like G suggested. I let them cool, then tear some up for the noodles, quickly frying up veggies. The noodles are good with all the additions, much better and much more of a meal than what I’d have before. G has a career as a chef, or at least as a cook, if he wants it.

Then, having eaten, I’m ready to get the drop on Greg, for once. And I know I will. I’m certain of it. I punch his number into my phone and hold it to my ear, feeling both giddy and nervous.

“Tony?” he says, picking up.

“You were going to call me sometime in the next hour or so, and ask me to email you the whole report. To ensure I wasn’t pulling an all-nighter. I can email it to you now.”

He laughs. “I was going to ask you that, but it wasn’t to ensure you didn’t pull an all-nighter. It was to ensure you weren’t worried about it all night, handing it in tomorrow. I already asked Mallory what the draft she saw was like. She said it was good. I believe her.”

“Did you read it?” I ask, getting annoyed that he still, somehow, has one up on me.

“No. I’ll read it when you email it to me. After I send it onto Mr. Mayer. If we agree it’ll get broad distribution tomorrow. There’ll be no further edits from us. This is your work. You stand or fall based on it. Are you happy with that?”

I think about it, a little confused, or maybe doubtful. “Yeah, that’s fine. What do I do now?” I ask.

“It’s 3pm, take the afternoon off. Everyone slacks when they’re working from home. Enjoy the last of it. Do you have anything you want to do? No-one’s going to call you.”

“I’m going to paint my nails, Greg!” I say, trying to annoy him again, realising I will have to take the polish off before work tomorrow.

“What colour?” Greg asks.

“A kind of neutral, pale pink. Like the nail-bed colour.”

“Sounds professional enough to me, as long as they’re not talons. I’ll see you 9am tomorrow. You and the gals can chat about your nails on your break,” he says, laughing, which is fucking annoying. I think I won’t take the polish off. Fuck him!

“Yeah, us gals chatting and talking about boys!”

“That’s the spirit, Tony! 9am tomorrow, my office.”

Which is what I do. The rest of the Monday I spent just chilling out, and eating the last of the cold leftover rice I made with G. Just before 9am, the next day, I’m walking into the office, well rested, wearing my man chinos and a shirt with a warm coat over it. I swipe past security and take the elevator to my floor, heading straight for Greg’s office, my hands balled into fists trying to hide my nail polish.

I knock, and Greg yells for me to come in. As I get to before his desk he stands and extends a hand, as though to shake it. I do shake it, obviously seeing my painted nails and him seeing them too. He smirks. “Congratulations, Tony. You have finally reached the level of work we knew you were capable of. Well done. Now you have to begin to get better than that.”

“My job isn’t at risk?” I ask.

“It never was,” Greg says, looking confused. “We were seeing what changes we might need to make. We do have confidence in you. Maybe our approach wasn’t working. We do make mistakes in hiring people, often, in fact. We didn’t feel we made one with you. We just had to figure out what worked best for you. Now, Mr. Mayer wants to see you. Off you trot!”

“My nails...” I say.

“What do you know of Ben?” Greg says.

“What do I tell other people? Someone will ask.”

“Tell them what you want. Or the truth? That you did it to annoy me. Which you failed at. They’re professional. That’s all that matters. Now go see Ben, then back to me. Take out your laptop and leave it here, along with your bag.”

Then I’m being sent into Mr. Mayer’s office by his secretary after she greets me. Apparently I’m his first meeting of the day. “Tony, good morning! Coffee?” he asks.

“Not necessary,” I say, laughing, and thinking I don’t want to put him through the misery of pretending to drink another coffee with someone, the main role of his job, it seems. And he seems to appreciate it as he smiles, quite genuinely, when I say it.

“Sit down... How was working from home?”

I think for a moment. “It was good. I appreciated the freedom, especially. And that Greg seemed happy to give it to me. It allowed me to sort some things out.”

“That’s good,” Mr. Mayer says. “Did you get to be more yourself?”

I nod, knowing what he means. Knowing he knows I’m trans. “Yes, I did. I think it helped.”

“Your work is very good. It’ll be appreciated by a lot of people, and annoy a few people with what it points out.”

“Therese?” I ask.

“No. She’s delighted with it. I sent it to her last night. It’s going out to the rest of HR in this office this morning. They’ll have a meeting about it later in the week. It will bring about changes, probably even nationally. Some of them quite major.” He begins to fumble in a desk drawer. “Which is why you’re getting this.” He hands me an unsealed envelope with my name on it. “Open it!”

I look inside the envelope and there’s a check for $2,500. “What? Why..?”

“Greg argued that because we pay you, ‘poverty wages,’ in his terms, you should get this straight away, not in your end of year bonus or in your next paycheck.”

“This is a bonus?” I ask, amazed.

“Specifically for you catching there are areas where it’s possible to have our health insurance plan but not be entitled to any specific coverage from necessary professionals. Legal are having a field day with it. It could save the business millions in a settlement, non-public, of course. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone, or a few people, lose their job. It’s serious, although less serious than if someone actually needed care and didn’t get it, but we’re checking to make sure that didn’t happen.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “This is a lot of money,” I say. “I just did my job.”

“Do you not want it?” he asks, then laughs as he sees the look on my face. “I’m getting an extremely expensive vacation out of this. I don’t know what Greg is getting but it’ll be more than you. But we’re your bosses, so we’re getting a bigger slice of the pie. Welcome to corporate life.”

“And I get a bonus?” I ask. “Another one?”

“Probably,” Mr. Mayer says. “It’ll be noted this is good work, that’s for finding the gap, work like the report will be calculated at end of year. Keep it up and the bonus could be substantial. Anyway, you felt working from home benefited you... Would you be interested in doing it more often?”

“Yes! Of course!” I say, and this is more exciting than the money for some reason.

“OK, I’ll phone some people. We’ll see. You’re going back to Greg?” I nod. “Fine, off you go. This really is good work, Tony. I’m glad the freedom you gained allowed you to do it. And that Greg insisted we give you this chance, now.”

Walking into Greg’s office, I don’t know why, I blurt out. “Do you know I’m trans, Greg?”

Greg laughs. “I didn’t until now. I did see you in a store with a friend, boyfriend? There’s lots of reasons you could have been dressed like that. You seemed happy, it was your day off. What does it matter to me? Are you happy?”

I suddenly feel very serious. “Yes. Since that weekend. And no, he’s not my boyfriend. I guess he was just buying me a coming out gift.”

Greg actually looks surprised now. “This is this recent?” he asks.

“Yes. Kind of sudden, really...”

Greg nods and seems to think for a few moments. “Whatever you choose to do, I cannot guarantee the full support of everyone in the office. I cannot control people like that. I can guarantee my full support, and Ben’s full support. I don’t feel I’m overstepping to say you will get the full support of this office as an entity. The people, on the other hand... But we’ll deal with that if it arises. And I hope it doesn’t. I don’t particularly like having to get angry with people, it spoils my image of being fun and friendly,” he says. And I’m laughing; he knows full well that’s not his image and it’s certainly not the one he cultivates. “It seems like everything happened in a whirlwind then, just enough things falling into line. Do you want to work from home again?”

“Yes,” I say.

“OK, you’re approved for two days work from home. They cannot be both a Monday and Friday, nor can they be two days next to each other leading up to or after a weekend, unless maybe there’s a public holiday. That’s not the precise meaning but you get what I’m saying, no long party weekends unless they’re approved. Two days mid-week are fine, assuming you have no pressing need to be in the office. You don’t need approval for them but checking with me would be appreciated, especially at the beginning of the process. From 10am to 3pm you need to be available, outside of that time is flexible. A break for a coffee, or lunch break, or to use the lady’s room is fine, of course. Just get back to people as soon as you can. Is all this OK with you?”

“That’s great. I mean, thank you! This really means a lot.”

“This is what happens when you do good work. Now up to HR. Therese will arrange some things with you. And back to me again, after. At least you’ll be getting your steps in.”

And it is more steps, as I’m now trudging to the HR department, where Therese is seemingly ready. She grabs some paper and a pen and brings me to one of the small, private rooms, where we both sit.

“This moved faster than I expected,” Therese says.

“How do you mean?” I ask, crossing my legs beneath the table.

“I know Mr. Mayer, Ben, approved it and said to expect it. The ultimate decision is up to Greg, whatever you said or did he made the decision very quickly. Much faster than usual.”

I cough and again find myself saying some words without thinking. “I told him I’m trans,” I say.

“Good for you!” Therese says. She looks delighted. “However you want to transition, in whatever way you want, we’ll work with you with it. From the healthcare plan or in the job. Whenever you want. If you want.”

“Did you know?” I ask.

She looks thoughtful for a second. “I figured something was going on when Ben took you to our informal LGBTQ+ group, and said to put you on the mailing list. I guessed at it when I read your report, with some of the stuff you spotted on trans plans. The need for electrolysis was a good spot, I hadn’t thought about laser not always being effective. The report is excellent, by the way. Really helpful. Is there anything you need straight away about your gender identity?”

“A drink,” I say, and Therese laughs.

“It’s a good thing I have a sense of humour. Some HR people would be fretting over a comment like that. This is a good office, though, and we have a decent system for work from home. Do you live with other people? Do you have a spare room you can use? Or just some extra space?”

“Hmm.... Give me a second...” I say, taking out my phone and opening my gallery app. “I live alone, but there’s no spare room, it’s just a living room with a small dining table, a couch.” I keep flicking quickly through photos until I find what I want. “This is the space I have.” I show her the photos I took of the apartment when I first moved in, as proof of the condition of the space.

She takes my phone and indicates to ask if she can flick between the photos. I nod. Eventually she says. “This will work, if we can use the entire wall. I assume that’s a normal sized door there.”

“It is, and you can use as much space as you want if I get to work from home.”

Therese nods. “OK. We’ll set you up with a home office setup; chair, desk, laptop dock, a permanent monitor, some other bits and pieces. Little table with a printer, maybe? Wifi we can manage, you’ll use a VPN on your laptop the IT department is updating but you’re free to use our system for personal reasons if your home wifi goes down, just try not to use your work laptop unless you’re stuck. Other offices check it to make sure people are working, this office it’s usually the opposite; to make sure people aren’t working too much. IT will also sort you out with a work phone, but if you leave we get it back and the number is ours. People won’t use your personal number unless it’s an important matter, such as we’re worried you fell ill or something. Or Greg wants to annoy you, we can’t control him. All this OK?”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” I say, a little shocked at how sudden this is. I hadn’t realised so much had ridden on my report. I thought it was about keeping my job and it seems almost as if I’m getting a promotion. “I hadn’t expected this week to be as crazy as my last week.”

“Sorry, Tony,” Therese says. “And if you can think of something you feel you need for working at home say it to me today, there is a budget for specific needs an employee has that not everyone might. If you think of it straight away we can sort it out straight away.”

“A floor length mirror?” I say, taking a chance. Everything else seems to be working out.

Therese sucks air through her teeth and looks skyward, or at least ceiling-ward. Almost straining. “Those windows in your apartment are small, and quite high. I know natural light is very important to health, physical and mental. I can see how with a tall, free-standing mirror you could move you would boost the natural light around your workspace. Do you concur?”

“I do,” I say, with a smile.

“Do you feel better having people know?” she asks.

I know exactly what she’s referring to. “I do, yes. And working from home let me be me. And the whole thing is giving me some purpose, something to latch onto. I’m happier. I thought the report I was working on was about keeping my job, not about giving me opportunities.”

Therese puts her fingers to her lips, and furrows her brow for a few seconds. I can tell she’s battling something in her mind. “There were concerns you weren’t motivated, that you weren’t even challenged, really. People were waiting for you to get angry and stand up for yourself. Greg, with Ben’s help, went a different direction. The challenge, yes, and an opportunity, but he’d begun to feel concerned that you didn’t have the freedom to express yourself. To gain that confidence. He got it right. He usually does, eventually.”

I gasp at what I’m hearing. I can’t help it. If Greg had tried what he tried even two weeks ago things could be very different. Then I really think about it, this couldn’t have happened two weeks ago. Greg tried what he did because he saw Big-G buying me a purse. I pick up my phone while saying, “I can’t believe how lucky I am. How things are coming together for me. It feels like I was lost for so long and now things are really working.”

“That’s a common story for LGBTQ people. Come back to the group when it’s held again. I can arrange one for next week if you want. I’ll come up with a reason. People will come for the pastries and gossip, no matter what.”

“Let me think about it...” I show Therese a picture of the purse Big-G bought for me, with the stitching of the frog by a brook in an enchanted forest. “Greg saw a friend buy me this. A coming out present,” I say.

“That suits you,” Therese says. “But if Greg is stalking you I can get him fired. It’d be hilarious.”

I laugh. “Not stalking me, but I do need to see him, again.”

So I’m knocking on Greg’s door, letting myself in when he barks. “Fancy over-engineered German high-tech whizbang wizard chair?” he says.

“That costs far too much,” I say. “I might sell it on the office furniture black market to make up for my poverty wages.”

“Now you’re learning the business! But not today, you’re going to lunch. Take Mallory. Nice move on thanking her explicitly in the report. And early. She’s already written me a bitchy email saying other people should be so respectful.”

I laugh. “Well, they should. No-one ever thanked me when I did edits. Anyway, what’s this with lunch?”

Greg gives a passable impression of a Gallic shrug. “Partly reward, also if you keep doing good work you’ll eventually graduate to wining and dining clients. They sometimes like to see the peons we have working on their accounts. Order what you want, even the extremely expensive steaks. You don’t strike me as a steak woman—don’t worry, that’s out of understanding for you, it does not go further than me and you, and the people I get drunk with, which believe me is no-one in this office—just please no alcohol on the bill. Once the booze starts in that restaurant they’re very good at keeping you topped up. It’s a close walk to there and our car service will take both you and Mallory home. I’ll email you their number, and the name of the restaurant. Give yours and Mallory’s name. They know how this works. You get to tell Mallory.”

I have absolutely no idea what’s happening with all this, other than it is a test, as everything seems to be. “Thank you, I guess. That does bring something up. We have a kitchen, a staff kitchen, don’t we?”

“We do,” Greg says.

“Can I use it to cook?” I ask.

“Cook what?” Gregg asks, looking suspicious.

I try to give him a confident stare that tells him I have no plans to cook human brains or anything like that. “Just fry some veggies, to add to noodles. I have some pre-cooked chicken thighs in my bag I should really put in the fridge there.”

“Yeah, that’s no problem. It actually sounds intelligent given what we pay you. Just no microwaving fish, please.”

“What do I work on until lunch?” I ask.

“Minesweeper, solitaire, your choice,” Greg says, waving his hands.

“My laptop doesn’t have them. I’ve checked,” I say. “They were removed by IT. And I can’t get them through the store on the laptop.”

Greg laughs. “Your laptop has the full work from home upgrades now. There are other upgrades available if you achieve them. For instance I can play chess and backgammon, and the like, online. Browser games, old flash games, that kind of thing.”

“What if I make it to the C-suite?” I ask.

“You’ve heard of corporate raiders?” Greg asks.

“Yes?”

“C-suite are World of Warcraft raiders. Still playing it decades later. That’s all they do. They have one of the highest ranked raiding guilds on their server, someone’s child or grandchild, or niece, or something introduced them,” he says, nodding assuredly. “At least it’s not flight sims...”

“I’m not too sure you’re entirely lying,” I say.

“Wait until you see the corporate room on the top floor,” he says, laughing. “Are you happy to be seen with your nails? It’s really no issue, not with me, but if you’re worried I have some nail polish remover in my cupboard of wonders.”

“Cupboard of wonders?” I ask.

“You know how in elementary school there was a teacher who had a cupboard filled with items for literally any problem or emergency?”

“You see us as elementary school kids?” I say, still not insulted by Greg’s madness.

“There’s some of you I doubt are fully potty trained. Now, if you’re happy with your nails visit the kitchen, explain things to Mallory, then get down to some gaming before lunch. Gaming is extremely important!”

Which is exactly what I do. Explaining the lunch thing to Mallory she looks surprised before saying, “It’s about time we got some recognition!”

And soon I’m sitting at my laptop playing solitaire. I do check in on my emails as they come in, or as soon as I think to look. There’s nothing major, apart from a scan of the cheque I received from Mr. Mayer’s secretary. She says it should be good enough to use if my online banking has the facility to accept it that way, which it does.

After another few rounds of solitaire, and some moments I feel I could scream at stupid Minesweeper, I check my email again. There’s an email from Greg to my entire department, the elementary school, as he seems to think of it, which I guess is what it is. We’re all new-ish hires who’ve yet to be moved somewhere permanent. It’s my report, with Greg telling everyone to read it when they get a chance, as it’s the standard of work he expects from people. And a threat that if such a standard is not met, soon, “there will be consequences!!!” Actually with three exclamation marks, which makes me laugh. He’s so full of bluster!

After thirty minutes I notice there’s more people passing my desk. I eventually ask one of the women who seems to be loitering what’s going on.

“People wanted to get a look at Wonderboy. Great job at mentioning Mallory, by the way! That’s something the higher ups never do. Glad to see you’re one of us,” she says, as she smiles. “And what’s the story with your nails? They’re really pretty. Some of the women are being thundercunts about it. Fuck them!”

“Yep, they are pretty. I like them. When Greg asked me what I had planned after I emailed him that report, yesterday, saying I could take the afternoon off, it annoyed me. So I said I was painting my nails. Now...” I hold my fingers up and waggle them.

“Keep getting them done. Maybe it’ll get Greg even more pissy. He’s such an asshole.”

I laugh and go back to playing Minesweeper, determined to finally beat the fucker. I soon start hearing laughter and mention of nails and it pissing off Greg. Before long it’s time for my lunch, and I’m walking into a comfortable, classy restaurant like you’d see in a New York mob film, maybe a little more glass frontage, and a little more spacious. They have no problem with our booking and see us to a table, sitting Mallory against the wall and me on opposite the chair.

There’s bread on the table, quickly, along with some water in a jug, and some oils and vinegars, and butter.

“Right,” Mallory says. “What’s your name?”

“Tony,” I say. She knows my name. She’s emailed me.

“Bullshit! Your real name! Those nails weren’t done yesterday, and certainly not to piss Greg off, and your eyebrows are shaped. You’re trans. What’s your name? Spill it.”

“Toni,” I say, somehow shocked at the reveal. Then realise she’s ready for another round if I don’t explain the difference in what I’m saying. “Toni with an i.”

“Toni, fine. I bet you’re cute.”

“I am pretty cute,” I say, smiling.

“There’s gonna be another bitch hotter than me in the office, soon, then,” she says, annoyed.

“I don’t know about—”

Mallory makes a low growling noise. “OK, fine. Not a bitch. You are hotter than me though. I can already see that. I shouldn’t be mean, you’re the only person who’s ever thanked me in a final report. And fuck me, what a report!”

“Really?” I ask. Why has it caused such a buzz?

“The bits on women’s healthcare? Real insight! They’re things that needed to be said,” she says. “And now they’re written, in a document, that people will see!”

I smile thinking of Jess and Sally, then I remember where their conversations went to in the chat. “Yeah, my friends helped me with that, just in a group chat. They were disgusting when they got going!”

Mallory laughed. “You have real friends then,” she says, as some menus are placed in front of us.

“Do you need some drinks now?” the woman asks.

“Fizzy water, a bottle of it? Please?” I say. “Mallory?”

“That’s good by me,” Mallory says.

The woman nods and is walking away as we begin to look at the menu. The steak menu is longer than the rest of it, which has enough but isn’t over-laden with options.

“Are we doing starters?” Mallory asks.

“If you want. Do you know what you’re getting already?”

Mallory has a huge smile on her face. “I’ve heard my Dad talk about this place with reverence. He says they do an aged steak. I don’t know about starters. This restaurant is actually why my Dad told me to apply to the office here, this place is close-by.”

The woman is back with a large bottle of sparkling water, chilling in a bucket. “Are you ready to order?” she asks.

“We’re unsure on starters,” I say.

“I’m happy to make some recommendations if you have a main course picked, however it’s up to you.”

Mallory nods at me and I nod back. “I’m having the aged steak. The one you’re famous for,” she says.

The woman smiles. “Do I need to ask how you want it cooked?”

“You do not. The chef will decide best. The same for sides.”

The woman smiles, even wider, then looks at me. “The seafood pasta,” I say, pointing at it on the menu. “The one with the spinach.”

The woman looks to be in thought for a few seconds. “With the seafood pasta I’d suggest the ox-tongue starter. There’s no other choice for you,” she says, turning to Mallory. “You have to have the oysters. It’s the classic experience.”

“Perfect!” Mallory says.

“It sounds great,” I say. “Thank you so much for the help.”

“Do you need to be back to work soon? Or have plans?” the woman asks.

“No, we can take as long as we need. There’s no rush on anything.”

“So you’re happy for me to time this? The pace of your dining.”

“Of course,” Mallory says.

The woman takes the menus after loosening the metal cap on the bottle of sparkling water. I notice she’s left the drinks menu, which is much thicker than the food menu.

“Greg said they have a way of making you run up the drinks tab here,” I say.

“Maybe next time,” Mallory says, actually looking annoyed. I don’t particularly need a drink, though, despite what I said to Therese earlier on. This feels normal. Like when I’m the real me. It’s easy.

We munch on a bit more bread for a few minutes, telling each other which oil to try. Then Mallory looks at me, all serious-like. “Do you have a picture of you?” she asks, and the seriousness falls from her face.

I should have expected this from the start, but I do reach for my purse before remembering I don’t have a purse today. I reach into my pocket instead, and take out my phone, finding the picture of me and Tim. “I’ll show you this, but then we talk about you. I’m sick of talking about me. Everywhere I go things are about me,” I say, handing my phone to Mallory.

“He is so hot!” Mallory virtually moans.

“What about me?” I ask, annoyed.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right, you’re cute. Cute enough. But him? Damn! Who he is?”

“My boyfriend,” I say, feeling giddy.

“Oh, fuck you! You are a bitch. I retract everything nice I said to you.”

“Fine! Now we talk about you,” I say, holding my hand out for my phone. Instead of handing it to me she’s flicking through more of the gallery. I grab it out of her hand and quickly shut it off.

I wasn’t fast enough. Her eyes are wide. “You naughty girl!” she says. “I saw that! So what’s he like?”

“Fun!” I say, sternly. “Now you, what do you do for fun?”

“Well my next bit of fun will involve thinking about your boyfriend! But when I’m not doing that I mostly listen to baseball.”

‘Listen to baseball?’ I think. “How do you mean?”

“Baseball is better on the radio than on TV. Best in the stadium, of course, but radio is pure. I listen to recordings, new games, old games, classic games. Everything. And I do stats stuff. My Dad got me into it.”

“I like football,” I say.

“They’re meatheads.”

“Soccer-football, I mean.”

“Divers,” she says. “And cheaters.”

“From what I know of baseball you shouldn’t really be calling any other sport cheaters,” I say, laughing.

“A more honest form of cheating in baseball,” Mallory says, then we’re both laughing, as the starters are laid down.

We start into it, and the food is simply amazing. I have one of Mallory’s oysters, and she has a slice of my ox tongue. Apart from that we don’t really say a word about anything, we’re just focused on eating, and making impressed-faces at each other.

After we finish we’re just looking at each other, as the woman is picking up our plates. “How was that?” she asks.

“Amazing!” Mallory says. “Everything I’ve heard about this place is correct.”

The woman nods and smiles.

I take a drink of my water. “I—”

“I wonder if oysters really do make you horny?” Mallory says.

“Why?” I ask, concerned.

“It’s been a while since I’ve been with anyone. I really need to get out more. I don’t really like going out at night, though. Which makes things difficult. Only on special occasions.”

I think for a second. “I usually watch a soccer game with a friend, sometimes friends. It’s early Saturday morning, like 7.30am early—”

“Ew...”

“But there’s another game around 10am, and another at 12.30. If you want you’re more than welcome to come.”

Mallory makes a Hrrrmm noise. “Convince me...” she says.

“There’ll be a lot of men there,” I say, but she looks doubtful. “The food is really good.”

“OK, give me your number, remind me later in the week.”

So we exchange numbers, like friends. My first real work friend. And she actually knows about Toni. Then we talk about sports, mainly. What drew us into them. Some of the work she seems to have done on baseball, with the stats, sounds incredibly intricate, but she says she’s really rehashing old ground, mostly.

Then we’re talking about family. She rents an apartment with her sister, who sounds really annoying. I actually bring up my parents, and how I don’t know how to tell them about me. Mallory says it didn’t even occur to her that she’d see me dressed as a woman on the Saturday, that she already sees a woman in front of her.

I’m surprised when the woman who served us earlier is standing next to us, with another server behind her holding more dishes. She places Mallory’s food down, saying, “The steak, with sides of green beans and mashed potatoes.” Then she places my seafood pasta down and asks if I’d like some freshly ground black pepper, or lemon, but I say I’ll manage it myself.

Somehow the food is even better than the starters. Mallory’s steak tastes like nothing I’ve ever eaten in my life. The spinach doesn’t even taste like actual spinach, it’s like a seasoning to the fish and the creaminess of the pasta.

We’re again just looking at each other when we finish. I take a piece of the bread, which has been refilled at some point, and mop up as much of the pasta sauce as I can with it, offering to Mallory before doing one for me.

“Ladies,” a man, in a suit, and holding a drink says, as he sits down on the wall side of the table next to us, next to Mallory. Another man sits down on the seat opposite, on the side next to me. They don’t seem to be being seated by anyone.

“Ladies?” Mallory asks, sounding incredulous.

“I’m sorry for my co-worker,” the guy says, next to me. “I know it’s ‘women’ these days, it just doesn’t roll off the tongue as well. Neither of us are fans.”

Mallory laughs. “You look at us and think ‘ladies?’”

“Fine, yeah, a woman and a dyke,” the first guy, the more drunk guy says. “Secretaries getting a treat? No alcohol allowed, of course.”

Mallory nods. “I’ve been told to have a conversation with Toni, here. Get her wearing something more appropriate to her gender.”

I snort. “I don’t see you wearing a skirt, Mallory,” I say. “Anyway, you know what the men are like. They get handsy if you dress as hot as we can be, you’ve seen me in a dress.”

“You wear a skirt and I’ll wear a skirt. Maybe one of the bosses will take a shine. Leave their wives for a younger model. We’d never have to work a day again if we get them bothered enough they forget the pre-nup.”

The female server is back again. “I don’t think I need to ask how the meal went,” she says, taking some of the plates. Another server is placing two champagne glasses down in front of us. “On the house. I know your account says it won’t cover alcohol but we wanted to apologise for the troubles we really should have seen. It won’t be on your bill,” the woman continues, as the other server steps back.

“Standards have really slipped here,” less drunk guy says.

“Sometimes things slip through without our noticing, but we try to do our best in such circumstances. We do apologise,” the woman says.

“Champagne, I hope?” drunk guy says.

“Sparkling house white. Our own label,” the woman says. “I thought our guests would prefer it.”

Less drunk guy beckons the woman speaking to us, while holding a drinks a menu. She hands off the plates she’s carrying to another server who’s appeared and she is soon behind less drunk guy, very professionally holding her hands clasped behind her back, leaning in to look at something he’s pointing out. “A great choice, Sir,” She says. “How many glasses?”

“Two. And a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue for us, two fresh glasses.”

The woman nods and stands upright. Then looks towards me and Mallory. “If you’d like to freshen up while the table is cleared let me show you the way,” she says.

We both know this is more of an instruction than an inquiry, so we stand, watching yet another server fuss with our table.

She begins to walk with me and Mallory to her side. “I’m Irene. If those two bother you just give me the nod. Or anyone. We’ll recognise it. We’ll have someone watching your table at all times, so don’t worry. Mainly it’ll be me.”

“Why—”

“You two seem capable. And I like you, Toni, and you, Mallory. You really enjoyed that steak. The bread on the pasta sauce, Toni? The kitchen will be delighted. The lady’s is there. Take your time. Like I said, someone is constantly watching your table. I don’t think those two are dangers. Just fools.”

“I can—” I begin to say, but I’m cut off.

“Use the women’s bathroom as it’s where you’re more comfortable, with your friend,” Irene says, rubbing my shoulder.

Then we walk into the bathroom, where Mallory just stares at me. “What’s going on?” she asks. “I was just playing with them, but it seems everyone is.”

I give a tired laugh. “Everyone’s playing with us. Everyone! Greg picked this place for a reason. I bet you they’re reporting back to him. It seems everyone is trading on secrets and information. Do you know he told me everything anyone does for him, in his department, is partly a test?”

Mallory shakes her head as she says, “What do we do?”

I shrug. “Take part? Play the game? Try to pass the test? I’m not too sure you can really fail. I think they just gather more information, until your case is terminal.”

Mallory pinches at her lips. “We continue to fuck with those guys?”

“Yeah, I suppose,” I say. At which point Mallory salutes me. Then we use the bathroom for actual bathroom reasons, and we’re walking back to our table.

A man is placing down another ice-bucket, this time with its own stand, in between the table the drunk guys are sitting at and our table. Irene is also placing down their whisky, and two glasses for them, with another bucket of ice except no champagne bottle in it, just some tongs.

As we sit I see two cards in front of me, business cards. There’s the same in front of Mallory.

“Given our roles we don’t have business cards,” I say to the fools.

“Dress a bit sexier and we can get you jobs, the pay will be much better than wherever you are,” less drunk guy says.

“We can do the interviews now, if you want,” drunk guy says, then he starts making slurping noises.

Mallory makes a disgusted-looking face at me and says, “I think we’d need something a little stronger to even imagine doing that.”

Drunk guy picks up their bottle of Johnnie Walker and pours some, a very small amount, into our empty water glasses. “Do you drink whisky?”

“I’ve had a little,” I say. “Nothing like this.”

Somehow Irene is standing next to the drunk fools. “You wanted something?” she says.

“Is Simon working?” less drunk guy asks.

“He is,” Irene says. “Do you have a request?”

“Could he imagine up an introduction to whiskies for our soon to be secretaries?”

Irene nods. “Any instructions for him?”

“He knows best, he’s the expert. He showed me an entire world I hadn’t seen before. He’s never wrong. Just keep them coming for the ladies as long as we’re here. We can’t have them responsible for the bill.”

Drunk guy makes slurping sounds again.

“How do you take your whiskies, ladies?” Irene asks. “Coke, ginger, ice, no ice, drop of water? Any way you want Simon will work with.”

“Coke Zero is tempting, but just straight is fine for me,” I say.

“What Toni says,” Mallory says, as I’m taking a drink of the restaurant’s sparkling white wine, not realising it’s gone.

Yet another fucking server is standing to my side, taking the champagne out of the ice-bucket and pouring me a glass. “How was the white?” he asks.

“Amazing!” I say. “Like everything here.”

He laughs as he pours Mallory a glass.

Drunk guy has somehow finished his whisky, already, and is pouring himself another measure, and topping up his friend’s glass. Less drunk guy is dropping ice-cubes haphazardly into the whiskies. A lot of ice. “Your minds will be blown by that champagne, then,” drunker guy says.

I take a drink of the champagne. My mind isn’t blown. I put the glass down. It’s nice, really nice. That’s all it is though. The house wine had something special.

Irene is quickly back with some fresh water glasses for us, and two tumblers with a small amount of whiskey. “Simon would like your opinions on the whiskey, so he can tailor what’s to come.”

Me and Mallory both take a taste of our whiskeys. It’s nice but not the best I’ve had. Not like the one Trevor gave me, not even like the one Jackson gave me. But there’s still something to it. “I’m not very good at describing tastes,” I say. “It’s interesting. It’s not complex, there’s a kind of evenness to it. I’ve had some really complicated whiskies I couldn’t even begin to understand but this is just normal. It stays normal for ages though. Like I can taste it being normal, still.”

“That’s a good description,” Mallory says. “There’s no real tastes to it beyond whiskey. Irish whiskey, I’d say. Not cheap but not fancy. Better than everyday stuff.”

Somehow drunk guy is pouring yet more of the Johnnie Walker Blue for himself. “If Simon didn’t start them on a Scotch he really is slipping, just like this place.”

“How about your champagne?” Irene asks.

“I preferred the house stuff,” Mallory says. I give my agreement.

“Simon should have enough from that. Whiskies will be produced while your gentlemen friends are here to cover the bill.”

Which is how the afternoon goes. The fools getting drunker and drunker, and ordering beers as well, while small glasses of whiskey are found for us, once we give our reports for Simon. I’m really eager to meet him. There’s also various small plates of food, and nibbly bits, that both me and Mallory really try getting the fools to eat some of, but they refuse.

At one point Irene stands next to us for another whiskey tasting, not waiting for the report. There’s two small jugs of water as well, with the instruction from Simon to take a few sips of the whiskey, then try it with a tiny drop of water, then a little more. Irene says it’s fascinating that I preferred it without the water, but I don’t feel like it’s a judgment on me.

After it’s been dark outside for hours, while the two bros are fully slurring their words, and nearly falling off their seats, they order another bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue. Irene tries to protest but they’re having none of it.

They’re so drunk they actually give us a proper glass, for the first time. I feel like I’m about to slur my words too.

Me and Mallory are taking our first real drinks of the Johnnie Walker when Irene places a bill in front of the fools. “Your account has been settled, gentlemen. I’d suggest you hold onto the bill, and don’t forget your card. Your car is waiting for you.”

“What car?” the originally less drunk fool, but now totally drunk fool asks.

“When you arrived you insisted we reserve a car for you for precisely 8pm, should you still be here, and said you had to be gone unless something came up. I don’t know what that something is, but I don’t believe it’s happened.”

“We said that?”

Irene nods. “And I have to insist, I’m following your own instructions you made while in a much more early-morning frame of mind; while not enraptured by good company. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for you missing out on a reservation elsewhere.”

“We just got the bottle. Is there somewhere we could store it?”

Irene shakes her head. “That’s what I was trying to warn you about, but you made yourself clear. And we don’t have an alcohol license to let you take an opened bottle off the premises. I’m sure the ladies will try to finish as much as they can, they can stay here all night drinking it.”

I’m about to speak up to protest when I feel Irene’s hand on my shoulder. “Yeah, sure, fine. Another fun day, as usual. We’ll be back,” drunk fool one says, looking tired.

“I’m sure you will,” Irene says, as two male servers are helping the fools collect their belongings, including slipping the bill and credit card into the guy who started out more sober’s pocket.

Then they’re gone, and me and Mallory laugh. “Wow!” Mallory says.

“Are you two OK to walk?” Irene asks.

“I hope so,” Mallory says. “We drank a lot.”

“Small glasses, and you paced yourselves. And you tried to get those two idiots to eat while you were eating. Leave your stuff and follow me. Someone will bring it along in minute.”

Mallory grabs her purse and stands, holding herself still for a moment, as I also stand and do the same. “Yeah, fine, I think,” I say, just about fine. “What’s going on?”

“You really don’t know?” Irene says. Me and Mallory look at each other. “It’s what those drunks have been aiming for for years. This both of your first times in here?”

“For me, yes,” I say.

“Yeah, same,” Mallory says.

We’re led down a corridor and through some double doors, then down another corridor. We go through a sturdy door, where Irene stops. The room we’re in is like an old gentleman’s club, not the strip club kind. There’s no cigar smoke, though. There’s leather everywhere, and wood. There’s a bar at the top of the end of the long room. At almost every table, with people around it, or often just one person, there’s bottles of spirits, and sometimes buckets with ice. Some people are drinking beers, some glasses of wine, but again it’s mostly spirits. There’s plates of food too, mostly snacks, and charcuterie plates, meats, cheeses, various pickles. Breads as well. One person has pie and ice-cream.

The whole room looks more formal than the restaurant but actually feels more relaxed. People aren’t as dressed up. There’s people of all ages, at least ages older than us. A few heads have turned as I’m looking, there’s smiles on their faces, but apart from that there’s no reaction.

“You like it?” Irene says.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Yes!” Mallory says.

Irene nods and someone behind a bar rings a bell, just the one ring. All the heads now turn and applause breaks out, polite applause, and smiles.

“Welcome,” Irene says.

“What?” both me and Mallory say.

“What would you like to drink? Anything? Just describe what you want.”

“Some of the wine we had first?” Mallory says.

“Toni?” Irene asks.

“A light beer. Not low calorie, light in alcohol. And if you don’t have that a shandy? Half beer—”

“We have what you want,” Irene says. “Sit over there.” She points at a table with some leather seats around it, up against a wall with a reserved sign on it.

Me and Mallory sit and just look at each other. We’re offering people ‘Thank yous’ as they carry our stuff in from the restaurant, them saying ‘Congratulations’. And ‘It was something!’

Eventually Irene is back down with a tray; two glasses of beer and a glass of the sparkling white wine.

She places one beer in front of me, the wine in front of Mallory and another beer in front of a third chair. She takes her waiter’s apron off and sits herself down, picking up the glass of beer and taking a sip, or more a gulp.

“Oh! That’s so nice!” she says “Long day, but worthwhile.” Then she looks at me and Mallory, and begins to speak. “We’re a club. We’re inviting you to be members. We’re not really like other clubs. You don’t need money to join. You can’t buy your way in. We don’t care who you are. Although we do have some impossibly wealthy and successful members that is not why they’re members. Did you two have fun today?”

Mallory and me both laugh, staring at each other. “Actually, yeah,” Mallory says, smiling.

“We know,” Irene says. “We enjoyed watching you having fun. That’s how you get to be a member. You don’t have any pretensions or ideas about what it took, not that we can see. In your cases you didn’t even know this spot existed, which can be helpful, but also a hindrance. It’s slightly more difficult, for some people, if they don’t know about us. We’ll challenge you more to see how much you enjoyed yourself. The staff were pretty quick on you. That you came from Greg means we were already aware it could be in your future, and he decided to send you here. He’s a member.”

I sigh. “A test. Are you going to report back to him?” I ask.

Irene laughs and takes another long drink of her beer. “You’re on a corporate account, a corporate account setup by members. That’s how we make a lot of our money, typically reporting on staff, new hires, potential hires, junior staff, especially, etc. We won’t report on clients or possible business partners unless we feel something is seriously wrong. I would have reported on you had you not been offered membership tonight. I’ll be doing a report on the two idiots you had fun with tomorrow morning. They’re frequent fliers. If you choose to take up membership I will never report on you. No-one will. It’s simply not done. You’re in. Greg can see the bill, if he asks for it, it’s a business account paying for it, but he has to put a request in to see anything but the final figure. If we can find the bill. You can, of course, just show him your copy.”

“How is our bill?” I ask, worried.

“A little bit higher than normal for Greg’s first timers. Not many go for that steak their first trip here. It’s balanced out by your pasta, though. The starters were within reason, just about, and you didn’t get desserts. You ate a lot of bread, however.”

“The bread was amazing,” Mallory says.

“It’s not in house. I’ll get you the name of the bakery.”

“What about the drunk fools’ bill,” I ask, wondering how deep in it they’re going to be with their bosses.

Irene smiles and wipes at her eye. “Their bosses won’t care. Greg will explain if you show them the business cards they gave you. I can’t report on them to you. It’s not as high as you think. The whiskies you drank were all from members in here, from their personal collections.”

“So who’s this Simon guy?” Mallory asks. “The one picking the drinks?”

“The staff... The members... Mostly the staff. People like to think there’s some genius behind what we do here but it’s mostly just experience in the industry. If we said that people would get annoyed and disagree with what we say. When we tell them it’s Simon choosing things they respect his knowledge.

That’s actually one of the rules of here. You can get any of our own label drinks from the bar in here, wine, beer... Anything else you have to buy a bottle of. You can store opened bottles if they’re the style of drink that can be stored. You can obviously store unopened bottles of wines. However, the point, if someone is being tested for membership, like you with the whiskeys, any staff member can take from a bottle you have opened in your locker that’s more than half full. For you two it’ll be two-thirds full as that’s your stopping point. You’ll be joint members.”

“Joint members?” Mallory asks.

“We know you as a couple. It’s usually husband and wife, or spouses. Sometimes boyfriend and girlfriend, or the variations on that. Very occasionally a parent and adult child, or adult grandchild. We have a few friends. Usually they’re retired friends. Sometimes younger. It just means one of you could clear out the locker without the other realising. It can be a bit of a test. It happens with breakups.”

I’m beginning to feel tired. I’m not thinking when I say, “This is such bullshit. How do you keep all this going?”

Irene begins to cackle. “What did you think of our food? In comparison to other places? And I saw you looking through the drinks menu. What did you think of that?”

I think for a few seconds, deciding to be blunt. “It’s actually not that fancy,” I say. “Not based on how those guys were acting. A lot of things are affordable. I could come here for a treat with my boyfriend. The bill would be expensive but I wouldn't squirm, even with a bottle of wine.”

“Yeah!” Irene says. “And you’re welcome to bring one non-member in here at a time, if we don’t object after we see them eating a meal. Just tell us you want to take them in before you order, so we can watch, and judge if they’re worthy. But that’s what we do, we’re exclusive in the sense we don’t let anyone join. We’re not exclusive because of price or anything like that. Certainly not compared to other places. This city has the highest amount of member’s clubs in the country. We have a lot of members from the hospitality industry. The challenge is in finding drinks, foods, and the like other people don't know how to find as usually people just go on cost. We like affordable quality. Of course we offer the high-end too, but it’s not what we’re about. Any more questions?”

Mallory’s drained most of her glass of white wine. “Why us?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “Why? Why us? Why so quickly?”

“You trusted me from the start, trusted my opinion on the starters. You loved the food. It is really good food, not cutting edge, good! The chefs were interested when they heard of you sharing bites from your plates. They were lobbying when they heard about you wiping up the sauce with the bread and sharing it. You were patient, you took your time, you had fun, you enjoyed the whiskies and were happy to talk about them. You weren’t cruel to people, even people treating you badly. You bit your lips, and accepted what you thought was drunken hospitality, with some schadenfreude. You could work in the hospitality industry if you wanted, you’d be great at it. You were marked for membership, at some point, because of all that. Why tonight, so suddenly, is because you tried to get the drunkards to eat when you were snacking away. That was a really normal thing to do that not many people would do. Not after how they treated you.

I do have one question for you, though, Mallory, how did you know about the steak? Who told you?”

“My Dad has been raving about this place my entire life. He stopped coming when my Mom got sick... He said he couldn’t be in here without her. He made me take the job I did because it was near here.”

“OK... I think that’s everything explained. Do you want to be members? You have until we close to decide.”

I squeeze my eyes closed, then open them again. “What’s the downside?” I ask.

Irene stops for a while, really thinking deeply. “I suppose you know the one downside. You’ll know you’re always being judged, to some degree, when you’re in here. Especially the people you’re with. You two will be fine with us as long as you don’t do anything horrific, same as anyone. You’ll be members. And if you don’t join, in the future, when you’re here for the corporate stuff, we’ll be reporting back on you. I just need your surnames if you want to join. There’s no fees or costs, or expectations. It’s not literally a member’s club, or even legally, it is a business, just one that was established with a certain purpose in mind. It’s stuck to it. If you join and never come to even the restaurant again you can show up in fifty years if we’re still open and it’ll be OK. We’ve been open more than fifty years, already.”

Me and Mallory exchange a look, shrug, then tell Irene our surnames. She goes to the bar to sort our ‘membership.’ We sit in silence for a while, then Mallory asks the question I’ve been thinking about too. “Do you think my Dad, and maybe my Mom, were members here? When she... Why he talked about here?”

“Maybe...” I say. “I’m sorry.” I want to explain how I didn’t know any of this, or didn’t intend any of this, but Mallory knows this. It’s just something weird that happened.

Any words, at all, don’t seem appropriate in the moment, with a few minutes passing while we both think about what this means. Something incredibly funny happened, and fun, and now it’s horrific for someone who’s my new friend. At least in her memories.

Eventually Irene is back. “You’re members, but it looks like you’ve figured out what I was checking. Yes, your parents were members, Mallory. I’m sorry. Your Dad still is, of course, he's just not been here since your mother passed,” she says.

“I did say my Dad wanted me to take the job because it was close to here, he must have been hoping I found my way, into the restaurant at least.”

Irene smiles. “We don’t encourage phones in here but people would understand this call. I don’t think you want to make it in public. There’s a private phone through the doorway by the bar, on the way to the smoking lounge. The number has been the same since he was last in here. If he’s kept his phone up to date, and I think he will have, he’ll be happy to get the call. He left a bottle for you, should you ever join. I have someone rooting it out at the moment. We’ll have it for you by the time the call ends. Even if you just want to tell him you love him.”

Mallory stands and slowly makes her way to where Irene described. Me and Irene sit for a few minutes, and more drinks are dropped to us.

Irene explains that for the first night all the house label stuff is free, but that table service only happens in extreme circumstances, and she can’t ever remember a circumstance like this.

We continue to sit, quietly drinking, waiting for Mallory when some bottles are dropped down to us. “For your locker,” Irene says. One has a light layer of dust. It’s obviously the bottle Mallory’s Dad left for her. “The two bottles of wine are just gifts, nothing special. The whiskey is that one you preferred undiluted. It’s a small brand. Irish. Cask strength, which would typically mixed with water. It’s from a staff member’s collection. He hasn’t found anyone who likes it as much as you. Convinced everyone his should be the selection from staff. The sparkling wine is from me, as I served you.”

I talk, deliberately, and feeling quite sober again. “Is it expensive?”

“Not really. And staff here pay cost price, anyway. A perk. We’ll all split the cost with him, a few bucks each. He has quite a few bottles of it. The other amusing thing which I forgot is you actually have access to your corporate locker. It’s quite large. And completely untracked. You and Mallory are members, and we know you’re part of the business from Greg’s instructions. You have the run of it. And you could, theoretically, not tell anyone about your membership until they come in and think to check your names on the list. You can do that, as a member. Here’s your card.”

She hands me a membership card. On it is the name of the restaurant, an ID number, and the words Toni Mallory — Joint Members. “She’s Mallory Toni. Your real names are in the database if anyone needs to check. Don’t worry about your actual ID or whatever you go through in the future. Staff will keep everything update. An i or y here or there won’t make any difference. And if all that fails I’m sure you can just say you’ve met Simon.”

I smile and take another drink. “A multi-faceted man, Simon. Lots of dimensions,” I say, but jokes like that don’t really feel important with what Mallory is going through.

Finally Mallory comes back, and it’s obvious she’s been crying, but she’s also smiling. “How was it?” I ask.

“Amazing. We both cried. It’s the best I’ve felt in ages. Is that the bottle?” Mallory asks Irene. Irene nods. “Could you pour us each a measure?”

“Of course,” Irene says, picking up the bottle.

“No, please. No, Mallory. That’s yours, that’s from your Dad.”

Mallory sniffs again. “He recognised the number. And my voice, immediately. He began to cry and I did too. He explained him and Mom were members, and it was a special treat to come here, when they went out for a night. When she... Well... He said he couldn’t come back here unless it was with someone he loved. But he didn’t want to force it on either of us, me or my sister. I explained what happened today, as best I could, and your report, and you thanking me in it. We cried, again. He knows I’m a joint member. Him and Mom were joint members, didn’t even know the club existed when they got brought in. He says what happened is special. He couldn’t dream of it happening in a better way, and he has dreamt about it, a few times. He wants us to drink it. As much or as little as we want, but just one drink, at least. You know... In memory? And celebration?”

I find myself rubbing at my eyes too, as Mallory sits down, and Irene places the glasses in front of us. “Toasts aren’t allowed in here. Just sharing drinks,” she says.

So we all drink. In memory.