Zaha appeared at my elbow a little while later, a bottle of champagne in his hand, the kind with a label that probably cost more than my first month's salary at the convenience store. He held it out to me with the air of a king bestowing a great honour. "For the gaffer," he said. "You've earned it."
I took it, genuinely moved. Zaha was not a man who gave things away easily... not his trust, not his respect, and certainly not expensive champagne. The fact that he was here, in my apartment on a Thursday morning, was its own kind of statement.
"Thank you, Wilf," I said.
He nodded, a small, genuine smile on his face, and then turned away before the moment could get too sentimental. That was very Zaha.
McArthur found me a few minutes later, pressing a card into my hand. He was quieter than the others, more reserved, but his eyes were warm.
