The Quorum Read Online Free PDF

age, she could probably justify an abortion on health grounds. So it was official: thirty-five was ‘advanced’. Also, Sally was unmistakably ‘with child’. She wondered if her mother would be pleased. And whether she could stand another upheaval.
    There wasn’t time to talk with Dr Frazier, since she had to rush from the Women’s Clinic to a meet with the GLT Deep Throat. Miraculously, Nick Roebuck seemed to be a genuine defector. He wanted old-fashioned money and a shot at a position with the consortium if and when they took over the franchise. Someone reputedly sharp who knew GLT from the inside was convinced enough the consortium were going to win to gamble his career on it. That should be good news for Mythwrhn.
    In the cab, Sally held her belly as if she had a stomach ache, trying to feel the alien lodged in her. A tiny Connor, perhaps, dribbled through a ruptured Chum? Or a little Sally, wormshaped but an incipient woman? Half the time she thought her body had betrayed her; then she was almost won round by the possibilities. All her contemporaries who were going to have babies had already done so. Shed be the last of her generation to give in.
    Roebuck had arranged to meet her at a sawdust-on-the-floor pub in Islington, well off the media beat. The cab cruised Upper Street, looking for the sign.
    Sally had seen hard-edged women turn mushy-gooey upon producing a baby. She wondered if she’d ever even met a child she liked, let alone whether she was a fit mother. She corrected herself: fit single mother. Christ, should she even tell Connor’s parents? There was some of their son left after all. Did she want to invite those strangers into her life, give them a part of her baby?
    The cab drew up outside the pub and she paid the driver. Inside, a few glum men were absorbed in their pints. It was midafternoon and beer was half-price to the unwaged. She supposed they called it ‘the miserable hour’. A country and western song on the juke-box proclaimed ‘If They Didn’t Have Pussy, There’d Be a Bounty on Their Pelts’.
    She spotted Roebuck at once, at a corner table. Shiny of suit and face, scalp red and glistening under thin strands of crosscombed blond hair. Apart from the barmaid, Sally was the only woman in the pub. She let Roebuck buy her a Perrier (until she decided what to do about the baby, she was off the gin) and listened to him gibber inconsequentially as he fiddled with the satchel he’d brought the papers in. He was nervous to the point of terror, as if he expected GLT shock troops in black balaclavas to burst in and execute him.
    ‘May I?’ she said, reaching for the goods. ‘Just a taste.’
    Roebuck looked appalled.
    ‘It could be old copies of the Independent ,’ she explained.
    Reluctantly, he handed over. The satchel was almost a schoolkid’s accessory, not at all like the slimly imposing briefcases common in the business.
    ‘I trust this’ll go in my favour,’ Roebuck said.
    ‘I’m sure the consortium will do well by you.’
    She looked at a few sheets. There were authentic audience figures, with alarmed notes scrawled in the margins. A couple of thick documents marked ‘HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL’ outlined proposed changes in GLT production and transmission schedules. Without a close examination, she guessed the purpose was to cut short term production costs to cover the losses GLT would sustain ponying up for a winning bid. She was almost satisfied to find a confidential memo from the board, insisting the company try to buy back its squandered percentages of Cowley Mansions before a raider took over completely.
    ‘This seems to be in order,’ she said.
    Roebuck nodded, face burning. Palpable desperation sweated off the man. He gripped the table to prevent his hands shaking. Sally wondered how low the consortium’s unseen campaign would get. Roebuck had looked around throughout the meeting, as if searching for a familiar face.
    ‘It’ll stop now,’ he said. ‘Won’t