vacuum the living room, then the dining room and finally the hall. I pass my artwork and smile. When I put the vacuum away and liberate the limescale loo cleaner from the cupboard under the sink, I realize I’m having what Adam used to call an OCD moment, an episode that my therapist would probably have a proper Latin word for. Yellow gloves are snapped into place before I scrub the loos, still singing, with a scourer in one hand and a newly poured glass of wine in the other. If someone could see me, they’d think me quite mad. If there are any aliens watching, they’ll kidnap Sylvia next door instead. They could never take the risk.
I’m sitting in my office, my head in my hands, my elbows rested on the scarred walnut antique desk that Beth sourced somewhere in rural Brittany. My wristwatch claims its ten thirty, which means I’ve been here two hours. Despite the two large screens on the wall opposite, with Bloomberg blinking red downward arrows at me, all I’ve done since I got in is paper-shuffle. Outside my door, the plaque six feet away in the reception area says HALL & FRY. The name is well known in the City. It tells people that we are a respected wealth-management firm, a highly regarded family office. If your family has money, come to us; we’ll look after it, help it grow. You want art? You want to invest in property? The markets? We are specialist consultants. Offering advice. I wish to hell someone would offer me some.
As if on cue, Matt – my business partner for almost twenty years – enters without knocking.
‘You look like shit,’ is his opening line.
I rub my two-day-old facial hair. ‘We’re not seeing clients,’ is my only offer of defence.
‘I still have to look at you.’ He throws a couple of files on my desk. ‘Can you have these back by four and we do have to see clients tomorrow, the Granger brothers? So a shave might be in order?’
I ignore the client reference, ignore Matt’s worried face looking at the screens, lean back and put my feet up on my desk. ‘You pissed off at me for some reason?’
‘Now what would make you think that?’ Matt turns back to me, peers at me above his glasses, then reconsiders and removes them completely. It gives him something to wave at me. ‘Why in the world would anyone be pissed off at the wonderful Adam Hall?’
‘Yeah well, join the queue,’ I mutter, removing my feet.
Matt sits in the chair opposite, runs a hand through his scant hair.
‘What is it you’re doing, Adam? Do you even know? I mean, do you love this girl?’
I stand and look out of the window, try to lose myself in the urban sounds below. The loud hum of traffic, the odd siren, riverboat horns … My office overlooks Tower Bridge and there isn’t a day goes by where I don’t look down from my sixth-floor room and pinch myself. I’m a lucky guy. At least I was a lucky guy. Now I’m a lucky bastard. Lucky dastard. A lucky dastardly bastard. I feel Matt’s eyes bore holes in my back.
‘Adam?’
‘That’s three questions. Which one would you like me to answer first?’
‘Whichever.’
I turn to face him. ‘The truth is, I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t think I’m in love, but I’m drawn to this woman—’
Matt makes a ‘haruuumph’-type sound. ‘It’s called lust,’ he says, matter-of-factly.
I feel my head shake in defence.
‘If it’s not lust and it’s not love, what is it? Do you have anything in common with her?’
‘Her name is Emma.’
‘Emma then.’ Matt shrugs as he stands, replaces his glasses. ‘What is it you have in common with Emma?’
‘She’s …’ I hesitate for just a moment too long.
‘She is gorgeous,’ he offers. I think in a strange way, he’s trying to help.
She’s ten years younger than me. She comes from money, while my DNA originated in Bethnal Green. She doesn’t even know who The Eagles are and I’ve been to every concert they’ve played in the UK. She couldn’t sing along to Bruce Springsteen with me. She lives in a clutter-free, white, sterile house, whereas I’m – I mean Beth’s – a hoarder.
‘She is gorgeous,’ I agree. ‘And, frankly, the sex is phenomenal.’
I stare at his suited back as he exits the room.
‘Lust.’ He looks back over his shoulder. ‘Told you so … Speaking of which,’ he says grinning, ‘you have a lunch appointment with the subject of my dreams.’
My eyes squeeze shut as the door closes.
Bloody hell. Karen. I have a lunch appointment with the woman Matt has been lusting after for years. Karen, our outsourced IT specialist and Beth’s best friend in the world.
As she approaches, I notice men staring. Karen is stunning: a tall, willowy redhead with a slim figure. Straight, short, spiky hair; wide brown eyes flanked by long lashes; a pert nose and full lips. She’s wearing a fitted jacket and loose flared trousers. Karen refuses my air kiss, turns her head away and slowly begins to fold her long legs into the booth I’ve reserved for lunch. I hand her an envelope.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I could’ve just sent it by BACS, but I wanted to apologize in person. That brings us all up to date.’
She nods, doesn’t look at me and immediately begins to remove her limbs from the booth again.
‘What? That’s it?’ I hear my voice sound as if I’m fourteen and it’s about to break.
She looks me up and down. ‘Adam, I agreed to meet you when you guys owed me six grand. I thought I’d have to butter you up to be paid. I thought I’d get quoted the fact that times are bad, that we’re all still feeling the pain of recession. That your clients haven’t paid you, so you’re a little slow in paying contractors, but hey …’ She waves an arm dramatically as she swings her designer handbag over her other shoulder. ‘Here we are and you’ve already paid me!’
‘Stay for lunch …’
‘I’d rather starve.’
‘Please.’ I meet her narrowed eyes. ‘I need to talk to you, to someone.’
‘Try Yell.com. Look under “Counselling for fucktards”.’ She is still standing.
‘Please? Beth won’t talk to me.’
She relents a little and sits down, no legs under the table, just seated on the edge, ready for a speedy exit. It’s good enough for me.
‘Drink?’
She shakes her head.
‘Do you mind if I have one?’
More head-shaking.
