Too late I realize I’m talking rather loudly. Nigel is looking up at me with wide eyes. As soon as he sees me look at him, he hunches back over his computer.

“So Vanessa is a sneering bitch?”

I realize David is chuckling. How dare he not take this seriously.

“It’s not Vanessa I’m cross with,” I lie. “I’m sure she’s perfectly nice. But you . . . you wouldn’t even introduce me as your girlfriend. How do you think that made me feel?”

“Georgie, my darling, I’m really sorry. Vanessa is working with me on a particular case. She had to work on her own on Saturday because I was with you—we actually owe her one, okay? I was hoping she wouldn’t find out I was with you all day; I had made some excuse about being ill and told her that the maid had answered the phone. Then you turned up and started shouting at us!”

“Really?” I start to feel a bit silly.

“Yes, gorgeous.” David’s laughing now. “I am now the butt of a million jokes in the office. But that’s okay—you, and our night together, are absolutely worth it. But don’t read anything sinister into the fact that I had to work on Sunday, okay?”

“Okay,” I agree. “But you could have said you were in Rome to work. And not told me you were going to Geneva,” I say pointedly.

“I know. Georgie, I was a fool. I didn’t want to tell you I was going to Rome because I knew you’d want me to take you. In the event, it turns out that I could have done—and I’m so glad you were there—but I didn’t want our first trip to Rome together to be a business trip so I told you I was going to Switzerland instead. And then I was just so shocked to bump into you that I wasn’t thinking straight. Look, don’t be cross with me. I’ll make it up to you. How about we go out tomorrow night? I’ll take you out dancing again and if I even look at another woman you can get into a jealous rage and wallop me on the behind and—”

“Okay,” I giggle, “enough! I forgive you. But less of the touchy-feely stuff in future.”

“You don’t like me touching and feeling you?”

“Not me,her .”

“Okay, no touching. And certainly no feeling. I promise. So what do you say, shall we go out tomorrow for a night on the town?”

“We could . . .” To be honest I’m not really in the mood for going out.

“I hear hesitation. What’s the matter?”

“No, I’d love to, it’s just . . . I mean, I love dancing and everything, but it might be nice to, you know, stay in, just this once . . .”

Now David is laughing. “My darling, whatever you want. Why don’t you come round and I’ll cook?”

I agree gratefully and put the phone down. I know I thought I wanted a glamorous boyfriend who goes out all the time, but when it comes to it, I don’t actually. I want David, who I like being at home with.

Nigel looks up and gives me an odd look. I realize that I’m talking to myself out loud. I go red and turn back to my computer. Mike’s e-mail is waiting for me.

MIKE MARSHALL: Georgie Porgie. Can you come over this evening? I’m in St. John’s Wood.

22 Arcacia Road—flat 14. I need to talk to you about this favor.

Oh God. I’d managed to push Mike out of my head, but it doesn’t look like he’s going to go away. If I don’t go round, he might tell David I was in Rome with him, and I don’t think David would forgive me for that. But I can’t bear to see Mike again and find out what sordid little favor he wants me to do for him. Haven’t I done enough? I keep wondering what was in the bag I took to Rome for him. What if there were drugs in there? I could have gone to prison. I shudder at the thought. Still, one more favor and then that’s it. I will never see Mike again and everything will be fine again. I mean, how hard can one little favor be?

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It’s five o’clock, the time that I would usually be packing up my things in order to make a swift exit. But today I don’t have my usual enthusiasm for leaving the building. I feel a mixture of frustration, nausea, and excitement. Excitement about seeing David tomorrow, frustration because I’m not seeing him tonight, and nausea because I don’t want to go round to Mike’s, don’t want to spend any more time with him. If we’re absolutely honest here, what Mike is doing is no better than blackmail: me doing him a favor in return for his silence. And I didn’t even do anything! Well, nothing really bad anyway. But I can’t risk it. I can’t risk hurting David.

I feel like going for a run or something, which is odd because I never exercise. I mean, I go to a Pilates class about once a month (usually the week after I buy a copy ofVogue orCosmopolitan and read an article on some glamorous supermodel who swears by it) and got really into tennis for a week last year, but I never go to the gym and I absolutely hate jogging.

I decide to go for a walk before making my way up to Mike’s flat. But as I walk past Nigel, he calls me over.

“Georgie, before you go, there’s something I want to . . .”

Much as I don’t want to get to Mike’s any time soon, the last thing I need is more boring work.

“Nigel,” I interrupt. “Is it really important? There’s something urgent that I need to do, and I’m going to be late if I don’t go now.”

“Oh. Okay. I just thought you might be interested in seeing something.”

Seeing something? Unlikely. But before I can say no Nigel is opening up his briefcase. Inside is a large, bright pink envelope with orange flowers all over it. It’s so hideous it’s quite wonderful.

“Nigel, I’m, well, I’m lost for words actually. Is it a present or something?”

Nigel looks at me as if I am completely stupid.

“The printouts,” he hisses. “I thought this envelope would throw Guy off the track. He wouldn’t expect me to send the information in an envelope like this, would he?”

He’s got a point. Suddenly I get a huge urge to give Nigel a hug. He’s probably been sitting here all afternoon waiting to show me the envelope. He must have gone out especially after lunch to get it.

“When he gets it, he’ll assume that it’s come from a drag queen or seven-year-old girl! Nigel, you’re a genius.”

He grins sheepishly. “Always pays to be thorough.”

On my way out I wonder what Guy is going to think when all that HG information arrives on his doorstep in a bright pink envelope. I bet Nigel will be logging on to his chat rooms tonight, showing off and telling everyone about his cleverness. I wonder what his chat room pseudonym is.

As I approach Mike’s road, I wish that I had a cozy group of chat room friends I could talk to.

People who could sympathize with me and make me feel better about going round to Mike’s flat.

I want to forget I ever thought I might fancy him more than David.

Mike lives in a really smart apartment block with off-street parking. All the cars are BMWs and Mercedes, and there are bits of grass here and there with immaculate borders. He must be doing really well to afford a flat here. There is a For Sale sign outside, along with three Sold signs. I make a mental note to ring the estate agent to find out how much the flats are going for. Just out of interest.

“I’ve called out for take-out,” Mike tells me as he kisses me hello. “You like Indian, don’t you?”

I don’t like Indian, actually, but I’m not going to remind Mike of that. I wonder if he remembers and has ordered it to spite me.

While we’re waiting for the food, he shows me round the flat. There are spare bedrooms—in the plural. I mean who has spare bedrooms? And an office. The bathroom is even nicer than the one in the Rome hotel, complete with fluffy towels. And the kitchen, well, David would adore it. It’s all chrome and full of gadgets. Mike doesn’t cook, so I’m not sure why he’s got so many cooking instruments, but it’s incredibly pristine.

I’m impressed, in spite of myself. “Mike, this place is amazing! Is it all yours?”

“Course it is. Cool, isn’t it.”

It is cool. I mean, it’s amazing. Although I can’t help but think that he needs some more things in it. You know, pictures, books, old magazines. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe other people don’t need to clutter their flats with piles of junk that they keep because it has sentimental value (or because they never get round to throwing things out).

The flat does have amazing furniture, though. Sumptuous leather sofas and a glass coffee table that looks bigger than my sitting room. And he’s got a huge television that swivels round when you turn it on. It’s like a five-star hotel or something.

The doorbell goes and it’s the curry. Mike cracks open a couple of beers and we perch at his huge dining room table.

“So,” I say expectantly.

“So?”

“So what is it that you want from me?”

“My, you’re impatient!”

“Yes, of course I am,” I say crossly. Honestly, does he think I’ve got nothing better to do than to trek up to St. John’s Wood for food I don’t even like?

Mike pauses and then brings his hands together on the table. He looks a bit like Tony Blair when he’s doing one of his “I’m a caring sort of bloke” speeches.

“Look,” he starts, uncertainly. “There’s some stuff you need to know about David. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you, but I need your help, and this is the only way.”

Something I should know about David? What’s David got to do with anything?

“I see. Go on.” I try to sound as businesslike as possible. I suddenly get a sickening feeling in my stomach. What if there is something going on between David and the brunette? What if Mike knows all about it and it’s been going on for ages?

“Okay. Not sure where to start, really. David and me . . . you know we’ve never really got on, right?”

“Right.” Please don’t let it be about her, I pray. Please let it be something completely different.

“Well, I never really thought anything of it. I mean, I rarely see the guy, you know? But I think he’s more obsessed than I thought.”

“What?” I smile with relief. It has nothing to do with that woman. Thank God. “Mike, you’re not talking about the time he hung up on you, are you? Look, I wouldn’t take that too seriously.”

Mike gives me a slightly patronizing smile.

“Georgie, I don’t give a fuck if David hangs up on me. Quite honestly I’d rather that than have to actually talk to him. It’s actually a bit more serious than that. The reason David hung up on me is that he was scared I was going to tell you what I’m telling you now.”

Mike takes a cigarette out of the packet in front of him and lights it. He doesn’t offer me one, but I take one anyway. I can feel that my palms are sweaty.

“So tell me!” I wish Mike would get to the point.

Mike lowers his eyes. “Georgie, your darling accountant is doing everything he can to destroy me and my business.”

Okay, I didn’t expect that.

“What?” What does he mean “destroy” him? Is Mike going mad? For a moment I wonder if he’s become a paranoid freak like Nigel.

“David is not as gentlemanly as he likes to make out,” continues Mike bitterly. “He is a ruthless bastard who loves making people squirm.” He pauses and stares into the distance.

“Mike, what do you mean?”

“Georgie?” Mike looks back at me with a sorrowful look.

“Yes?”

“Would you mind not dripping curry on the table? It’s brand new and I need to keep it in pristine condition.”

“What? Oh, right.” I can’t believe Mike is worried about the table at a time like this. He certainly never cared about any of my furniture when we were together. I decide I don’t want to be thinking about when we were together. “So, about David?”

“Right, of course. The thing is, Georgie, I don’t think he can bear the fact that I’m doing rather well for myself. He’s always been jealous of me, but recently he’s just flipped. He hates knowing that I’m successful. And so he’s doing what any other spoiled brat would try to do, and trying to ruin me. And because he’s a fucking accountant he can spread a few lies about me without anyone noticing. He’s doing everything he can to jeopardize my professional reputation.”

“What do you mean?” My mind boggles at the idea of Mike having a professional reputation to ruin.

“I mean that my investors have been getting anonymous letters telling them not to trust me. That he’s been contacting my bank trying to get my account information. That he’s been following me around, talking to my employees, making everyone think I’m stealing money or something. He works for some huge firm so everyone believes him, and I’m having a fucking tough time convincing people to stick with it.”

All Mike’s arguments with DJs and tense mobile phone calls in Rome start to make sense. But surely David can’t have anything to do with it? I mean, it’s ridiculous.