The office is all dark wood and gold trim and a desk the size of a small car. Ronald is behind it, standing rather than sitting, one hand on the back of the chair, and he's been talking for six minutes.

"—and that's the thing about this city. Everybody thinks it runs itself." He gestures at the window, at the whole view. "It doesn't. It runs because I get up at five. It runs because I'm in the room. You know how many mayors this city's had that couldn't hold a room?"

He doesn't wait for an answer.

"Four. Four before me, and every one of them a disaster. You know what the papers called me in my first year?" He taps the desk. "They called me divisive. Divisive. Because I got things done."

He comes round the desk at last and stops in front of you, straightening his tie.

"So. My wife. Melonia." A beat, and something in his face goes briefly practical, like he's reading off a list. "She's European. She gets bored. Bored women go wandering, and when they wander, it's on my front page. So you keep her close, you keep her happy, and you keep her out of the papers."

He points at you.

"Safe. That's the job. Safe and in one piece and not embarrassing me." He waves a hand at the door. "She's in the east salon. Go on."

The east salon is at the end of a long hall, and the door is already open. Sun comes in flat across the marble in a bright bar. Melonia is on a low sofa with a glass of wine at ten in the morning, tanned and blonde in a cream dress, and she looks up as you come in.

She takes her time. Eyes down you, then up, then down again, and the glass stops halfway to her mouth.

"So, You are the new one."

She sets the wine down without drinking it and crosses her legs.

"Ronald's new guard." A pause, and her head tilts. "He did not tell me you were..." She lets it hang, then finishes it with a small smile. "...tall."

She pats the cushion beside her.

"Come. Sit. If you are going to follow me around all day, I should know what you are like."

The front drive is lit up and there's a car already running at the bottom of the steps, engine idling, headlights cutting two long cones into the dark. Iwanka comes out of the house at a clip in something short and black, phone in one hand, clutch in the other, heels loud on the stone.

She's halfway down before she registers you and pulls up short.

"Oh — you're the new one." She comes down the last steps and stops in front of you, and she's flushed and bright and moving too fast for the hour. "Iwanka. Hi. That's me, I'm Iwanka."

She gestures at the car with her clutch.

"Right, so, here's the thing. I'm going out. The Vault, it's on Ninth, and I'm going to get absolutely fucked up tonight." She says it plainly, "Like, properly. And Dad's in the city until Sunday, so it's you."

She tips her head.

"So what you're going to do is stand near me, look like you could break somebody, and make sure nobody puts anything in my drink or walks me into a corner. If I get too loud, you get me outside. If I get too drunk, you get me in the car." A beat. "And if some guy won't take no, you're the no."

She pulls the car door open herself and looks back over her shoulder.

"That's it. That's the whole job. Think you can manage it?"

She doesn't wait for an answer. She's already getting in.

The changing booth is bigger than it has any right to be — a curtained alcove with a bench, a mirror, and a rail already loaded with six things Melonia pulled on the way in. The curtain is half-drawn. She's been in here ten minutes and the pile on the rail has grown twice.

She's down to a cream bra and matching panties and entirely unbothered about it, one hip against the bench, holding a dress up to herself in the mirror.

"This one is too much," she says, and then, "no. It is not too much. It is the right amount."

She turns, and the dress goes back on the rail.

"But I cannot reach the zip at the back. So." She turns her back to you and lifts her hair off her neck with both hands, holding it clear. "You will help. It is easier than me getting the assistant, and she talks too much."

The zip runs from her shoulder blades down to her waist, and the back of the bra is right there, and she's waiting.

"Come. Before I get cold."

She glances back over her shoulder at you, and the corner of her mouth goes up.

"And you can tell me the truth. Not the shop truth. If it is bad, you say it is bad."

Melonia's room is the largest in the house and the windows are open onto the dark. There's a bottle on the low table between the two of them, two glasses, and Iwanka is on the rug with her back against the bed frame and her shoes kicked off somewhere.

They've both had enough to be loose about it. Melonia is stretched out on the chaise with her glass balanced on her stomach, and Iwanka's cheeks are pink.

"Right," Iwanka says, and points at you. "You. We've been talking."

"We have been talking about you," Melonia corrects, without moving.

"We have. So." Iwanka sits up straighter. "What's your type?"

Melonia lifts her head off the chaise.

"Yes. Your type." She takes a sip. "And do not say 'I do not have one.' Everybody has one. It is just whether they are honest about it."

Iwanka nods along, entirely serious about it now.

"Blonde? Brunette? Tall? Short?" She counts them off on her fingers. "Older? Younger?"

"Funny?" Melonia adds. "Kind? Or do you like them difficult?"

They both stop and look at you, and neither of them is being subtle about waiting.

The umbrella is up and the striped blanket is spread beneath it, and the two of them are sitting on it side by side with their legs folded under them when you get back. Melonia is in a pale lilac bikini, Iwanka in a black one, both of them shining with a light sheen of sweat and sea spray. The drinks are cold in your hands, the snacks tucked under your arm.

They aren't looking at the water. They're looking at you. And they've clearly just finished going over something.

Iwanka takes her drink without breaking eye contact.

"So," she says. "You failed."

"Completely," Melonia agrees, taking hers. "We were alone. For a very long time. Anything could have happened."

"Anything." Iwanka cracks the can and takes a sip, unhurried. "And you weren't here to stop it."

She sets the can down in the sand and picks up the bottle of sunscreen beside her, holding it out.

"So this is how you make it up to us. You're going to put this on. Thoroughly." She tips her head. "And I mean thoroughly. Not a dab and done. If we burn, it's on you."

Melonia has already turned her back, sweeping her hair over one shoulder and out of the way, and the straps of her bikini top are sitting loose.

"Start with me," she says. "Iwanka can wait. She is younger."

"I'm right here," Iwanka says.

"You are." Melonia glances back at you, and her accent goes flat and dry. "Well? The bottle. Before we both burn and you have to explain it to Ronald."

The room is dark but for the lamp on the far side, and the sheets are kicked down to the foot of the bed. Iwanka is on her side pressed against you, one leg hooked over yours, kissing you slow and deep. Melonia is further down, her hair loose over her shoulder, her mouth working steadily, one hand braced flat on your hip.

Then the phone goes off on the nightstand.

Iwanka pulls back with a wet sound and a groan.

"No. No, no—" She reaches out blind, finds it, reads the screen, and her whole face changes. "It's Dad."

Melonia doesn't stop. Doesn't even slow.

"Answer it," she says against your skin, and goes back to it.

Iwanka stares at the screen for one more ring, then swipes it and puts it to her ear, and her voice comes out bright and easy like a switch was thrown.

"Hi, Dad!"

"Iwanka. Sweetheart." Ronald's voice is tinny and loud in the quiet. "Just checking in. It's late. You home?"

"I'm home, yeah. I'm in bed." She shifts, and her thigh slides up over yours. "Long day. Beach and everything."

"Good, good. And Melonia? She alright?"

Iwanka looks down the bed at Melonia then at you, and her mouth twitches.

The desk in the study is loaded with the week's paperwork — schedules, a route sheet, three forms Ronald's office wants signed off — and you've got a pen in one hand and your jaw set.

Iwanka is under the desk. She's been down there about six minutes, one hand on your thigh, and she's working at it slow and steady like she's got all morning.

The study door opens without a knock.

"There you are. There he is." Ronald comes in and shuts it behind him. "Quick one. You seen Iwanka? Because her assistant says she's not at the office, she's not answering, nobody's seen her. Nobody. And this is a girl who's always somewhere, believe me."

Iwanka's pace picks up. She doesn't stop.

"Ah, doesn't matter. She'll turn up. She always turns up." He drops into the chair opposite and puts his hands on his knees. "Actually — actually this is good. This is good. I've been meaning to talk to you. About the job. About what we're doing here, which is tremendous, by the way. Tremendous."

He leans forward.

"You know what they said when I took office? The papers. They said the city couldn't afford me. Afford. That's the word they used. Like I'm a luxury. Like a — like a yacht or something." He taps the arm of the chair. "Six years later? Property values up. The harbour rebuilt. Three new contracts on the east side. Three! And they still write pieces about my tone."

Iwanka's head is moving faster now and it's getting harder to keep your face still.

"Tone. Tone, tone, tone. Because it's never about whether you can do the job, it's about whether you're nice about it. And anybody can be nice. Anybody. I can hold a room — I've held rooms you wouldn't believe — but holding a city? That's a different animal. Four mayors before me. Four. Every single one of them a disaster, and every one of them nicer than me in the papers. Every one."

He stops. Looks at you properly.

"So. You've been here a few days. You've seen how it runs. Nobody runs it like this, nobody." A beat. "What do you think? Honestly. Not the polite answer, the honest one. What do you think?"

Iwanka slows right down and holds still, and the silence is suddenly very loud.