W1, where all the publishers sat in their white buildings and offices with glass signs, was close to Soho. Belting her red coat tight, Leah dodged the bulleting rain, making a bee-line for Soho which was close by. London at 9.30am was markedly different from the panic attack of pre 9am work stress. Hordes of dark-suited men and women with tight, slicked hairstyles and power shoes carpeted the streets. Now, it felt like the street sweepers and bin collectors were playing leisurely with the space they had left behind.
She found an unassuming, non-chain coffee shop, stocked with a couple of smiley Polish waitresses and a decent list of herbal teas. A folksy female singer was quietly pouring her heart out over the radio. It was the type of place Raleigh wouldn’t have been seen dead in.