It was a strange building, all slabs of dark glass and long, weathered cedar struts. They’d only managed to get planning permission for it because it was sufficiently hidden among trees and behind high fencing not to flaunt its shocking modernity among the tasteful, discreet Georgian/Edwardian mix of the rest of the area. Someone had once commented that it looked like a low-profile outpost of MI5. Another had sniffily decreed that it resembled an airport terminal. When she and Conrad had had it built the architect had been thrilled that at last he had clients who didn’t want to temper his wildest design, didn’t start off by saying, ‘Yes, as ultra-flamboyant as you like,’ but then keep coming back and sneakily lopping off the madder bits, deciding that really what they wanted was something that looked more like a house than a piece of jagged, glassy sculpture. He still claimed it among the proudest achievements in his portfolio, and occasionally students of architecture would get in touch and nervously, apologetically, ask if they could come and have a look.
