“Mr Hodgson.”
“AJ is fine,” I say.
Something moves in her expression. Not quite amusement. Not quite dismissal.
“AJ,” she says, as if testing whether the two letters deserve professional status. “In that case, call me Pippa.”
It should not feel like progress.
It does.
“This is the point,” Josh says, “where I pretend I’m needed somewhere else.”
He takes his coffee and leaves us with Sean, who has suddenly become fascinated by his phone in the way people do when they are definitely listening.
Pippa's eyes are focused on me.
“I wanted to say, before we get into anything today, that I’m sorry.”
That gets her full attention.
Sean’s phone lowers by about half an inch.
Pippa folds her arms, but not defensively. More like she is settling in to hear whether I am about to make things worse.
“For the article?”
“Yes,” I say. “For not thinking on how people could misinterpret the piece.” I stop myself before I say it was not intentional, because Marie Louise has already dragged me through that hedge backwards and she was right to do it. “I should have seen it. I didn’t. That’s on me.”
Her expression stays measured.
She studies me for a moment.
Then she says, “That sounded practised.”
“It was,” I admit.
“What for?”
“So I wouldn’t make an apology worse by improvising.”
Sean makes a small sound that might be a laugh if anyone asks officially.
Pippa’s mouth almost moves.
Almost.
“Wise,” she says.
“I do occasionally visit the area.”
“Briefly?”
“Usually by accident.”
This time, she does let the corner of her mouth shift.
Tiny.
