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the plunge?’ said Sir John.

      Impertinent bastard. Absolute knighthood corrupts absolutely.

      ‘No.’

      ‘Nice girl, Stella.’

      Sir John had met Sonia twice, once by chance in a pub near the Hog’s Back and once at a party given to drink away the profits of Europe’s bumper sales year in 1962. Suddenly it came to Robert that he ought to marry Sonia. Desire for her flooded over him, taking him by surprise. Help. Press the legs inward. Ouch. Hope he hasn’t noticed. Pretty hard to fool Sir John, from all accounts, where genitalia are concerned.

      ‘I believe you’re having a course of – er – er —’

      ‘Analysis. Yes, sir.’

      Sir John wanted to say ‘Why?’ but was too much of a gentleman to do so. He tried so hard to be ruthless, but his manners were too good for him. He’d been to Winchester.

      ‘I hope nothing’s – er – er —’ said Sir John.

      ‘Wrong. No, nothing’s wrong. In fact, I’m intending to give it up,’ said Robert.

      ‘Good. Glad to hear it. As you know, Robert, I’ve always been a bit worried about your – shall we say your – er —’

      ‘Quick temper.’

      ‘Exactly. You’re high spirited. Emotional. Say what you think. Good thing, too. Far too little straightforwardness around, I often think.’ Sir John leant forward very seriously. ‘You’ve done some excellent work for us, Robert. Excellent. And that’s a quality we value very highly at C and B. But, Robert. But …’ and Sir John paused.

      ‘Well, thank you,’ said Robert.

      ‘I’d be the first to admit that you have great charm. Great charm, Robert. First to admit it. I like you very much as a … a chap. Which, heaven knows, you are. And a jolly good one. But in a big, highly competitive organization like ours there have to be certain ways of doing things, certain ways in which certain things for certain reasons always have been done and always will be done and always should be done. You do at times tend to be slightly – shall we say – er —’

      ‘Unconventional.’

      ‘Exactly. A fine quality, mind you. A fine quality. And you get on jolly well with those Europeans. I appreciate that. Some of our chaps are so insular, so narrow. They haven’t your culture, your flair, your vision. They’re at a premium, Robert, qualities like that. At a premium. And you have them.’

      It was going to be the sack. Robert knew it.

      ‘God dammit, I don’t want everybody to be conformists. Far too many conformists about. But the fact remains, Robert. The fact remains.’ Sir John let out a deep sigh, forcing himself to be more ruthless still. ‘You may not see a good reason why there should be a distinction between the executive and non-executive – er – er —’

      ‘Loo.’

      ‘Exactly. Washroom. Nevertheless, that is the C and B system. Everyone’s happier that way. And we’re a team here, Robert. We must all pull together.’

      ‘And I pulled the wrong chain.’

      ‘Exactly. You pulled … oh, I see.’

      ‘I suppose the executives might get V.D. if they used the non-executive bogs.’

      ‘Really, Robert, there’s no need to be so – er —’

      ‘Vulgar.’

      ‘Exactly. You do have a way of picking the – er —’

      ‘Mot juste.’

      ‘Exactly. But, Robert, there is a time and a place for everything. And the time for talking about – er —’

      ‘Bogs and V.D. is not in your office.’

      ‘Exactly. I’m glad you understand it so well. Not that I thought you wouldn’t. You’re highly intelligent. Highly. And you have a sense of humour, too. A quality sadly lacking at C and B. Mind you, you have – er —’

      ‘Gone a bit far on occasions.’

      ‘Exactly. Exactly. Can’t overlook the odd managerial black eye entirely. Failing in my duty if I did. But to turn to this – er – caricature in the non-executive – er – washroom. Quite amusing, in its way, I grant you that. I inspected it and I must admit I had a little chuckle. Quite the talk of the – er – non-executive canteen. But, Robert. But …’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘I understand why you did this. Not as unimaginative as I look. I understand that there was genuine irritation behind this, genuine dislike of the – er —’

      ‘Petty class distinctions.’

      ‘Of industrial life. Exactly. I’m aware that you aren’t just striving for cheap popularity on the shop floor. But nevertheless, nevertheless, Robert, that is the effect. To make you popular – though not necessarily respected – and to make Tadman-Evans look ridiculous. And you know it was somewhat gratuitous to use his real telephone number. He had fourteen calls over the weekend.’

      ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

      ‘So under the circumstances I really feel that I have no – er – er —’

      ‘Alternative.’

      ‘Exactly. No hard feelings, eh?’

      ‘Well, sir, no.’

      Sir John stood up. The interview was over.

      ‘Glad you’re taking it like this. I quite thought I might end up with a black eye. Amuse Lady Barker no end. Huh.’

      Sir John extended his hand. Robert took it.

      ‘Well, Robert, there it is.’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘There it is.’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      Sir John let go of Robert’s hand.

      ‘There it is.’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      Robert made his way to the door.

      ‘Good luck,’ said Sir John Barker.

      He walked slowly back to his office. Oh, well, what did it matter? It was time he left anyway. Twelve years was too long with one firm. This was an opportunity, not a setback.

      ‘Nothing wrong, Mr Bellamy, is there?’ said Julie.

      ‘No, Julie. Nothing wrong.’

      ‘Oh, it wasn’t …’

      ‘The sack. Yes, I rather think it must have been.’

      ‘Oh, Robert.’

      Chapter 2

       A London Night

      Robert had first met Sonia twelve years previously, in the early December of 1955, at a party given by a friend of a friend of Doreen’s. Doreen shared with Brenda the room above Robert’s, at number 38. They were Yorkshire girls, from Dewsbury. They knew of every party within a six-mile radius of Kentish Town. They were waiting for the arrival of Mr Right. They liked Robert, and often dragged him off to parties, even though he wasn’t Mr Right.

      Shortly after their arrival at the party, Robert found himself all alone. He took a second glass of the punch and drank it rapidly. He was twenty. He had just started at Cadman and Bentwhistle. He had never had a girl, and believed that this fact was written on his face. All the girls in the typing pool knew, and he hated it when he had to walk through the typing pool.

      The room was dimly-lit, red, stripped for action, crowded. God, I hate parties, he thought.

      A

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