William watched him. "What would that salesman think of what happened to my grandmother today?"
Martin swallowed. "He'd be ashamed of me."
"Then let's give him a reason not to be ashamed the next time."
They worked until evening, not on public statements or slogans but on a list of questions neither of them had bothered to ask before: how staff were trained to greet walk-ins, whether the showroom tracked visitors who left without purchasing, who reviewed discrimination complaints, whether security employees could challenge an improper removal order, and why so many junior staff appeared frightened of the sales manager. They added a confidential reporting channel and requested an independent audit of complaints from the previous twelve months. By the time William left, the glittering display cars downstairs were covered for the night, and the questions remained on the table like unfinished repair work.
At the house in the West End, Christina had already changed into her oldest house dress. She stood before the refrigerator holding William's drawing and wondering whether a person could give back an uncomplicated childhood dream after adulthood had made everything more difficult. Her telephone rang. It was Anna Morales, who had asked for her number through William with permission and wanted only to know whether she had reached home safely.
"I'm home," Christina said. "My grandson's eating real food, and nobody has shouted at me since lunch. I think that's progress."
Anna laughed gently. "I wanted to say something else. You were very brave in there."
Christina looked at the drawing. "No, dear. Brave was somebody who stood up for a stranger without knowing whether it would cost her anything. I hope you know what that meant to me."
"I do now," Anna said. "And I hope you still give William his birthday surprise, whatever it turns out to be."
After the call, Christina taped the drawing back onto the refrigerator. The blue car, crooked wheels and all, looked unchanged beneath its little peach magnet. For the first time since the showroom, she allowed herself to imagine returning to ask about the real one, but she did not know yet whether she could walk through those glass doors without hearing Croft's voice. That, too, would require time and patience, two things she had spent a lifetime learning to give other people and was still learning to give herself.
On Monday morning the gallery opened with an unfamiliar quiet. Croft's office stood dark, his name still printed on the frosted glass, and the sales staff arrived in small groups rather than their usual cheerful cluster near the coffee bar. Nobody had received a dramatic announcement. They had received a plain email stating that the general sales manager was on administrative leave pending an independent review, and that any employee with relevant information could speak privately with Naomi Patel without fear of retaliation.