Dave Hart Omnibus II E-Book

David Charters

• Herausgeber: Elliott & Thompson
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Seitenzahl: 785

Beschreibung

Two novels and a collection of short stories, featuring the anti-heroic banker, Dave Hart, the satirical creation of David Charters. This omnibus edition contains the novels: 'Where Egos Dare', 'The Ego's Nest' and the short story collection, 'No Tears'.

Leseprobe

Dave Hart Omnibus II: Where Egos Dare, The Ego’s Nest and No Tears

DAVID CHARTERS

Omnibus Edition first published 2012 by Elliott & Thompson Limited

27 John Street, London WC1N 2BX

www.eandtbooks.com

ISBN: 978-1-9087-39575

***

‘Where Egos Dare’

ISBN: 978-1-9040-27775

Copyright © David Charters 2009

First published in 2009

The right of the authors to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

***

‘The Ego’s Nest’

ISBN: 978-1-9076-42234

Copyright © David Charters 2011

First published in 2011

The right of the authors to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

***

‘No Tears’

ISBN: 978-1-9040-27867

Copyright © David Charters 2002

First published in 2002

The right of the authors to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Contents

Where Egos Dare

Dedication

Author’s Note & Acknowledgements

Text

Epilogue

The Ego’s Nest

Dedication

Author’s note

Text

Epilogue

No Tears

Contents

Foreword

Diary

Dinner Party

Team Move

Infatuation

Smart People

Takeover

Regrets

Misdial

The Big Break

Signing Ceremony

Ambition

Expenses

Riff-raff

Bonus Round

Baggage

Off-site

After Dark

If You Can’t Take a Joke

Inside Track

2 HOT

Playing the Game

Lawsuit

Words

May Day 2010

Merger

Equal Opportunities

Redundant

The Right Position

WHERE EGOS DARE

DAVID CHARTERS

For Digger

Author’s Note & Acknowledgements

IT HAD to be someone’s fault. The worst financial crisis of our lifetime did not just happen by itself. And if we’re going to blame someone, why not Dave Hart?

As a spectator watching the crisis unfold, I felt that truth really was stranger than fiction, and at the same time quite inspirational. I’ve tried to capture once again the extremes, the excesses and the absurdity of the Square Mile during one of the most turbulent times in its history. And as ever I’m grateful to a number of people who provided help and input: Lorne Forsyth, Jane Miller, Joanna Rice, Adam Shutkever, my son Mark, my daughter Anna and my sister Margaret all gave generously of their time. And of course there’s Two Livers, without whom none of this would be possible…

I THINK I’m going mad.

I know I can’t be dead. I know because it’s hot as hell, and that simply does not compute. How could I have died and gone to hell? It’s impossible. Hell is for other people. In fact hell is other people. It’s certainly not for me.

There’s a hot wind blowing over me like a giant hairdryer. I’m lying on my back, being dragged across a surface that alternates between smooth and rough, and my body is aching. The whole of my right side is hurting, as if my ribs are broken. Maybe they are. The sun – that is, I suppose it’s the sun – is burning my face and I’m keeping my eyes tightly closed.

But at least I can’t be dead. That’s important. Because where would the world be without me?

My mouth is parched and my lips feel painful and cracked. I slide and lurch forward a few more yards. Whatever it is I’m lying on is being pulled slowly across the ground. Somewhere nearby I hear a soft sigh that’s feminine, wonderful – a weak-strong moan of someone exhausted but determined.

That’s when the memories come back.

I was flying home to London from a business trip to Africa. I was in a private jet – a Gulfstream 5, my personal favourite – about to sip champagne and toast success when there was an explosion. I recall the pilot’s voice frantically calling in a Mayday, then another loud bang and everything is hazy.

Until now. Now the memories are flooding back.

I’m Dave Hart.

Knowing my name is important – at least, it is for me. With that comes a whole avalanche of other memories. I’m a banker. At the tender age of forty, I became chairman of the Erste Frankfurter Grossbank, one of the largest financial institutions in the world, and took the whole giant organisation into overdrive. I’ve achieved things, made things happen, financed the unfinanceable, poured money into projects in Africa that no one would touch, changed the world. I’ve done things in the world of business that no other human being ever has. And some that no other human being would ever want to. Either way, I’m a finance rock star.

I’d been visiting Lubumbashi, a godforsaken dump of a place where Grossbank’s New Start Plan for Africa – an investment plan to acquire assets and develop them in return for introducing proper governance and democratic institutions – was reshaping a nation. I was reshaping a nation. That sort of thing appeals to me. I like changing things, upsetting people, pissing them off. And I like to think big. If you’re going to bother to think, it’s the only way to go. Only this time someone got really pissed off. Pissed off enough to fire a rocket up the arse of my G5.

There was someone with me. Someone beautiful. An intelligent blonde. Yes, really. Funny too and sexy as hell. And she could drink.

Two Livers.

Laura ‘Two Livers’ MacKay, my head of corporates at Grossbank, my right-hand woman, key business winner, planner, strategist, possessor of a brain the size of a planet and a body to die for, was with me when the plane crashed.

Two Livers is different from any woman I’ve ever known, and yes, I’ve known a few. When God made blondes, I truly believe he took all of their brains and gave them to this one woman. In my rare moments of lucidity I’ll admit – privately – that most of my success I owe to her.

She is also my lover.

‘Aaaaaagh …’ A woman’s voice. Weaker now. I’m not being pulled forward any more. My hand slips from the side of what I guess is a makeshift stretcher and touches hot sand. Desert sand. I’ve been pulled across the desert. By her. I feel the end of the stretcher slowly being lowered to the ground, gently, so that I’m resting on the sand, hot through the canvas.

Damn. I guess it means I have to get up.

I open one eye cautiously. No need to worry. I can see her kneeling a few yards from me, her head slumped forward, her beautiful blonde hair falling across her face, the tattered remains of what was once a beautiful Chanel dress hanging loosely over her perfect body. She’s barefoot. Walking barefoot on the hot sand. Like a slave girl. The fantasy part of my brain whirrs into action. It’s like a scene from a movie. If I weren’t in so much pain I’d think about jumping her right now. Although having sex on a dune is always a bad idea. Sand gets in all the wrong places.

My own clothes are just as badly torn, my shirt hanging in shreds around me. I ease myself up painfully on to one elbow and watch as she slowly rolls forward until her head touches the sand. She’s instinctively curled into a tight ball, exhausted, vulnerable, her last reserves gone.

Bugger. Now I’ll have to get up and start walking.

I pull myself over and slowly stand up. I’ve certainly cracked several ribs, and I feel weak and slightly dizzy. I’d kill for a drink. In fact several, plus a decent meal and maybe a sharp, reviving line of white powder. But at least I’m alive. The sun is unreasonably hot, and I stare in wonder at the tracks left in the sand, extending far away into the distance. She’s been pulling me for miles, for hours, through the heat of the desert, on a makeshift stretcher made out of two twisted metal poles and a length of canvas. Why would an investment banker do that? Would any banker truly rescue their boss, if they had the choice not to and no one would ever find out? How much more would Two Livers stand to make each year without me top-slicing the bonus pool?

I walk over to her and crouch down beside her, gently stroking her hair. She’s gone, dead to the world. I put my hands under her shoulders and struggle to pull her on to the stretcher. It’s an effort, but once she’s there I pick up the end and prepare to walk forwards, dragging her in the same direction she was pulling me.

Damn, it’s hard. She may be delightfully slim, but to me in this heat she feels heavy. Forget heroics. This is no fun at all. After a couple of paces I ease her back on to the ground. I don’t know if I’m exhausted or lazy, but there’s no way I’m dragging her across the desert. I stare into the distance. It looks the same in each direction: just miles of undulating dunes.

I analyse things the way that only a senior investment banker can. This is a truly desperate, life-threatening situation. It’s not like the ordinary, everyday problems I have to endure in London, like not getting my favourite table for an early evening martini at Dukes Hotel, or getting stuck in traffic on my way to see Fluffy and Thumper from the Pussycat Club for a private performance. I could actually die. I could really fucking die!

I look at Two Livers, exhausted and unconscious from her ordeal. Damn. Two of us certainly won’t make it, not with me pulling anyway. For both our sakes I need to leave her here – obviously after first checking she’s comfortable – and then head off by myself to fetch help. I know I’m fond of her and all that, but it’s in both our interests. Honestly. In fact it’s because I care for her that I have to leave her now. I’m doing this for her.

Phew, that was easy.

Having taken my decision, I start to head off by myself, but I’ve only gone a few paces when I seem to hear a strange sound. Perhaps I’m imagining it, but I’d swear I can hear a tacka-tacka-tacka noise. Maybe it’s just in my head. Fuck it. Must be the heat. Or the drugs. What have I been using lately? Not much, travelling in Africa. In fact I’ve been remarkably clean. I shake my head to clear it and prepare to set off once more in search of salvation – for us both, of course.

That’s when the helicopter appears over the nearest ridge of sand.

I LOVE press conferences. Something about standing in front of the world’s media creating your own truth, your own version of reality, appeals to my vanity. Whatever you say, it will be printed, quoted, shown on live TV, supported by photographs and film and captions and ‘experts’ who may disagree with you but by their very presence validate your existence. It means I’m alive, and that is very important to me.

We’re in Lubumbashi, the armpit of Africa, in what passes for a conference room in the Foreign Ministry. I’ve had my side strapped up by a Belgian doctor – yes, I’ve cracked a few ribs and I’m dehydrated, but so what? In a month or so I’ll be right as rain, and the dehydration I’ll get to work on right after the press conference.

They’ve leant me clothes – a safari suit that gives me an Indiana Jones look – and the British ambassador, a short, stocky man with whisky-flushed cheeks and a permanent sheen of perspiration, is sitting beside me on the podium, next to the helicopter pilot who found me. Thirty or forty journalists and cameramen are crowding the room. Apparently I’m a worldwide news sensation.

Oh yes, and there’s Two Livers. Well, she’s not exactly here. She hasn’t come round yet. They’ve got her on a drip at the local hospital, trying to revive her slowly. It seems to have taken a lot more out of her than it did me. Funny that. Must be a woman thing.

The helicopter pilot is talking; a young Frenchman who looks remarkably cool and handsome and could easily outshine me if he wasn’t so utterly impressed by my courage.

‘We located the crash site at dawn. We landed and found no survivors. Both pilots were dead.’

Damn. They were good men. Bringing the plane down at all was amazing. Presumably they had wives, kids, the whole thing. I wonder if this counts as war risk so our insurers pick up the tab for compensation. Either way I’d better get someone looking into it. Better be seen to do the right thing.

‘We could see that someone ’ad survived, because the remains of a fire were there. And the body of a wild dog.’ A wild dog? Shit. Where did that come from? ‘It must ’ave been part of a pack that attacked the survivors. At this time of year they are desperate. They will attack large animals, cattle, game, even people. But the dogs ’ad been fought off and one was lying dead, with a sharp piece of metal from the wreck driven through its ’eart.’ Damn. I certainly never fought off a pack of wild dogs. At least I don’t think I did. He’s looking at me, his eyes full of hero worship. He’s right. Pull yourself together, Hart. Obviously I must have fought them off. Well, you would, wouldn’t you? They must be worse than bankers at bonus time. Fight them off or they’ll strip you to the bone. The pilot’s continuing: ‘Then we spotted a trail. Footprints and the tracks of what could only be a stretcher. We followed the trail across the desert from the crash site. Monsieur ’art dragged Miss MacKay for seven miles in temperatures of forty-five degrees.’

At this they stop scribbling and burst into a round of spontaneous applause. Cameras flash and my moment of supreme heroism is recorded to be made real and permanent in tomorrow’s press.

‘Mr Hart, Martin Joyce, Reuters. Does this dreadful episode affect your commitment to Africa and to Grossbank’s New Start Plan for Africa?’

I put on my serious, statesmanlike face. I have to, because otherwise I’d grin. I spent an hour this morning on the phone to my PR adviser at Ball Taittinger, London’s – and possibly the world’s – leading spinmeister. I call him the Silver Fox, after his silver-grey, sixty-something, urbane appearance and innate sense of cunning. A lesser man would have been sitting at Two Livers’ bedside, holding her hand and swooning over her, but I know how important first impressions are, and I needed to get this story right. It runs to the heart of who I am, and what can be more important than that?

Before I answer, I take a sip from a glass of water beside me and wince theatrically from the supposed pain. Then a deep breath and a determined look, and I’m away. ‘Quite the opposite. It shows more than ever the need for us all to reaffirm our commitment, redouble our efforts and ensure that lasting change continues – whatever the cost to those of us at the sharp end. Right now, even as I speak, Laura MacKay, the head of corporates at Grossbank, is lying in a hospital bed less than half a mile away on a life-support machine.’ Actually it’s a saline drip, but I’ve never been a great one for detail. ‘I’m going to say to you what I know she would say if she were here. We’re here to stay. We won’t be intimidated. We won’t be put off. I am personally committed to this programme, and I lead from the front.’ In other words, I’m a saint as well as a hero. Got that?

A huge hubbub of voices and the polite conventions of the press conference very nearly break down in the rush to get in follow-up questions. Christ, I’m good.

HEATHROW IS grey, wet and windy and, by comparison with Lubumbashi, just plain dull. It’s taken us a week to get back, because Two Livers was too weak to travel and I had to stay loyally by her side. Right now she’s being pulled along on a trolley by a medical team, theatrically orchestrated by the Silver Fox, still heavily sedated while her body heals after her ordeal. I’m walking beside her, my hand in hers even though she’s not actually conscious, while press photographers snap away and cameras roll.

‘No, I’m sorry, no further comment. Now is a time for healing and recovery. Please give us some privacy. Thank you.’

It’s all bollocks, of course, but you still have to get it right.

Once we’re out of sight of the press, Two Livers goes one way to a private ambulance, while I’m met by Tom, my personal driver, standing tall and imposing next to the Grossbank Bentley that I’m chauffeured around in. For once the Bentley’s unaccompanied by any other vehicles. I’ve dismissed my private security guards, disregarding all advice to the contrary. If I can survive an air crash in the desert and walk away, then I’m clearly not meant to die. God wants Dave Hart to live, so who needs security?

It’s not that I’m religious – the only thing I truly believe in is me – but I do have a sense of destiny. I’m here for a purpose, and that purpose is not just drinking and screwing and doing drugs.

Having said that, on the way in from the airport I call Sabine, twenty-five, from Belgium, and Charlotte, twenty-three, from Boston, and arrange to have a party. A private party to celebrate my homecoming. Just the three of us.

EVEN GOD took one day off, so I figure I can too. Bad habits die hard, and after twenty-four hours I’m totally wasted, my nose is semi-permanently running and even the Viagra isn’t working any more. How much abuse can a body take? Especially with three cracked ribs. The girls are fantastic, but I need to escape back to work.

My return to the Grossbank building is everything you would expect. It’s like the second coming. God has arrived. Or is it Elvis? Must be Elvis, because cheering traders stand up at their workstations on the trading floor to applaud as I limp purposefully towards my huge corner office. I have a strange feeling of déjà vu – haven’t I done this before? Maria, my faithful secretary, plump, half-German, mid forties and a Grossbank lifer, is waiting to show me in and welcome me back. I’ve always thought of her as Grossbank’s answer to Brunhilde, but this time she actually puts her arms around me and gives me a gentle hug.

‘Welcome back, Mr Hart. Welcome home. And no more adventures, please.’

I give her a devil-may-care smile and disappear into my office, where I take my jacket off, close the blinds, put my feet on the desk and feel instantly, indescribably bored.

I turn to the computer. ‘You have 1,741 unread emails.’ I click on ‘Select All’ and delete them. Who the hell are these people who think they can impose their garbage on me – management reports, meeting notes, requests for authorisation of this and that? It’s so dull I can almost feel a coma coming on. This is definitely not what I’m here for.

I flick on the intercom. ‘Maria, any messages? I mean important ones?’

I really didn’t need to add that. Maria understands. I’m not interested in bullshit messages of congratulations from competitors – or other investment bankers who think they might be in the same league as me – and I am especially uninterested in anything from Wendy, my ex-wife, who will have been rubbing her hands in anticipation at getting hold of some of my estate, though I do tell Maria to send round a container-load of toys from Harrods. I may not make it to see Samantha, our five-year-old, for a while, given all of my various commitments and the time I need for healing, but I don’t want her to think I don’t love her.

‘Maria, send in Paul Ryan, would you?’

Paul is my head of markets. He runs the traders who swing the Grossbank balance sheet around, taking positions, buying and selling stocks and bonds, foreign exchange, commodities, anything where an elephant the size of Grossbank can move markets, squeeze out the little guys and profit. If Two Livers is my right hand, Paul is my left. I owe a huge amount of my success to him and, more importantly, I feel I can trust him. Not too far, but at least some considerable way. So long as I control his bonus, which I ensure is also considerable.

What I particularly like about Paul is the fact that he’s gay. This is important, because he’s incredibly good-looking, always immaculately turned out, and if he wasn’t a banker he could be a film star or a male model. As a result he’s the perfect companion: a pussy magnet who has no interest in women. I enjoy business trips with Paul, and I’m going to plan a few now.

The door opens and he bounds in. ‘Dave, the jungle drums weren’t working this morning – I had no idea you were back in the office. I thought you’d be taking it easy.’ He’s full of energy and enthusiasm, bright-eyed probably from having just done a couple of lines of coke, which would explain why he wasn’t here to brown-nose when I first arrived. But he’s making up for it now. He gives me a hug and I have to gently ease him away before he cracks my ribs again.

‘Easy, big guy. I’ve got three cracked ribs and the reason I’m back in the office is that I need a rest. Couldn’t keep up the pace at home.’

He grins. He understands. ‘Dave, you’re a hero. A real hero. The way you saved Two Livers, fought off a pack of wild dogs, dragged her across the desert in that heat – it’s unimaginable.’

He’s right. It is unimaginable. Anyone who knows me at all can’t imagine it. I give a semi-self-deprecating smile. ‘Don’t believe everything you read in the press.’

He says nothing, which troubles me. Clearly he doesn’t believe a word of it. In fact the whole vibe I’m getting is scepticism tinged with hostility. Mind you, if he was that gullible I’d never have hired him.

This is the great conundrum of investment banking. You need to hire damned good people, and you need them to be sharp and smart and aggressive and freethinking. Pussycats need not apply. But then what happens if they’re freethinking about you? It’s called evolution. They don’t just eat your lunch. Eventually they eat you.

Forget the business trips. I’d better start keeping an eye on Paul.

My eyes glaze over as he updates me on what’s been happening in the business: new hires, new fires, new clients, new business and new offices being opened as the Grossbank empire spreads ever wider. In other words, all the tedious detail that keeps people busy if they spend their lives below thirty thousand feet.

He tells me that our balance sheet is now so bloated that it exceeds the gross domestic product of Germany. That’s right. The value of all the goods and services produced and consumed last year by some eighty-two million hard-working people in the Federal Republic of Germany has now been officially exceeded by the financial assets and liabilities of a single firm. There are seventy-five thousand Grossbank employees worldwide, but actually fewer than fifty of us who matter. They’re the ones who call the shots. And the ones who actually understand what’s going on? A tiny handful, if that, including Paul and Two Livers, but certainly not including me, and even then there’s no way any one brain can comprehend all the moving parts – the risks, the complexities, the vulnerabilities – of something so huge. It makes me want to yawn. Thank God Paul’s there to handle it.

‘Paul, I think I’m having a crisis.’

He stops in full flow and stares at me. ‘What sort of crisis? A real one? Or …’ He taps the side of his head. ‘You know. The other sort.’

Only a true friend could say this to me. The implication in his question is that I might be suffering from something more serious than a hangover or an excess of nose candy. He’s suggesting I might actually have something wrong with me. In my head. Any other employee would have been instantly on Death Row, black-bagged by a couple of security guards and walked out of the building.

But Paul’s a friend. I think.

‘I’m bored.’ As if to demonstrate how bored I am, I get up and pace uselessly around the office. ‘This all seems so … worthless. Everything we do. All of it’s bullshit.’

He shrugs and tries to look sympathetic. ‘But, Dave, it’s so well paid. Think of the money.’

‘I know. You’re right. But I need to find a way of keeping engaged. The whole Africa thing was exciting to start with, but now it just seems so yesterday.’

‘But the firm’s making a ton of money out there. Don’t knock it.’

‘I know. But other people can handle it now. It doesn’t need me any more.’

There’s a long, awkward silence. I wonder if he thinks anything needs me any more. Or ever really did. Maybe I’ve achieved the ultimate goal of any boss – I’ve made myself utterly redundant.

‘It’s scary, Paul.’

‘Scary?’

‘Scary. I feel as if my life is futile, worthless and insignificant. Yet I make millions. Tens of millions. In fact I made more in a single year last year than I once thought I’d ever make in my lifetime. How can that be?’

This really is scary. With what I’m making, and what the firm has actually achieved, I ought to be really happy. In fact travelling around Africa with Two Livers I was. So what’s happened?

‘Dave, if you ask me, you just need a new challenge. Or maybe a change of scene. Have you thought about doing something outside banking? Not full-time, obviously, but why don’t you look at getting involved with something charitable or philanthropic? Something that would take your mind off things here, just for a while?’

Gotcha, you bastard. He really is after my job. As if I wouldn’t see it. ‘You may be right, Paul. I feel as if this whole Africa thing has changed my perspective on life. On what we’re all here for. I need to give it some more thought.’

‘Sure, Dave.’ He takes his cue and gets up to go, but I catch him glancing quickly around my office, sizing it up. Et tu, Brute? I’ll be on his case from now on. I’m glad we had this little chat. They say excessive drug-taking can make you paranoid, but I think that’s a good thing. Clearly Paul Ryan and I will have a different relationship in future.

TWO LIVERS is staying at the Cromwell Hospital, in a private suite which is filled with flowers and gifts and messages from well-wishers. Far more than I had. Why is that?

She’s still asleep when I arrive, and I take the opportunity to look around and check out the messages on some of the cards. Clients, colleagues, other firms and, of course, headhunters have all taken their cue and sent extravagant and unnecessary gifts and messages. I think they’re very extravagant and unnecessary.

On the bedside cabinet she has a pile of newspapers and cuttings of the coverage of our little escapade in Africa. ‘Hero Hart defies death, saves colleague’ and similar headlines stare gratifyingly at me.

I hear a stirring from the bed and go to sit beside her, dragging over a chair and crouching so that my face is close to hers. She’s wearing a simple cotton hospital gown through which I can see the outline of her perfect 34DDs moving as she breathes. I like this. If only she was feeling a little better there’d be some interesting role-play possibilities. Her eyes flutter open the way I’ve only ever seen happen in movies.

‘D–Dave …?’

I squeeze her hand. ‘I’m here.’

‘I–is it you, or am I dreaming?’ She looks confused, still half asleep. I want to say she’s dreaming: a really obscene, dirty dream in which she gets to perform all kinds of sex acts on her boss in a hospital bed. But she’s still recovering and from somewhere a voice of restraint holds me back. Time to be civilised.

‘Sure it’s me. I’ve been here ages, staring at you, worrying about you. Day after day. I was terrified we might lose you. I was terrified I might lose you.’ It’s bullshit of course. This is my first visit. I had Maria stay in touch with the doctors and they said that today she’d probably be awake for long enough for me to see her and have a sensible conversation. ‘So how are you?’

Or better yet, how’s your memory? Am I going to have to pay you off at bonus time so you don’t blow my cover on the whole hero thing?

She shakes her head. ‘Bad. Aching. Tired all the time.’

Phew, sounds good to me. I stroke her forearm gently, smiling a soft, reassuring smile. ‘That’s natural. Don’t you worry. Just try to forget all about it. You’re safe now.’

She frowns. Oh shit. ‘Dave …?’

‘Yes?’ Solicitous, patient, listening. Christ, I’m good. Really good. I should have been an actor. Maybe that’s why I’m so successful as an investment banker.

‘Dave … I’ve looked at the stories … the reports of … of what happened … out there.’

‘But you shouldn’t have. You mustn’t trouble yourself with all that. Draw a line.’

‘But … Dave …’

I’m sterner now, or at least mock stern, the way you can be when you have someone else’s best interests at heart. As if. ‘For once just listen to me, will you? Let yourself recover. This is a time for resting and healing.’ Oh yes, and forgetting. ‘And try to forget. Why stir up horrible memories?’

‘But there’s something you should know.’

Oh, fuck. ‘What’s that?’

‘I won’t ever forget …’ Her eyes fill with tears.

Christ. I can’t bear the suspense. I have to prompt her. ‘You won’t forget what?’

‘I … I … won’t ever forget … what you did for me.’ Yeehaa! Gotcha. Am I invincible or what?

I squeeze her hand again. ‘It was nothing. Honestly. Believe me. It was nothing at all.’

I’VE ALWAYS thought of myself as profoundly shallow. And selfish. Let’s not forget selfish. The kinds of things that bother ordinary people just don’t get to me. On the contrary, they simply pass me by. I regard it as a matter of professional pride to be a moral vacuum. Well, not exactly a vacuum, but morally neutral, the way markets are. So whether it’s cheating in exams or cheating on your wife, I take the view that rules are for little people.

In which case, why does the whole thing with Two Livers bother me so?

I should have been bothered this afternoon, when I was photographed handing over fat cheques to the grieving widows of my ex-pilots. They were still young, quite pretty, though too upset to be jumpable, with small children, all dressed in black, and we sat in a conference room while the bank’s lawyers explained the arrangements for the trust funds we’re setting up for the kids and the financial arrangements for the widows, and all the time a photographer snapped quietly away, getting me from all the best angles, showing how I was sharing the pain and the grief and making sure we could quietly – or not so quietly – tell the story to the media of how fair and generous I’ve been. With the bank’s money, of course.

And now I’m back in the office, the pain and grief behind me, in one of our own conference rooms with the blinds closed and the little red ‘Do Not Disturb’ light switched on over the door. I’m having a private session with Melissa Myers, Grossbank London’s head of diversity in the Human Resources department. Melissa is a lawyer specialising in employment law and human rights, and her role is to ensure that women and minorities on Grossbank’s payroll receive appropriate treatment. I like Melissa and am very supportive of her work. She’s highly paid. I make sure of that.

Of course it helps that she is very attractive. Melissa is mid thirties, a feisty brunette with a sexy walk and dark brown eyes that were made for flirting. Right now, she’s got her top off and she’s kneeling at my feet, servicing me while I stand and sip a glass of celebratory champagne. I’ve always found this to be the best way of drinking champagne, and I appreciate Melissa helping me to enjoy it.

Then the door bursts open. For Christ’s sake, don’t people knock any more? I assume it’s a group of juniors looking for a place to make a conference call to their boss. It’s nearly six o’clock, the witching hour when Managing Directors give their slaves their night’s work. I’m ready to rip them all new arseholes, although doing it from a less than dignified position might be a challenge. But when I turn round it isn’t a bunch of juniors. It’s Paul Ryan, and he looks seriously worried.

‘Dave – we have a rogue trader.’

Oh, shit.

IT’S 2 A.M. and I’m sitting in a room full of worried men. We’re all unshaven, we have our sleeves rolled up, ties loosened, sweat patches under our arms, and the place smells of stale sandwiches and coffee. Oh, and fear. There’s quite a lot of fear in this room as well.

‘Who hired the bastard?’

No one wants to meet my glance. It turns out that a few months ago we unleashed on an unsuspecting market some wunderkind with a French-sounding name, who turns out to be a major-league disaster. The exact size of the disaster is still unfolding, but if it turns out to be half as bad as we think, we’ll have to disclose what happened, and then there’ll be a massive blame game. Normally there’d be a cover-up – no one wants to admit to fallibility, after all. Pay the bastard off and move on. He only lost millions – maybe tens of millions – of other people’s money. We do it all the time. It’s our job to lose other people’s money. That’s what we’re paid for.

But this is different. We just seem to keep adding noughts to the losses this wanker has run up and it’s getting beyond serious. If it gets any worse, then heads will roll, reputations will be irreparably damaged and careers will end, and not just for a few months’ gardening leave until people pop up elsewhere, but permanently.

‘He was an internal promotion. From the back office.’ The man who answers is Bill Williams, our new head of fixed income trading. He joined a month ago from Hardman Stoney, and he’s the luckiest man here, because this cannot possibly be his fault. In fact it could be a fantastic career break, depending how many of the people in this room end up being taken outside and shot.

Damn. A back-office promotion. In the two-tier world of the trading floor, there are two classes of people – a bit like the divide between officers and men in the army. Officers are lawyers, accountants, MBAs, PhDs and others with classic ‘front office’ revenue-generating backgrounds: smart people who understand string theory and know their way round a wine list. The men are the settlement and operations staff who actually book the trades, reconcile them, track the P&L, and generally make things happen on behalf of the officers – who naturally take all the decisions. And all the consequences.

It’s normally hard for someone working in the back office to make the transition to a front-office revenue-generating job, although some of the most talented traders have exactly that background. From a risk management perspective it can be a nightmare, because back-office people actually understand how things work.

I turn to the dumbest man in the room, John Harden, Grossbank’s head of Risk Management. ‘Why wasn’t it spotted sooner?’

Even as I ask the question, I know how stupid it is. Risk Management don’t actually manage risk. They try to quantify it, tabulate it, rearrange it into columns of figures and circulate neatly colour-coded reports to senior people in the firm. By seeing it written down, the people at the top think it’s under control. It lets us sleep at night, or at least leaves us untroubled as we do whatever else it is we get up to.

But it’s a classic case of rubbish in, rubbish out. The best-paid people in the firm – and therefore the smartest, hungriest and greediest – are the traders. In order to do the trades they want, they need to present what they’re planning to do to some of the worst-paid people – the Risk Management department – and get their sign-off. No smart, hungry, ambitious investment banker ever voluntarily went into risk management. So when they come up against each other, guess who wins.

The real reason for having a Risk Management department is window dressing to keep the regulators away. We don’t want anyone thinking we’re not running a sensibly organised, prudent and properly controlled financial institution. Luckily the regulators are paid even less than Risk Management, so guess who wins that one.

Harden clears his throat. He’s late forties, balding, overweight, has a couple of kids halfway through school and a large mortgage on his dream home in the country. He has a lot to lose, and unless he says something spectacular in the next thirty seconds the guy is toast. He knows it, I know it, and everyone else in the room knows it.

‘I … it wasn’t a normal situation …’

‘You can fucking say that again.’ I growl the words at him, my nostrils flaring, my rage barely under control. Actually, part of me wants to laugh out loud at the whole absurd situation. Billions. We think we’ve lost billions. And it’s not as if this motherfucker actually stole it. He bet it – repeatedly – trying to be a hero, lost it – repeatedly – and covered it up. How stupid is that?

Well, on reflection, it’s probably quite clever. Maybe he should be head of Risk Management. He can obviously work the systems. That’s what comes of appointing someone from the back office.

Naturally I want to kill the motherfucker.

Harden clears his throat for the second time, summoning up courage, leaning forward to try to cover the sweat stains spreading across his shirt so fast they’re soon going to meet in the middle.

‘If we were talking normal risk positions, we’d have had alarm bells going off the moment he went over his usual risk limits.’ He stares across the table at another middle-aged Brit, Norman Sanders, head of the trading desk. Put on your body armour, Norman. ‘From a systems standpoint, I have total confidence in the integrity of the processes we followed.’

He’s still looking at Norman, who sits back in his seat and fixes John Harden with an icy stare. I feel like shouting ‘Incoming!’ but I know I don’t need to.

Harden goes on: ‘This is really a management issue. The systems worked. The management didn’t.’ Ouch. The little man bites back. The head of Risk Management is going for the jugular of the head of a major trading desk. Luxembourg invades France (bad example: they’d probably win). Cuba invades America. Georgia invades Russia.

I love this stuff. I lean forward, my anger morphing spectacularly into curiosity. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that bogus trading accounts were set up with so-called investing institutions – whom the head of the desk should have known, given the size of their trades – and massive volumes of business were done. Improbably huge volumes. Sometimes these new accounts were half the market. One day last week one of these new accounts did more volume than Hardman Stoney, Schleppenheim and Princes combined. Hello? Didn’t anyone wake up and smell the coffee?’

‘Well, certainly not you, you bastard.’ It may be 2 a.m., but Norman Sanders is wide awake. ‘You wouldn’t know a bogus trade if it bit you on the arse. You and your fucking bean counters contribute nothing, control nothing and know nothing. The people at the sharp end …’ He looks around to the other senior traders, as if expecting support. Naturally they stare at the papers on the table in front of them. ‘The people at the sharp end understand that in a high-pressure environment, with markets moving, huge volumes going through and the action unfolding second by second, you trust your team and you trust the systems. Like I said. We’re at the sharp end. Risk Management have the luxury of standing back and taking stock. That’s what they’re for. That’s what they’re meant to do and we count on them. And when they don’t sound the alarm bells, we trust them.’ He stares belligerently at Harden and clenches his fists. ‘What else are they for?’

Harden tenses and looks around like a cornered beast. He’s breathing heavily and his brow is glossy with perspiration. It’s time for me to intervene before it gets physical. For once I’m actually interested. Involved. Thank you, God. This definitely is not boring.

‘Gentlemen …’ I love that opening. It suggests a degree of maturity, calmness and detachment that someone as shallow, impatient and greedy as me could never truly muster, and at the same time imposes a kind of temporary order on the people gathered round the table – as if labelling them as gentlemen briefly creates a behavioural constraint on whatever it is they might otherwise do. Particularly to Harden.

‘Gentlemen, there is not going to be an official scapegoat from tonight’s meeting.’ Harden almost collapses in relief. ‘This motherfucker created bogus client accounts, ran real trades through them and, when they went wrong, created more bogus client accounts and ran fake counter-balancing trades through them, so the books balanced and we never noticed what was happening, and for weeks – months, in fact – he ran rings around us. To my mind there’s only one thing to do.’

They all stare at me, looking for The Answer. Christ, these guys are unimpressive.

‘Meet him.’ I smile around the room. ‘I don’t even know the guy. I want to meet him, and then I want to bury him. Along with whoever else is responsible for this mess.’

Now they’re really scared.

JEAN-MICHEL Caudalie is tall. I’m relatively short. This is a problem. Not for me, but for him.

Because it means I’m going to make him cry.

He’s sitting in a meeting room, facing me across a large glass-topped conference table. His boss, Norman Sanders, and John Harden, the head of Risk Management, are flanking me. Paul Ryan is sitting at the end of the table. We’re all staring at the tall guy, oozing hostility and resentment. He might have single-handedly wiped out the entire bonus pool for the coming year. He might have brought the entire firm down – we don’t even know yet, because we haven’t begun to unwind some of the more exotic derivative trades he put on to hide his tracks and we need his help to do so. Which means he’s in an unusually strong position.

He looks exhausted, as well he might after living with the burden of what he was doing for weeks on end as the losses multiplied and he had to keep rolling the dice for ever larger stakes.

I’ve got his personnel records in front of me. He comes from a small town near Lyon, has a mediocre academic record but an English mother, and so he was raised bilingually. That got him a ticket to London and a job in Grossbank’s French equity settlement team. His enthusiasm, positive attitude and a rare rapport with a supportive boss got him his big break and a trial period on a trading desk, where I’ll bet his imposing height and Gallic charm helped swing things his way. At least up to now.

As far as I’m concerned he’s not just guilty of potentially bringing down the firm – my firm – but he’s also tall and French, and that’s a problem.

He’s insisting he won’t say a word until his lawyer arrives. Fuck that. I’ve come prepared for this piece of shit.

I have my briefcase on the floor beside my chair. I reach down for it and place it on the table in front of me, opening it so that he can’t see inside. I turn to the others.

‘Leave the room, please. You know what to do.’

They’re taken aback – they have no idea what to do – but nod and leave silently, still staring malevolently at our nemesis.

When the door closes behind them, I place a sachet of white powder on the glass table. His eyes widen. I pour out a couple of lines, then take a fifty-pound note from my wallet, roll it up and use it to take a loud, long snort up each nostril.

He points at the remaining powder on the glass tabletop. ‘I-is that cocaine?’

‘No. I’m a hay fever sufferer. It’s prescription medicine. And don’t ever say cocaine. You can say “C” or Charlie, or white, or blow. OK?’

‘OK.’

I relax back in my seat. ‘Aaaaaah … I needed that.’ I nod at the remaining powder. A tremor runs through me and I know from experience that my pupils are massively dilated. ‘You want some? Go ahead. It’ll help your hay fever.’

He shrugs. ‘I … I …’ He looks helpless, unsure what to do – which is when I reach into my briefcase and pull out a snub-nosed .38 revolver and place it on the table in front of me. He gasps and looks as if he’s about to leap up and run from the room.

I nod towards the door. ‘Locked. I told them to.’

‘Th–they …?’

‘This is between you and me. Your career and mine. Your life and mine.’ I speak very slowly, almost absent-mindedly, as if my thoughts are elsewhere and I really don’t care what’s going on here. I pick up the revolver and turn the chamber leisurely, making a show of looking inside. He’s staring, his face sticky with perspiration. I look up and face him again. ‘One round.’ I close the chamber and spin it. ‘You’ve brought down the entire fucking bank. Did you know that?’

‘I … it can’t be true. Honestly. The trades I did … many of them were hedged. Really.’

I pause before replying, and when I do answer I speak in a tired, languid voice, so quiet that he has to strain to hear me.

‘I’m not sure I even care any more. Do you know how empty my life is? How meaningless?’

He shrugs his shoulders, unsure what to say. I guess this may be the first time in his life he’s been left alone in a locked room with a suicidal whacko armed with a revolver.

I point at my heart. ‘Deep inside me, in my heart, my mind, my soul, there’s just darkness. A great big fucking hole.’ I lift the revolver and his eyes fix on it. ‘And then there’s you.’

‘Me?’

‘I think you may have finally released me.’

‘Released you?’

I nod. ‘By what you did. Ending it all.’

‘B-but I haven’t ended it. Really, you must trust me. There’s no need to –’

I cut him off. ‘How do we know when you won’t talk to us? When you say you won’t cooperate without indemnity from the bank and a legal agreement? I can’t believe you. I don’t want to believe you. In fact I want to thank you. You’ve helped to bring it all to an end for me. It’s very close to being over.’ I wave my hands around at the conference room with its splendid corporate art, its wood-panelled walls, its plush carpets. ‘Everything. All over …’

I raise the revolver, place it next to my head and squeeze the trigger. He screams ‘Nooooo …!’ but there’s just an empty click.

I sigh, half disappointed. ‘One down. Five to go. Your turn.’ Before he can say anything I turn the gun on him and squeeze the trigger.

‘NOOOOO …!’ Too late, he dives sideways, landing in a heap on the floor, and tries to scramble under the glass-topped table, knocking over his chair.

Another click.

I wait, enjoying the sound of his breathless panting. ‘Y-you’re mad. Please, don’t do this.’

I’m smiling now. ‘Jean-Michel – do you mind if I call you Jean-Michel? Do you know what? I’m really not bored any more. This is better than drugs … better even than sex. We’re alive, Jean-Michel, and it feels real.’ I whisper the words hoarsely, and he looks utterly terrified.

‘S-so let’s both live. We can. I can tell you all about the trades I did, the passwords, the account names, everything. And then we can both live.’ He’s almost tripping over the words in his haste, peering up from the floor, looking at me anxiously with only the thick glass of the tabletop separating us.

I shake my head. ‘Nah.’ I raise the revolver, place it at my temple and squeeze the trigger. I hear a sharp intake of breath from beneath the table and he closes his eyes.

Click.

‘Oh God, no, please no, please don’t do this.’

I stare at him, puzzled, and slowly point the revolver towards him. ‘Why not?’

‘Because I’ll help you. I have a disc. All the trades. The bogus ones. I can work with you to unwind the positions. I know where everything is. It’s crazy, it runs to billions, but it won’t break the bank. It isn’t worth either of us dying for …’ He’s got tears in his eyes now. I love tears. Especially from really big guys. Big guys cry easily and that’s important for us little guys to know. Anyway, he really doesn’t want to die.

Neither do I. I slump forward in my chair, shaking my head as if lost in thought. I take the rolled-up fifty and snort another line from the table. ‘Aaaaah …’ Without looking up, I point the revolver at my temple again. ‘OK, I’ll take this shot for you.’ I squeeze.

‘NOOOOO!’

Click.

He’s sobbing now, tears running freely down his cheeks. I look down at him and our eyes meet. ‘Two rounds left. Strictly speaking they’re both yours.’

‘I’LL TELL YOU EVERYTHING!’

I slump further in my chair. I’m starting to get bored. I lower the revolver and place it back in my briefcase. I can feel a slow trickle of blood coming from one of my much-abused nostrils. Strange, that. I’ve started getting it a lot lately. I touch the blood and stare at it on my fingertip. My eyes flicker briefly down at him. ‘No lawyers?’

He shakes his head. ‘No lawyers.’

‘Full confidentiality, lifetime-binding, our terms?’

He nods.

‘Full cooperation and your resignation letter on my desk the moment we’ve sorted the mess?’

‘Anything you want.’ He finally loses it altogether and starts blubbing hopelessly, curling up into a ball on the carpet, great heaving sobs and snot running from his nose. About bloody time.

I dab my bleeding nostril carefully with my handkerchief, then sweep up my bits and pieces from the table, click my briefcase shut and stand up. He gets up nervously from under the table, picks up his chair and sits on it, his hands shaking. I pause and wipe my bloody nose again.

‘I’m leaving now. I’ll send in the others. You’d better mean what you said. The last two rounds are yours. You understand that, don’t you?’

‘I … I do.’ He’d probably give me a blow job now if I asked him to. I go to the door and he stares as I open it without needing to knock for it to be unlocked. Outside, the team are waiting, curious about the noises they were hearing.

I gesture back inside, where Caudalie is leaning forward over the table, his head in his hands, weeping.

‘He’ll tell you everything you need to know. Trades, accounts, passwords – everything. And he’ll do whatever we require. He’s got a master disc too. Make sure he hands it over tonight. Forget about his lawyer. When you know the size of the damage, call me.’

Even Paul Ryan looks impressed as I head off into the night. I like the night. The darkness waiting for me outside the office has the right kind of feel to it. I have the numbers of a couple of interesting French girls. I’m feeling in a French mood. Remarkable what you can do with an empty gun. At least I think it was empty.

I’M SITTING at my desk, smoking a cigar and blowing smoke rings at the ceiling. We operate a strict no-smoking rule – as the law now requires – but I take the view that gods should be exempt.

Paul Ryan is sitting opposite me, a sheaf of papers on his lap. My heads of department are gathered for an emergency summit in the conference room next door, waiting for the news. It’s taken weeks to get there, but we finally know how much this spawn of the devil has cost us.

‘So? What’s the final tab?’

He looks vaguely anxious, not sure how I’ll react. Messengers still get shot in the City. ‘Six and a half billion euros.’

‘Damn. That’s real money.’

There’s nothing more to be said. We get up, put our jackets on – it’s always a sign that something serious is afoot when you put your jacket on for an internal meeting – and we head off to the conference room.

When they hear the number, they slump in their chairs. The new homes, the holidays, the yachts, the supercars all fade back into unreality and they want blood. Losses like this will have to be disclosed. There will be no bonus – the bonus will be still having a job – and a whole long year of everyone’s life will be wasted.

Obviously Jean-Michel Caudalie has been fired. So has his boss. And his boss’s boss. The whole senior tier of people in Risk Management are clearing their desks, while our headhunters raid the opposition for replacements, triggering a hugely expensive and wasteful chain reaction of musical chairs around all the Risk Management departments in the City. As each firm is raided and loses key people, it hires its own headhunters to find replacements from elsewhere, triggering even more activity until eventually, after a few months and hundreds of thousands of pounds in headhunters’ fees plus millions of pounds in guaranteed packages, everyone settles down at their new firms and the music stops. I think of it as wealth redistribution and I’ve been a happy beneficiary of it myself in the past. Meanwhile, expensive consultants and members of the management committee – the top people in the firm led by Paul Ryan himself – mind the shop.

The real problem is that when we disclose the size of our losses, the market – which is to say our major institutional shareholders – will expect top management to take responsibility. That means me. They might even expect me to fall on my sword. I’m not a falling-on-my-sword type. Why should I? I genuinely have very little understanding of anything that goes on here, so why expect me to take responsibility for it? I look around the room. No one will meet my glance. They know. And I know too. My head’s on the block and I’d better do something fast.

Which of course I do, as I’m left with no choice. The City of London is ninety-per-cent form and only ten-per-cent substance. I know all about the substances, but it’s the form I need help with. So I take out my mobile, scroll down to ‘S’ and call the Silver Fox. I stare around the room. Pathetic. They are all so lucky I’m here. I’m Dave Hart, and in a crisis I’m indestructible.

THE GREAT thing about the Silver Fox is that he’s seen almost everything. If he hasn’t actually done it himself – he’s definitely had a colourful life – he has a client or a friend who has. Right now we’re relaxing in his office at Ball Taittinger, slumped in soft leather chairs, surrounded by framed front pages of newspaper stories that mark the triumphs of his career. I’m too discreet to ask whether the stories themselves were real, half real, entirely fictitious, malicious or well intentioned. But they worked. Whatever it was they were meant to achieve was accomplished.

‘We need a distraction, Dave.’ He has a lazy voice, gravelly in the way that cigar smokers’ voices tend to be as they reach their sixties. He’s elegantly dressed in a pinstriped suit, white power shirt and pink silk tie and has his longish grey hair slicked back to give him a racy, vaguely decadent look. I like the Silver Fox. I think he’s who I might like to be in fifteen or twenty years, if I make it that far.

I shrug. ‘Sure – but what? One way or another, we have to announce these losses. How can we hide that?’

‘If you’re in the shit, one way not to get particular attention is to make sure everyone else is in the shit as well. We call it our spread-it-around strategy. Get everyone in there with you.’

‘How do I do that? We’re the one with the rogue trader. The competition are lucky – they didn’t hire him.’

‘How do you know?’

‘How do I know what?’

‘That they don’t have their rogue traders too. But they’re burying them while you’re preparing to go public? Because you believe in honesty, openness and transparency? How do you know that the real story isn’t the huge losses made by investment banks that are kept buried from public scrutiny but actually threaten the very viability of the banking system?’

‘I wish. But they’d have to cough them up.’

He leans back even further in his chair and stares at the ceiling. Thoughtful. I like him like this. I feel safer already, which is why I always insist on paying top dollar for his advice. He’s reassuringly expensive, and where my personal reputation is concerned I will spare no expense to get the best – particularly as the bank picks up the tab.

‘But there are some types of business where banks move risk off their own balance sheets, aren’t there? They move the risk into special offshore vehicles that are not subject to the same reporting constraints.’

I nod. ‘Sure. We all do that. Particularly the smaller firms without the balance-sheet strength of Grossbank. It’s normal practice.’ Bingo. I can see already where this is going. It’s my cue and I take up the story. ‘Naturally, as a prudent firm we ought to be overhauling all of that side of our business, cleaning it up and, if we need to, taking a big one-off hit – which we announce to the world, at the same time setting a new standard for the industry. All of our mess gets sorted in one go, and we make a virtue of it. The others can match us, or be left with a bad odour wafting around them. Either way, we’re off the hook and we move on.’

He’s smiling now, happy. The master with his pupil. He leans across and pats me on the knee. ‘Dave, I think we’re in business.’

MELISSA MYERS is lying on her back, naked. She has perfect, naturally pouting blow job lips that I’ve been doing my best to wear out. Right now she’s spread-eagled on the four-poster bed in my flat, her wrists and ankles bound with Hermès ties. I’m still wearing a bathrobe and I’m leaning forward about to anoint her with a jar of maple syrup that I’ve just fetched from the kitchen.

Which is when the bedroom door bursts open. I spin around angrily. The only person with a key to my apartment other than the porter is Two Livers. I actually insisted she should have one, which is unusual – normally it works the other way round, and I spend my time explaining that on security grounds I’m not allowed to give out keys. But she’s different.

There’s a beautiful figure standing in the bedroom doorway, wearing a pale green slip dress from Christian Dior that sets off her bronzed skin beautifully. She’s taken her shoes off and is standing barefoot, staring at me.

‘Two Livers.’ My eyes feast on her. She’s perfect. ‘When did you get out of hospital?’

‘This afternoon. They say I’m ready. I’m starting back at work tomorrow.’ She nods over my shoulder towards Melissa, who has her eyes shut and a ‘this is not happening’ look on her face. ‘Is this a bad time?’

‘Not at all.’ I place my hand on her shoulder and gently guide her out of the bedroom, closing the door behind me. ‘This is a great time.’ I put my arms around her and we kiss in the hallway until she undoes the cord around my waist and pulls my robe off.