LITMIR.BIZ

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on the twenty-third of June,’ said the commentator.

      ‘Do you really? How sad is that?’ called out James.

      ‘Interestingly enough—’

      James pressed the button. He smiled internally at the thought that he would never know whether the commentator’s remark would have been interesting enough. He was already far away, on Radio 2, listening to Steve Wright in the Afternoon.

      His phone rang almost immediately. Sadly, Steve Wright spent only twelve seconds in James’s afternoon.

      It was Marcia, his PA. At the sound of her posh Benenden voice his heart sank. Dwight wanted him to sack her tomorrow. He wasn’t sure if he had the power to sack her any more. Didn’t he have to give her a warning, maybe several warnings? He didn’t want to sack her, but he didn’t want not to have the power to sack her if he wanted to. It was odd being a boss these days.

      ‘Hello. It’s me.’ So bright and warm and innocent and naive. She hadn’t been to Benenden. She’d been to an obscure private school, now defunct, where they taught you to talk as if you had been to Benenden. James sometimes thought that it was the only thing they had taught her.

      ‘Hello, Marcia.’

      ‘How did it go? Do I still have you as my boss?’

      Marcia, that really is a little bit forward.

      ‘Sorry. Am I being a bit cheeky?’

      ‘No. Not at all. It went well. You still have me as your boss.’ Not for long, though. Poor girl. ‘No, we just have to make savings. Fifteen per cent across the board.’

      ‘Heavens.’

      ‘Quite.’

      ‘And we have to produce a report stating why we shouldn’t move all our production to Taiwan.’

      ‘Oops.’

      ‘Exactly.’

      ‘Are you coming back in?’

      ‘No. The traffic’s terrible. I’m crawling at forty in the fast lane.’

      ‘Oh, poor you.’

      ‘Always nice to hear your cheerful voice, Marcia, but was there any particular reason for ringing?’

      ‘Yes. There was.’

      Silence.

      A Vauxhall Corsa pulled into the space between James and the car in front. He hooted angrily. It happened all the time if you tried to keep your distance. Keep two chevrons’ distance? Impossible. Had anybody in the government ever driven on a motorway? No, they had chauffeurs and slept, dreaming of their expenses.

      It was yet another irritation on an irritating day.

      ‘Are you still there, Marcia?’

      ‘Yes. Sorry, it’s gone. Oh, lorks, maybe I’m going to have to be a bit more on the ball if you’re having to make these savings.’

      It’s too late, darling.

      ‘Oh, yes. It’s come back. The police rang.’

      ‘The police?’

      ‘Yes. Sorry. I should have written it down, ’cause I usually do, but I thought it was so important and unusual that I couldn’t possibly forget it.’

      ‘Quite. What did they want?’

      ‘He didn’t say. He sounded nice, though. Quite young, I think.’

      ‘Yes, I don’t care what age he was, Marcia, but didn’t he say anything?’

      ‘He asked for your home number and your address. I didn’t think it would sound good to be too inquisitive. I think they’ll be in touch with you this evening.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      ‘James?’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘I hope it’s nothing serious.’

      ‘Thank you. Probably some scrape my bloody daughter’s got into.’

      ‘I guess. James?’

      ‘Yes, Marcia?’

      ‘I’ll be in all evening. Will you ring and let me know? ’Cause I’ll worry.’

      ‘That’s very sweet of you.’

      ‘Well, you know I …’

      ‘What? What, Marcia?’

      ‘No. Nothing. Sorry.’

      She rang off. Oh, how how how could he sack her tomorrow? Or even give her a warning. How could he bear to witness the hurt that she would have no ability to conceal?

      It was his barely admitted wish that he had been born as his brother Charles that had led James to choose to live in a three-storey Georgian end-of-terrace house in one of the more fashionable parts of Islington rather than in the five-bedroom two-garage four-bathroom suburban home with conservatory, summer house, tree house and large lawn hidden from the envious by leylandii that might have seemed more suitable for the Managing Director of the London office. The only real drawback was the absence of those two garages. Even with his residents’ pass he often had to park quite a way from the house, and on this day of irritations it was no surprise that this should be so.

      As he dragged himself through the poisoned early-evening heat past the reticent charms of the nicely proportioned brick-built houses in the modestly elegant, understated street he longed for a drink, but even more than that, he craved the peace of his home. Every visitor commented on how restful and quietly artistic the house was, and he was always generous in admitting how much of this achievement was down to Deborah, his style guru.

      His legs were leaden. The heavy traffic, the tense meeting, the fear of sacking the lovely, useless Marcia, and the news that he was going to get a call from the police all contributed to a debilitating unease.

      He couldn’t find his front-door key, so he rang the bell, but there was no reply. That was odd. He had expected Deborah to be in.

      Thank goodness the house was on the end of the terrace. He took the narrow path on the eastern side of the house, picked up the back-door key from under the third stone behind the statue of Diana (Greek goddess, not princess), and entered the house through the garden door.

      Perhaps it was just as well that Deborah wasn’t home. She would have raised her eyebrows at the sight of him going to the gin bottle before he even took his tie off.

      He poured himself a gin and Noilly Prat with ice and a slice, sniffed it eagerly, and took the first of many sips.

      He sat in a green eighteenth-century armchair – no three-piece suites for Deborah – and stretched his body and his legs into full relaxing mode. He gazed with pleasure, as he did almost every day, at the carefully chosen semi-abstract landscapes by little-known modern artists that decorated the most serene living room of this man who hardly knew what the word ‘serenity’ meant.

      At last, he gave a deep sigh, stood up carefully – his back was not something to be relied upon, especially after a long drive – and strode with sudden resolution towards the telephone. As he passed the piano, he ran his hand along the smooth walnut lid. It was a most beautiful piano. Neither he nor Deborah played. They had bought it for his brother Charles to play when he visited. James may have wished that he was Charles, but there was no envy in him. He was very proud of his brother.

      He picked up the telephone, paused for a moment, summoning up his strength, then dialled his daughter’s number. Well, he wasn’t sure if it was her number. He’d been given it by someone at a number which had previously been said to be her number. Deborah had tried it a few times, at moments when she’d felt brave, he standing beside her and touching her to give her the strength he hadn’t quite got. There had never been a reply. He felt brave now, his resolve stiffened by the task and the challenge set him by Dwight Schenkman the Third,

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