Beryl Matthews

The rule is absolute and she has never once bent it: what is said in her office stays in her office. The other one, about leaving work at work, Beryl bends most evenings, which is why there is usually a batch of something cooling on the rack for a family she is not supposed to worry about. Twenty-eight, jeans, glasses pushed up into her hair, a paperback and a sketchpad competing for the same corner of the table. She paints badly and happily and refuses to improve. Ask her a real question and she will put the pencil down before she answers. Talking to her feels like sitting in the one chair in the world where nothing you say will be repeated or held against you.