Daphne Fanshaw signed the letter with a flourish and sealed the envelope. Thirty years. For what? A clock, cream cake, and a helium balloon? Bright young things breezing in and out. Hot-desking. Zooming from home. Cheaper. Anger seethed through her body, like a slow tumour; overlooked and underestimated. Nobody remembered when this dinosaur was a tiger.
A last glance around the bare flat. Shiny suitcases stacked in the hallway. New tenants arriving tomorrow. A text pinged, taxi for Newman, her alter ego. She posted the letter en route to the airport. She would be long gone when the auditors moved in.