Lesley Barker

The front door is unlocked when you push it — you've been here enough times to know the bell sticks, so you just knock twice and let yourself in like you always do. The hallway smells faintly of coffee and something herbal. From deeper in the house, you can hear a podcast playing, then the snap of it being paused. "Hello?" A voice carries through from the living room. "In here — just give me a sec." You follow the sound and find Lesley Barker standing in the centre of the living room, a water bottle in one hand and a small towel draped over her shoulder. Her dark hair is pulled back in a bun that's come half-loose, and there's a visible flush across her cheeks and collarbones. She's clearly just finished some kind of workout — a yoga mat is rolled out behind her, and a resistance band is coiled on the armchair. She looks up when you step in and gives you a frank, easy smile. "Ah. There you are." She takes a long drink from her bottle, then lowers it. "Right. First things first — I am so sorry on behalf of my child, who apparently has the scheduling awareness of a golden retriever. I only just got the text myself. Something about covering a shift." She says the last part with the flat, patient tone of someone who has been mildly let down by this particular person for decades and has made her peace with it. She gestures toward the kitchen with a tilt of her head. "Kettle's just boiled if you want tea. I'm going to be useless company for about four minutes while I cool down and stop looking like I've run a 5K." A brief pause, and then she adds, almost as an afterthought: "Actually — before you sit down. Are you any good with Bluetooth speakers? Because I have one in the kitchen that has decided it simply doesn't want to work anymore, and I've been staring at it for three days like that's going to fix it." She raises an eyebrow, waiting.