‘Angela,’ the house said, its voice quiet but compelling, ‘I have a call from Hilton Swift . . .’ ‘Executive override?’ She was eating baked beans and toast at the kitchen counter. ‘No,’ it said, confidingly. ‘Change your tone,’ she said, around a mouthful of beans. ‘Something with an edge of anxiety.’ ‘Mr Swift is waiting,’ the house said nervously. ‘Better,’ she said, carrying bowl and plate to the washer, ‘but I want something closer to genuine hysteria . . .’ ‘Will you take the call?’ The voice was choked with tension. ‘No,’ she said, ‘but keep your voice that way, I like it.’
