Then she walks past me towards the station door, and the green dress disappears inside with her.
I stand in the yard for half a second longer than necessary, because apparently my brain has retained the image like evidence.
Then I remember I am here to write a thoughtful, professional feature about the fire service and not to develop opinions about summer dresses before nine in the morning.
By the time I make it inside, Pippa has vanished.
Five minutes later, she appears again in thin navy station uniform trousers and T-shirt, her hair a controlled mess, the summer dress entirely gone as if I imagined it.
Pippa points me towards the kitchen.
“I’ve got meetings with Josh for a while,” she says.
“Meetings?”
“Yes.”
“Plural?”
“Very observant.”
“I am here to learn.”
“Then learn to occupy yourself.”
“What should I do?”
“Hang out.”
I blink. “Hang out?”
“Yes.”
“That feels dangerously unsupervised.”
“You’ve been told where not to go and what not to touch.”
“True.”
“And I’m assuming you can survive in a kitchen for an hour without operational support.”
“That’s a lot of faith.”
“It’s a low bar.”
Before I can answer, Josh calls her name from the corridor.
Pippa looks at me again. “If anything happens, stay where someone tells you to stay. If nothing happens, talk to people if they’re free. Don’t get in the way.”
“Understood.”
“And, AJ?”
“Yes?”
“Drink water.”
“I said I would.”
