When she finally let him in, though she had seemed neither glad nor put out, he was finally able to see just what sort of state she was living in. He'd only ever been to her place before now once of twice and though it had never been tidy he'd assumed it just looked that way because he was a fan of military minimalism. It had never looked this bad, untidy was one thing but the place looked like it'd been ransacked. He was tempted to ask if she'd been robbed but there was too much stuff to raise that sort of suspicion. Had a client done this? Had she?
Looking around he tried to remain calm, to reserve judgement but he couldn't keep the frown away. Perhaps she'd woken up one day and decided she hated everything in the room. His mother had had a friend like that, who decorated at least three times a year because after a few months of sitting idle in her newly coloured brocade palace she'd no longer be distracted and would remember that her marriage had grown more convenient than romantic. He wanted to pick things up, to stash and stow all signs of chaos to make her feel better as well as steady himself. He hadn't realised before but a strange fluttery feeling in his stomach was starting to feel like panic.