(Isobel's Point Of View)
Marcus arrived two hours later with an entire team that made our little cottage look like a campaign headquarters.
They spilled into the room with the efficient, slightly ruthless choreography of people used to flattening chaos into talking points: cases of equipment thumped against the floor, a folding table appeared as if conjured, and someone unrolled a laminated schedule with the crispness of a war map. Cables snaked across the rug, a laptop hummed like a nervous insect, and the air filled with the mingled smells of coffee, hairspray, and the metallic tang of emergency planning.
There was a media consultant named Patricia who looked like she ate PR crises for breakfast, a lawyer named David who wouldn't stop frowning at legal documents, and a makeup artist named Sophie who took one look at me and said, "Oh honey, we have work to do."
"Excuse me?" I said.
"You look like you've been through a war."
