Chairman of Fools. Shimmer Chinodya

patterned with the company logo, the same material Veronica had used for the sheets for their bedroom. They stand in a ring, awed by his hair and unconventional style, this man who writes books and is married to one of their superiors. They whisper ominously, avoiding his eyes. He knows one of them, Grace, from the days when he used to pick up Veronica in his VW Golf, some twelve or so years ago when Veronica was still an assistant accountant, without a company car. Outside, on another floor, the voices of singing women rise and fade.

      ‘Has anyone died?’

      ‘No, no, Mr Chari,’ says Grace. ‘Can we give you something to drink?’

      ‘A whisky or a gin. Do you have that?’

      ‘No, Mr Chari.’

      ‘So where is she?’

      Grace takes his arm and walks him down a passage, away from the reception. ‘Her secretary says she was in briefly this morning.’

      ‘Show me to her new office.’

      ‘It’s down this corridor, but she’s not there.’

      He steps out in the indicated direction. The carpets are red and the walls made of gleaming pine wood. All the doors are labelled in large white letters: DGM. AGM. CHIEF ACCOUNTANT. CHIEF AUDITOR. A voice inside him tells him, ‘No, you can’t be doing this, Farai.’ He turns back and walks past the reception, to the elevators.

      ‘Mr Chari, wait.’ Grace disentangles herself from the crowd and approaches him. ‘I think I know where she might be. Last week she was talking of writing her institute examinations and was staying back after hours to study in her office. Don’t tell her I told you this, but I think she’s writing one of her final papers today.’

      ‘But why wouldn’t she want me to know that? Come on, Grace. You are a woman and you are married. Wouldn’t you tell your husband if you were writing exams?’

      ‘I would.’