Broken wings
Whenever Gemma Faber came to London for work, she stayed at Searle’s. It was a luxurious club-type hotel and every time she visited, she felt she’d really made it. The taxi pulled up and her heart lifted at the sight of the lilac-and-gold striped awning. She paid the driver and stepped out into the light spring rain, looking forward to a week in town.
In the doorway of an old church across the road, she noticed a homeless man huddled in an anorak and blanket. Tears sprang to her eyes for a moment. That was the thing about cities: there were always reminders of how tough life could be. On impulse, she crossed the road, wheeling her little red case through the puddles, and said hello.
The man looked up in surprise. “Hello, love,” he said. “Nice of you to stop. Care to join me?” He gestured to the doorstep
