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  Roger, pale and sweating heavily, slumps in a chair and, sans preamble, says, “Reynard, this isn’t good. I’m struggling to see a happy way out of this.” He hands me and Lucija a printout each. “Look, I’ve modelled various scenarios. Best case is that we offload enough assets without having to discount too heavily. Investors take a haircut on their investment, but hopefully nothing too drastic. Maybe 20% or so.”

  “That’s the most positive case you can come up with? An overnight 20% decline in net asset value? A billion quid up in smoke, just like that? Let’s try to be optimistic here, shall we?”

  “I’m being realistic. It can’t possibly be any better than that.”

  Lucija leans forward seductively. “And the base case?”

  Roger shakes his head slowly. “Well, I think that what is most likely is that we have to offer substantial discounts to tempt buyers. Our lack of liquidity’s counting against us here. No one’s going to want to hold these sorts of things if the wind’s blowing in the wrong direction. People cleverer than me expect property prices to continue to fall at the current rate; if anything it might accelerate, which is of course the bank’s fear. We might be able to dump some assets to sort our funding problem, but then what? Investors behave like pack animals. If they see us offloading property and see net asset value heading south, they’ll start to jump ship. Suddenly the fund’s half the size it was before. Who knows where the bottom is?”

  I clap my hands together. “Whoah, let’s not shit the bed, okay? Two things. Firstly, you’re getting carried away with a doomsday scenario. Who says property prices are going to continue to fall? They could even go up for all you know. When have I been wrong in the past?”

  Silence.

  I continue, “And who’s to say Cryx won’t reverse his decision? You know Cryx could wake up, smell the coffee, understand that he’s making a horrible mistake.”

  Roger and Lucija exchange glances.

  I send the pert intern out with an envelope to meet Leo at The Spider's Web. She returns with a discreet little package of happiness, which I sample in the toilets. It’s pleasingly up to Leo's usual exalted standards, a glimpse of God here on earth.

  Later, my mood lifts further when Cryx finally messages me back, asking me to meet him at The Randy Goat tomorrow. Things are falling into place.

  In the evening, I sample the superlative new stash from Leo with the help of Chiquita/Patricia. Rather than something more energetic, tonight I'm happy just to watch her pleasure herself, which she does with relish (twice; the second time I get her to do it out on the balcony, her nipples like organ stops).

  Victor calls. The Reverend didn't take the bait: my gift was sent away unwrapped. Victor confirms that as requested he'd sent him a generically beautiful blonde dressed to kill, ostensibly calling to conduct a market research survey, but the Reverend was clearly not tempted. I tell Victor to try something a little more left-field next week.

  I message the Reverend to apologise for the nonarrival of his present then email Lucija and tell her to send him six bottles of Glenmorangie Milsean Private Edition; whisky will have to suffice for the time being. She emails back within ten minutes to confirm that the whisky will arrive tomorrow.

  In The Randy Goat, Cryx is already nursing a mineral water at a quiet corner table. I grab a V&T and join him. We shake hands and make eye contact, establishing some sort of connection.

  “So, Ed, I won’t beat around the bush, have you thought about my offer?”

  “Your offer?”

  “Well, not so much an offer as a suggestion. Quid pro quo, you know.”

  Cryx rests his chin on his upturned palm. “I’m not sure I do know, unfortunately. I’m a detail person, as I’m sure you appreciate, so I wonder if you could be a little more specific?”

  “Well, it’s a little delicate, as I’m sure you understand. But in general terms what I’m suggesting is some sort of social exchange, a mutually beneficial transaction. We both have something that could benefit the other, so surely the most logical way forward would be to effect some sort of deal whereby we both win.”

  Cryx stares, cold and hard. His jaw clenches and unclenches. “Meaning what, exactly?”

  “I’m not going to spell it out, am I?”

  He smiles unconvincingly. “I’m sorry, Reynard, but I can’t respond to something so vague. The terms of any, erm, social exchange need to be clear before I can respond.”

  “Okay, forget it. Let’s talk about property, shall we? How much is your girlfriend’s flat worth?”

  “Rosie’s? I don’t know, maybe six, seven hundred thousand.”

  “Do you plan to settle down together?”

  “Who knows? Not sure, just need to get the divorce sorted out first, then see. Rosie’s lovely, but, well…”

  “So you’d love a place of your own? Maybe a nice three-bed flat somewhere convenient? Like St John’s Wood or Maida Vale, say?”

  “A pipe dream, sadly. You know how much decent ones go for around there?”

  “A million, a million and a half?”

  “Yeah, pretty much. Or maybe a bit cheaper if the property market slides further. But not something I can contemplate at the moment, not with Rachel squeezing my pips.”

  “Well, Ed, listen, your luck could be in. I just so happen to own a three-bed flat around there, bought it back in the day when I worked for a broker. It was rented out, but it happens to be vacant at the moment. Perhaps you could make use of it?”

  “You mean be your tenant?”

  “No, think bigger, you know? Excuse me for a minute.”

  When I return from the gents, Cryx is staring at his water and clenching his jaw. He looks up and smiles weakly as I sit.

  “Reynard, what do you mean? You’d let me live there without paying rent?”

  “Think bigger.”

  “No, I can’t possibly imagine…”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Ed, do I have to spell it out? The property is currently legally owned by a company that I directly control. Not Gyges, in case you were wondering. It’d be easy enough to transfer ownership of the flat to someone else. You know, someone else who does some other person a favour? A favour, perhaps to do with reversing a decision about something?”

  Cryx gormlessly stares, then the faintest of smiles. “I understand. Let me think about it, okay?”

  “Sure, just don’t take your time. We have to get moving quickly. Call me tonight or tomorrow and let’s get this wrapped up.”

  16

  Feverish dreams, with my digestive tract in a starring role. Sharp, stabbing pains in my right side, images of colossal turds like elephants' trunks coiling out of my arse to a snake charmer's accompaniment. On closer inspection, the turds are not a healthy mid-brown but rather a jaundiced yellow, but it seems that only I care.

  As I wake, I instinctively turn to look behind me, but there's no sign of having soiled the bed. My right side still aches, though, like the aftershocks of too many good nights out. I bolster myself with vodka, cocodamol, and pregabalin; soon the pain's gone and things are alright in the world.

  In the shower I want to pleasure myself, but my penis is unresponsive, as if asleep. I dress immaculately in a navy suit and white shirt from Huntsman, a geometric patterned tie from Pink, and some Zegna slip-ons that I didn't know I had.

  Out on the balcony, with the binoculars. These Zeiss Victory HTs are the best you can buy, naturellement. The hunter's choice. I can read the spines of the books on the widow's shelves opposite, I can see the faded grey of her eyes, the heavily lined face, the shuffling gait. I can see her daughter's too-tight T-shirt, the hint of a bra, the thick concealer and the clumsy mascara. I haven't yet explored her crevices, but I surely will.

  In the office, Lucija wears the tight green dress that accentuates her gym-hardened peaches and black heels (Louboutin?). She wears her hair up, which looks great, but I prefer it down. She has this way of pursing her lips when on the phone, then staring towards me, no doubt lost
in erotic reverie. She's smart: she knows how to play to her strengths. I see she has a tiny diamond on her ring finger, but I know it's not significant. Perhaps one day I'll let her sleep with me, but it's probably best to wait until the current turbulence is over, the St Saviour's deal is completed, and I'm home and dry, perhaps on a desert island somewhere.

  Roger tells me of a £17.75m bid for 1 Blindley Place – a brutalist retail and office block, not really my style but a decent little earner. Despite his protestations, it's clear to me that we can achieve £18.5m, minimum, so I tell him to reject the bid and to insist that we're looking for something closer to £19m. Gyges is going to come out of this even stronger, I know it.

  I meet David Bligh for brunch in Côte Brasserie. Man will always revert to type in the end; as David tucks into a full English, it's clear that he's abandoned his diet. I order a Croque Madame and a Bloody Mary; the latter hits the spot.

  “Is everything okay, Reynard? You know you're looking very pale? Maybe you could clean up your lifestyle a little?”

  “What are you, a doctor?” I ask.

  “Technically, yes, remember? But I speak more as a friend. What's up?”

  “Did I say anything was up?”

  He levers a whole rasher of bacon between his fat lips and says, between chews, “You didn't need to. I'm a psychiatrist and a friend and it's pretty obvious to me. What's wrong?”

  “Well, since you ask, I'm being fucked on all sides, and not in a good way. Investors are shitting themselves for no good reason.”

  “What does the mean for your company?”

  “What does it mean? Unclear at this stage. Maybe a storm in a teacup, which is what it should be. Or it could be curtains.”

  “What, curtains for the company?”

  “Yep.”

  “Really sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Can you lend me fifty million?”

  “If only I could, Reynard. If only I could.” David calls the waiter over and asks for more toast and a hot chocolate. I order another double espresso as he spears the yolk of his fried egg with half a sausage.

  I say, “Will you give me something extra to get me through? You know, something pharmaceutical.”

  He chews furiously then swallows. “I'm somewhat reluctant, Reynard. You already take pregabalin, which should help with any anxiety, as long as you don't drink with it. And the cocodamol, well you're rather off-piste with that one, and you know I don't approve.”

  “I thought we were friends, Dave?”

  “We are, but I need to be careful. Professional standards, you know. I can refer you to one of my colleagues, and then you can be treated properly.”

  “I don't want to be referred. I don’t need treatment. Forget it then.”

  David’s extra toast arrives. As he liberally butters it, I casually ask, “How's Debbie? I must get in touch with her. Haven't spoken to her in ages.”

  The buttering stops. David looks up, open-mouthed. “You're joking,” he says. “I thought we were friends?”

  “So did I.”

  “Oh, great... Okay, Reynard, what is it you want?”

  “Tramadol looks good.”

  “I'm really very reluctant. For a start, you really mustn't drink with it, which you might struggle with. It can be habit-forming, and it would have to be instead of the pregabalin. We'd have to taper the dosage of that to switch you over.”

  “I understand. You've explained the risks. I'm a clever boy, so just give me the prescription, okay? Please.”

  “You mustn't drink. Understand?”

  “I understand.”

  He puts down his knife and fork and looks straight at me. “Reynard, I really am concerned. I'll write this prescription, but I strongly recommend that you seek some help.” He hands me a card. “Make an appointment with this chap. He'll be very nice to you and get you the help you need.”

  “Oh right, does he have fifty million?”

  “I'm serious.”

  I take the card and pocket it. “I hear everything you're saying, Dave. I must say I appreciate it. You're a good friend.”

  As he hands over the prescription he says, “Just look after yourself. And please do get some help, for everyone’s sake.”

  Walking away from the brasserie and back towards the office, I call Akemi. She answers on the second ring, but there's nothing for me to say, so I hang up. She messages me R U ok Foxy but I don't reply. There's nothing left to say to her, and I've rarely felt less foxy.

  Back in the office, Roger tells me that a consortium backed by Russian money has put in an unsolicited £32m offer for Reynard House. I tell him to reject it – Reynard House is not for sale.

  “Reynard, we're in a desperate situation, we’ve got no choice. We have to sell.”

  “Over my dead body. I'm in charge, and we're not selling Reynard House. Got it?”

  He quietly closes the door and sits in the chair facing my desk. “Yes, you're in charge, Reynard, but it would be negligent of me not to recommend what I consider to be the most sensible course of action. I think we should sell Reynard House. We need to. We need to settle our obligations with the bank. We have to do the best by our investors, which means we have to sell assets, reduce leverage, rescale our ambitions, and accept that to be viable the fund has to be smaller. And just hope that things return to normal soon.”

  “That's your opinion, Rog, that's all. Yes, we can sell some other property, just not Reynard House.”

  “Is that your final decision?”

  “Yes. Go and sell some other property. Got it?”

  He stands from the chair but stumbles and reaches out a puny, pale hand to catch himself. He remains on his feet – just – but knocks a George Jouve ceramic table lamp to the floor. He apologises as he retrieves the lamp and returns it to my desk. I see then his sickly pallor, the sweat glistening on his skin, the tremor of his puny hands.

  “Are you okay, Roger?”

  “What? Just a little under the weather, but thanks for asking.”

  “Any time. Don't overdo it.”

  He nods, squeezes out a brave little smile, then leaves my office, leaving behind his stench, that of the frightened, cornered animal. The smell of the weak; the victim.

  Late in the day, we accept an offer on 11 Bogdan Mews, a residential anomaly in the portfolio, and an amusing punt that has doubled in price to £7.5m since I bought it. It's somewhat galling to accept an offer 30% below market value, but it seems necessary to assuage the fears of the bedwetters. Roger appears pleased, then leaves the office for a medical appointment.

  As I prepare to leave for the Bacchus Club, Lucija, reminds me with a smile, “Don't forget it's opera night tonight.”

  Opera night. Words guaranteed to deflate even the most sanguine of chaps. My cock retreats immediately, eyes dim, I die a little. But as ever, I'll make it as fun as I can. A couple of wraps of Leo's finest, some flavoured condoms, perhaps a cock ring? Or perhaps not.

  As Lucija hands me my dry-cleaned suit and shirt, she tells me I'm seeing Tosca, which apparently has had wonderful reviews. At least it's not Wagner. Puccini's just about tolerable, given the right liquid and chemical assistance.

  I see this kind of fundraising event as a necessary evil. I play along, dance to the tune, wear the right clothes, say the right things. Give money to deserving charities, like tonight's beneficiary. I know how to play the game, because to win you have to play along. Which is not to say that I necessarily agree with the rules – or always adhere to them.

  As usual, I find myself in a box for tonight's performance. I'm a guest of Michael Staunton, of Staunton & Phipps, city lawyers. Mrs Staunton is somewhat younger than her greying husband and on previous meetings has been somewhat coquettish in a disarmingly girlie way. Once again I find myself sat next to her. Her long, elegant legs cross and uncross themselves with remarkable regularity, her Marc Jacob dress edging up farther, her thighs unquestionably alluring.

  “Any sign
of Mrs Reynard yet?” Her hand rests on my arm, her breath already saturated with gin.

  “No sign yet, no. I've been married before, and that didn't work out, unfortunately.”

  “I'm sure the right girl is out there for you. Plenty of willing candidates, I'm sure.” And she squeezes my arm harder, then releases, but lets her fingers linger there longer than they should, and then slide off, slowly.

  If I could engineer it, we could slip off quietly and she would happily bend over and receive me. But I won't do that. Staunton watches us out of the corner of his eye as he pretends to listen to another client of his, some balding duffer. And besides, Staunton is a useful ally, exactly the sort of dependable chap one needs to take care of the irritating little legal details, especially in times like this.

  So I take a large gulp of my V&T, finger the wrap in my jacket pocket, and wait for the performance to begin, which duly passes in a blur of inconsequential screeching as I settle down for a period of self-reflection.

  You know, no one’s perfect. I’m no exception — there’s one thing I can't do well: sing. This came as a disappointment to my mother, a devotee of Gilbert and Sullivan. Sat at the piano, shortly before she died, my task was to sing the note my mother played. And so the repetitious humiliation began: the ting of the piano, then my dissonant, throat-clearing “La.” My mother's hmm of disappointment, her plea to really listen, to try harder this time. And then the final putdown: “You know, Reynard, I thought that perhaps this might be something you were good at, but let's carry on looking – it has to be out there somewhere.”

  She died just days later. It was ostensibly tragic — a head-on crash in her lover's car — but to my five-year-old self it was simply right that she should pay for what she had done, for how she was. Justice. As if we were benefiting from divine intervention, my father and I were suddenly freed from a malevolent feminine presence. Even at such a young age, I could still sense the relief that my mother’s death brought to my father. Yes, there was some sadness, but most of all there was relief. Their marriage told a cautionary tale, one with a bittersweet ending. I had seen the truth, seen through the myth of the happy family. And as if he too had learned from such an experience (and how could he not have?), my father never sought to replace my mother; a feminine presence could only ever be pernicious. Which meant for me there was no wicked stepmother; after all, this is no fairy tale.