Fatal Error

3

July 1987, twelve years earlier, Dorset

I began running from the edge of the penalty area just as Guy kicked the ball, aiming for the far post. I leapt at the same time as Phil, the ’keeper. The ball drifted an inch above Phil’s outstretched fingers and struck my head, ricocheting between the posts and into the brambles guarding the ditch behind.

‘Yes! Nice one, David,’ Torsten cried. ‘Five — four. We win!’

I glanced over to Guy, who wore a quiet smile of satisfaction on his face. Guy seemed able to place a football anywhere on the pitch with perfect timing.

I trotted off to retrieve the ball from the brambles, and joined the others picking up items of discarded clothing and ambling back towards the house. It was a lovely evening. During the game, unnoticed by the players, the sky had turned to a deep blue-grey and the small puffs of cloud to inky black. Rooks kicked up a fuss in the copse running along the side of the playing field as we made our way down to Mill House, the converted watermill where forty of us boarded. The sprawling modern campus of Broadhill School itself was still visible a mile and a half over peaceful cow pastures to the east.

Evenings, which until that week had been crammed full of revision for exams, were suddenly free for pick-up games of football. Nearly all the O and A level exams had finished. I had only one maths paper left and thought my brain deserved a rest. In three weeks’ time my life at Broadhill would be over. The race from thirteen-year-old new boy to eighteen-year-old adult would be finished. At that moment, it seemed like a shame.

I caught up with Torsten and Guy. ‘Nice cross,’ I said.

Guy shrugged. ‘Your head is difficult to miss, Davo.’

We walked three abreast along the short stretch of country lane to the house.

‘I spoke to my dad earlier,’ Torsten said. Torsten Schollenberger was a tall, clean-cut German whose father owned a network of magazine publishing interests throughout Europe. ‘He wants me to work in his office over the summer. In Hamburg.’

‘What? That’s inhuman,’ said Guy. ‘After exams and everything?’

‘I know. And I’m going to college in Florida in September. I deserve a break.’

‘So, you won’t be coming to France?’

‘It doesn’t look like it.’

‘Man, that sucks. Can’t you just tell him to piss off? You’re eighteen. You’re an adult. He can’t make you do what you don’t want to do.’

‘Guy, you’ve met my father. He can do what he damn well likes.’

I walked next to them in silence. My parents were taking the caravan down to Devon again that summer. They were hoping I would come with them. I probably would. The caravan was very cramped, but I actually liked my parents and I liked Devon. I enjoyed striding over the moors with my father. He, too, had offered me a summer job working in his office, a small branch of a building society in a Northamptonshire market town. He would pay me sixty quid a week. I was planning to take it. I needed the money.

None of this, though, did I feel like mentioning to Guy and Torsten.

Broadhill was a unique school. It was one of the most expensive boarding schools in England and had superb facilities. But it also offered scholarships to a large minority of pupils, and not just for academic ability. I had an academic scholarship, but Phil, the goalkeeper, was an accomplished cellist from Swansea. I knew Guy’s father paid full whack, although Guy’s sporting skills at soccer, cricket and tennis could have secured him a sporting scholarship. Torsten probably paid double.

The result was an eclectic mix of boys and girls, from the super-rich to the quite modest, from geniuses to the almost illiterate, from international swimmers to concert pianists. There was also a fair quota of slobs, yobs, idlers and rule-breakers. Alcohol and tobacco were widespread. Other even more forbidden stimulants occasionally circulated. But for some reason, despite the presence of adolescent boys and girls together in one boarding school, there was very little sex.

I could never work out why. I made a few attempts to change this situation myself with very little success. There were, of course, school rules banning it, but it seemed to be the pupils themselves who enforced this celibacy. Eventually I developed a theory that might explain it, a sort of extension of Groucho Marx’s dictum that he didn’t want to belong to any club that would accept him as a member. There was a rigid and well-defined hierarchy of boys and girls in the school. It was beneath the dignity of an individual pupil to be seen with a member of the opposite sex at or below his or her level in the hierarchy. We all had to strive for higher. This meant a great deal of frustration for ninety-nine per cent of the school, and an embarrassment of choice for the lucky one per cent.

And who was at the top of this hierarchy? Well, Torsten was close, but right at the top of this totem pole was, of course, Guy.

He and I shared a room that year. Valentine’s Day is an embarrassment at any school, but it had been particularly humiliating for me that February. I had received one card, from a sad girl with glasses in my maths class who went on to become a top equities analyst at an investment bank. Guy received seventy-three. Most of them were probably from thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds he didn’t know, but even so. He had played the lead in an unofficial production of Grease the previous summer, and had made an impression on the female half of the school that had endured until the following February. Tall, dark and unremarkable, I knew I was no competition for Guy, but my ego, not for the first time, was crushed. What really annoyed me was that he didn’t even seem pleased. He took it as his due.

Although I shared a room with Guy, he was very discreet about his love life. I assumed that he had ‘gone all the way’, but he didn’t brag about it. His relationships did seem to form a pattern, though. He would be seen charming a gorgeous girl of sixteen or seventeen, chatting her up, making her laugh for a period of weeks, or even months, and then he would suddenly drop her. Within a couple of days he’d be chasing someone else.

His current interest lay with a girl called Mel Dean, who was also in her last year at school. She wasn’t as classically beautiful as some of his conquests, but I could see what drove him on. She wore tight clothes and a permanent soft pout that suggested availability, yet she had a reputation for chastity. ‘Fit but frigid’ as the schoolboy parlance would have it. For Guy, an irresistible combination.

I stayed up late that night, trying to fight my way through a few more pages of War and Peace. I now wonder at how foolish I was to try to read that book in the same term I was taking my A levels, but I had a self-image as an intellectual to protect.

Guy clattered into the room and got himself ready for bed. ‘Come on, Davo, I’m knackered. It’s past eleven. Can I turn the light out?’

‘Oh, all right,’ I said, in mock irritation. But in truth I had been reading the same page for ten minutes, and it was time to put it out of its misery. The book fell with a thud to the floor by my bed and I lay back on my pillow. Guy turned out the light and flopped on to his.

‘Davo?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Do you want to come to my dad’s place this summer?’

At first I didn’t think I had heard right. The idea of Guy inviting me to stay with him and his father in the South of France came as a total surprise, a shock in fact. We liked each other, even respected each other, but I had never counted myself as one of Guy’s friends. Or not that kind of friend. Guy hung around with the likes of Torsten, or Faisal, a Kuwaiti prince, or Troy Barton, son of Jeff Barton, the film star. The kind of people whose families had millions of pounds and several homes scattered around the world. Who met each other in Paris or Marbella. Not the kind who went to Devon in a caravan.

‘Davo?’

‘Oh, sorry.’

‘Well? You’ll like it. He’s got this great place on the cliffs overlooking Cap Ferrat. I haven’t been there myself yet, but I’ve heard it’s amazing. He asked me to bring some friends along with me. Mel’s going, and Ingrid Da Cunha. Why don’t you come?’

Why not? He meant it. I didn’t know where I would get the cash to get there, but I knew I had to go.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure.’

‘OK, then,’ I said. ‘Thanks. I’ll come.’

4

I raised the champagne flute to my lips and looked down at the ancient volcanoes of the Massif Central twenty thousand feet below. It turned out I hadn’t needed to find the cash for the plane fare. We had all met at Biggin Hill, an airfield to the south of London, and boarded Guy’s father’s jet. Within minutes we were in the air, heading for Nice.

Mel Dean and Ingrid Da Cunha were in the seats behind me, with Guy opposite them. Mel was wearing tight jeans, a white T-shirt, a denim jacket and a quantity of make-up. A streak of yellow ran through her long dark hair, which wound around the back of her neck and tumbled over her shoulder towards her chest. And what a chest. Her friend Ingrid was wearing baggy trousers and a sweatshirt. I barely knew either of them; Mel had been at the school for five years, but we had never been in the same class and I had scarcely spoken to her in all that time. Ingrid had arrived at Broadhill only the previous autumn, half way through the sixth form.

I said hello. Mel’s lips betrayed the tiniest of twitches in acknowledgement, but Ingrid gave me a wide friendly smile. I left Guy to do the chatting up: judging by the peals of raucous laughter from Ingrid, he was doing it well. I leaned back into my deep blue leather seat. It was the first time I had ever flown. This was the life.

Guy moved up to the seat next to me. ‘You haven’t met my dad before, have you?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I’ve even seen him. Apart from in the papers, of course.’ Tony Jourdan had been a wunderkind of the London property market. My father knew all about him, although by the time I had begun to read the newspapers he was less often in them. I had seen a couple of articles in Private Eye accusing him of bribing a local council over the planning application for a shopping centre, and of ruthlessly ousting his former business partner. But mostly he rated a mention in the gossip columns, not the business pages.

‘He’s only been to Broadhill a couple of times. I haven’t seen much of him myself in the last few years. But you’ll like him. He’s a good guy. He knows how to have a good time.’

‘Excellent. Has he married again?’

‘Yeah, a few years ago. A French bimbo called Dominique. I’ve never met her. But forget her. Prepare to have some fun.’

‘I will.’ I hesitated. I was looking forward to visiting the bars and restaurants. Now I was eighteen I wanted to exercise my legal right to drink to the full. But there was one problem. ‘Guy?’

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t actually have that much cash on me. I mean, I might have to duck out of one or two things. You’ll understand, won’t you?’

Guy smiled broadly. ‘No I won’t. Dad will pay. Believe me, he’ll want to. He’s always been generous, especially when it comes to having a good time. And if you do get caught short, just ask me. Really.’

‘Thanks.’ I was relieved. For five years I had managed to survive on a fraction of the allowance of some of my contemporaries at Broadhill, but I was worried that it would be much more difficult in the outside world. And the joys of a student overdraft still lay several months in front of me.

The jet skimmed over the tight green folds of the Riviera’s hinterland, passing above a town dominated by two extraordinarily shaped apartment complexes that looked as if they were built of Lego. Once over the deep blue of the Mediterranean, it turned eastwards towards Nice airport, an incongruous rectangle of unnaturally flat reclaimed land jutting out into the sea.

Tony Jourdan met us in the terminal. He must have been forty-five at the very least, but he looked younger. I was struck by the resemblance to Guy, not just in the way he looked, but also in the way he moved. He welcomed us with Guy’s winning smile, and threw us all into the open back of his yellow Jeep.

He drove us through Nice, along the Promenade des Anglais lined with hotels, apartment buildings and flags on one side, and palm trees, beach, sun-worshippers and sea on the other. We turned inland, battling through the heavy traffic to the Corniche, the famous coast road that wound its way towards Monte Carlo. We climbed ever higher, the Mediterranean beneath us and the coastal mountains above us, drove through a tunnel and then swung on to a narrow winding road. We continued climbing until Tony stopped outside a ten-foot-high iron gate. ‘Les Sarrasins’ was inscribed on one of the gateposts. He pressed a remote control, the gate swung open, and the Jeep pulled up beneath a pink-washed house.

He leapt out of the vehicle. ‘Come and meet Dominique.’

We made our way up some stone steps that led around the side of the house and were struck by the most spectacular view. On three sides was the powerful deep blue of the Mediterranean, stretching towards an indistinct horizon where it merged with the paler blue of the sky. We seemed to be floating high in the air, suspended a thousand feet above the sea, which we could just hear breaking on to the beach below. I felt disoriented, dizzy, as if I was about to lose my balance. I took a step back towards the house.

Guy’s father noticed and smiled. ‘The vertigo often gets people, especially when they’re not expecting it. Come and look.’ We edged towards a low white marble railing. ‘Below us is Beaulieu, and that’s Cap Ferrat over there,’ he said, pointing down to a crowded little town and a lush green peninsula beyond it. ‘Behind that is Nice. And over there,’ he pointed to the east, ‘is Monte Carlo. On a clear day, when the mistral has blown all the muck out of the air, you can see Corsica. But not in July, I’m afraid.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Guy, pointing to a crumbling wall of thin grey brick perching on a rock at the end of the garden, next to a lone olive tree.

‘That was a watchtower. They say it’s Roman. For centuries the locals used this place to look out for Saracen raiders. Hence the name Les Sarrasins.’ Tony smiled at his son. ‘So, what do you think?’

‘Nice, Dad. Very nice,’ Guy said. ‘Not so handy for the beach, though, is it?’

‘Oh yes it is. Just hop over these railings and you’ll be down there in ten seconds.’

We leaned over and looked down. Far below we could just see a strip of sand, next to the coast road, the Basse Corniche.

‘Allo!’

We turned. A few feet back from the railings was a pool, and by the pool was a woman lying on a sun chair. Topless. I stared. I was eighteen: I couldn’t help it. She waved and slowly sat up, reached for her bikini top and slipped it on. She stood and walked over to us, hips swaying. Long blonde hair, dark glasses, swinging figure. I still stared.

‘Dominique, this is my son, Guy. You finally meet!’

‘Hello, Guy,’ Dominique said, extending her hand. She pronounced it the French way, to rhyme with ‘key’.

‘Hello, Mum,’ said Guy with his best smile, and she laughed. Guy’s father introduced her to Mel, Ingrid and me. I couldn’t say anything apart from a pathetic ‘Nice to meet you, Mrs Jourdan,’ which also seemed to amuse her.

‘While you’re staying here, I’m Tony and this is Dominique,’ said Guy’s father, smiling. ‘Call me sir, and I’ll toss you over the cliff.’

‘OK, Tony.’

‘Now, you and Guy are in the guest cottage over there,’ he pointed to a small building tucked behind a bed of tall lavender on the other side of the pool. ‘The girls are in the house. Why don’t you go and take your things in and then come out here for a drink?’

We gathered around the pool an hour later. A tiny grey-haired man in a crisp white jacket served us all with Pimm’s from a pitcher stuffed with lemon, cucumber and mint. The girls had changed into light summer dresses, Dominique had wrapped something around herself, Guy and Tony were wearing white slacks and I wore my scruffy jeans, preferring them to my only alternative of an old pair of black cords.

The sun was hanging low over Cap Ferrat and the air was still. I could hear the hum of bees in the lavender, and of course the sea below.

‘Gorgeous,’ whispered Ingrid next to me.

‘Yes it is,’ I agreed.

‘Not it. Him.’

I realized that she was referring to a gardener carrying some tools back towards the house. He was young, Arab-looking, probably North African, and the muscles of his bare smooth chest were perfectly defined by the late-afternoon sunlight. He caught Guy’s eye, and smiled at him.

‘You’re in there, Guy,’ Ingrid said as the gardener disappeared round the corner of the house.

‘What are you talking about?’ said Guy. ‘He was smiling at all of us.’

‘I wish that were true, Guy, but it wasn’t. He was all eyes for you.’

Guy scowled. He had the kind of looks that attracted admiring glances from men as well as women and I knew he hated it. There was nothing he could do about it, though. ‘What are you grinning at?’ he growled at me.

‘Nothing,’ I said, exchanging a glance with Ingrid. ‘Let’s get a drink.’

The Pimm’s slipped down very easily. Despite our pretended sophistication none of us was used to spirits, and the drink soon had its effect. I didn’t say much, but watched the others, a pleasant buzzing caressing the edges of my brain. It was clear that Guy didn’t know his father well, but equally clear that they were both doing their best to be nice to each other. Tony soon had the girls giggling, especially Mel, who seemed quite taken with him.

Just then Guy’s brother Owen shambled into view. For a fifteen-year-old he was big. His muscles were unnaturally well developed, and his large head appeared to belong to someone much older. But he seemed uncomfortable with his overgrown body. His walk was hesitant and stooped, as if he was trying to reduce his size. Of course it didn’t work. His mousy brown hair lay in greasy coils on his scalp, and he had pretty bad acne. He was wearing an Apple Computer T-shirt and black rugby shorts. Everyone ignored him.

‘Hi, Owen,’ I said out of politeness.

‘Hi.’

‘Been here long?’

‘Couple of days.’

‘This is a fantastic place, isn’t it?’

‘It’s OK,’ he said, and wandered off. End of conversation with Owen.

Tony appeared, bearing a pitcher full of Pimm’s. ‘Want some more?’

‘Yes please, sir.’

‘David. I warned you about that. One more time, and it’s over the cliff.’

‘Sorry. Tony.’

He refilled my glass. ‘Good stuff, isn’t it?’

‘It goes down very easily.’

‘Yes. It’s the one English thing I find that translates well to France. Even Dominique likes it.’ He looked over to where Owen was pouring himself a Coke. ‘You’re in Guy and Owen’s house at school, aren’t you?’

‘Yes. Guy and I share a room.’

‘How’s Owen getting on?’

‘Hard to say, really. I think he’s OK. He doesn’t have many friends, apart from some computer types. But he seems happy enough. He spends most of his time in the computer room. He reads a lot. He keeps himself to himself. But no one messes with him, Guy makes sure of that.’

‘Yes. Guy has always looked after him,’ Tony said. ‘Owen took the divorce quite badly. I don’t think his mother has much interest in him, apart from making sure he stays away from me. And I’m on record as the world’s lousiest father. Guy’s really been all he’s had. What about that rugby incident? Did you hear about that?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Did he do it?’

I tensed. This was difficult ground. ‘I don’t know, sir. I mean, Tony.’

‘Sorry. That’s an unfair question. But what do people say? Do they think he did it?’

Owen was a good rugby player, a prop-forward for the Junior Colts. But there had been trouble on the pitch earlier that year. A boy from another school had lost part of his ear in a ruck. There were teeth marks. Owen had been suspected, and for a few days his future at the school had been in doubt, but they were not sure enough of their ground to expel him. He had been dropped from the team, though.

‘Nobody knows.’

‘That’s the thing with Owen, isn’t it?’ Tony said. ‘You never know.’

‘That’s true.’ Owen was a mystery but, unlike his father, I was quite happy to leave him that way. Most people were.

‘Any girlfriends?’

‘Owen?’ I said, unable to suppress a smile.

‘Fair point. What about Guy?’

‘Now that’s a different story. And a constantly changing one.’

Tony laughed, a thousand crinkles appearing around his bright blue eyes. He glanced appreciatively towards Mel, who was listening to Guy with rapt attention as he told some tall story about a mishap on the Cresta Run in Saint Moritz. ‘Is she his current girl?’

‘No.’ I paused. ‘At least, not yet.’ But watching her, I was pretty sure Mel was hooked. So, I thought, was Tony.

‘Well, I’m glad to see my son has good taste.’ He smiled. ‘This house was built to impress women. I hope it works for Guy.’

‘Somehow I suspect it will.’

‘What about you? How do you like Broadhill?’

To my surprise, I found myself answering Tony at some length. He wasn’t at all bothered by my relatively humble background and he had a genuine interest in the school and how it worked. It was certainly not like talking to my own parents, but it wasn’t quite like talking to a contemporary. The questions were less superficial, and there was none of the probing for image or status that goes on when two eighteen-year-old strangers talk. It was quite refreshing. I was charmed.

As the sun set red over the hills towards Nice, lighting up the calm sea in a blaze of gold, we climbed some steps to a terrace above the pool for dinner. A goat’s cheese salad and fish cooked in a delectable sauce, washed down with the best white wine I had ever tasted, it overwhelmed my senses. I was intensely conscious of the presence of Dominique beside me, so conscious I could barely turn my head towards her for fear of staring.

Eventually, she spoke to my shoulder. ‘You are very quiet this evening.’

‘Am I? I’m sorry.’

‘Is everything all right?’

‘Oh, yes,’ I said, turning my head reluctantly towards her. ‘This is all so... I don’t know, lovely.’

For the first time I was able to look at her properly. She had an angular face and I noticed lines around the side of her mouth. She was probably in her late thirties. But still a stunner. Definitely a stunner. Although the sun had almost disappeared, she continued to wear sunglasses, so I had no idea what her eyes looked like. But her full lips were smiling. The body I had first stared at was now safely hidden under a yellow wrap.

‘Is that book yours?’ She nodded towards my beaten-up copy of War and Peace, which I had inappropriately brought with me down to the pool.

‘Yes.’

‘Boring.’

‘It’s not that bad, once you get into it,’ I said.

‘Boff. I thought it was boring. I prefer Anna Karenina, don’t you? Now there is a woman I can spend a thousand pages with.’

‘I haven’t read it,’ I said, surprised.

‘Oh, but you must.’ She laughed, a hoarse, throaty laugh. ‘You look shocked. Why shouldn’t I read Anna Karenina?’

‘Er, I don’t know.’

‘You thought I was just a dumb model?’

Yes, I thought. ‘No,’ I said.

She laughed again. ‘Yes you did. Well, I studied philosophy at the University of Avignon. The modelling was supposed to be a, how do you call it... sideline. But then my studies became the sideline.’

‘That’s a shame,’ I said, without thinking.

‘Why?’

‘Er... I don’t know,’ I stammered, fearing I had been rude.

She laughed. ‘I could at this moment be in an insurance office or something, putting little bits of paper into files. Is that what you mean?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘But don’t you regret it a little bit?’

‘Sometimes. Not often. I have had some fun. A lot of fun. Do you have fun, David?’

‘Well, um, I suppose so.’

‘Oh, yes?’

I gulped at the wine, and then came to my senses. ‘You’re winding me up, aren’t you?’

She laughed. ‘I am. I love to corrupt the Englishmen. Unfortunately, when I had found Tony he had been corrupted already. It seems as if his son follows in his father’s footsteps.’

At the other end of the table Mel’s coolness was visibly melting as it was exposed to the combined charm of the father-and-son team, and Ingrid was smiling broadly, her eyes shining.

‘He does have quite a reputation at school. I’d say he’s a natural.’

‘I can see he is. Abdulatif certainly seemed to appreciate him.’

‘Is Abdulatif the gardener?’

‘Yes. Delicious, isn’t he? I love the way he walks around without his shirt.’

‘But he likes men?’

‘I think Abdulatif likes anything beautiful.’

I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that.

‘And you?’ she said. ‘Are you a natural with the women?’

‘I thought you’d stopped winding me up?’

‘That is just. But you and Guy, you seem very different.’

‘We are. We share a room at school, so I suppose we know each other pretty well. I was only the second choice to come out here, though.’

‘Yes. Tony said that Guy was bringing Helmut Schollenberger’s son with him.’

‘That’s right. Torsten.’

She shuddered. ‘I detest that man. And before you ask, I have appeared in his magazines. Wearing less than perhaps I should. After my first marriage they discovered some old pictures.’ She laughed. ‘Actually, I didn’t mind. But Henri? Ooh!’

‘Who’s Henri?’

‘He’s a politician. And he’s so boring. I fell in love with his eyes. He had bedroom eyes, or he had them until we got married. Then they changed.’

‘So you got rid of him?’

She shrugged. ‘We got rid of each other.’

‘And you met Tony?’

‘I met Tony.’ She smiled a slow smile. Not a smile of pleasure, more a smile of sadness, even pain, I thought.

‘How long have you known him?’

‘Aha. That, I cannot tell you.’

‘Why not?’

‘The divorce. Guy’s mother would love to know.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.’

She laughed. ‘But of course you did.’

Just then Owen, who had said nothing to anyone all evening, pushed his plate to one side, stood up, and made his way inside the house.

‘Owen! Are you sure you don’t want to stay?’ his father called after him.

Owen paused and turned. ‘No,’ he said without a smile.

‘All right. Well, good night, then.’

Owen grunted and turned away.

‘Good night, chéri,’ called Dominique to the back of Owen’s hulking shoulders. Owen didn’t break his stride to acknowledge her.

‘He is strange, that one,’ said Dominique. ‘He has been here for two days and has said scarcely a word. He talks to me like I do not exist. Tony tries to speak to him, but he never says more than two words back. I think Tony has given up.’

‘They haven’t seen much of their father, have they, Guy and Owen?’

‘No,’ said Dominique. ‘Tony’s life does not mix with the kids. And Robyn, their mother, hates them to see him. She would not even let them come to our wedding. I had never met Guy until just now. But I think Tony was feeling guilty, so he persuaded Robyn to let them come here for a couple of weeks. Also, Guy is older. I suspect Tony and he have more in common these days.’

The servant cleared our plates, and Dominique poured another glass of wine. ‘Mon Dieu, my husband is enjoying himself, isn’t he?’ Mel and Ingrid were laughing uncontrollably at something he had just said. So too was Guy for that matter. Tony put his hand on Mel’s arm to steady her, and left it there. She didn’t draw away. Guy didn’t seem to notice.

I didn’t reply.

‘To have two beautiful young girls hanging on your every word. What more can a forty-six-year-old man want, eh, David?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said neutrally.

‘Huh.’ She tossed back her hair. ‘Miguel! Another bottle of wine!’

Eventually the night came to an end. I was pretty drunk. So was everyone else, with the possible exception of Ingrid. Guy and I lurched our way to the guest cottage, about twenty yards from the main house.

As I sat on my bed, the room spun. I concentrated on trying to force the window to stay in one place. Miraculously, I succeeded.

‘I think I’m going to get lucky this week,’ said Guy, as he collapsed on his bed.

‘With the gardener? By the way, I heard he’s called Abdulatif.’

‘Ha bloody ha. No, with Mel, you cretin. Although I quite like Ingrid. I bet she’s hot in bed. Maybe with both of them.’

‘Guy!’

‘OK. With Mel. You know, I’m pretty sure she’s still a virgin.’

‘That’s what they say at school.’

‘Yeah, but how would they know? You never really know until, well, you find out.’

‘I suppose not.’

‘But she’s up for it. She’s definitely up for it.’

‘That’s good,’ I said without conviction.

Why was it always people like Guy who got the girls? Why didn’t girls like Mel and Ingrid laugh at my jokes? Because I didn’t have the confidence to make them, was one answer. Because I wasn’t good looking, was another. There were no doubt many others. Mel, Guy, Tony, Dominique, Ingrid, even the gardener Abdulatif. All beautiful people. All using their natural gifts in an intricate dance of attraction and temptation, in which the steps consisted of a witty comment, a well-timed glance, a touch. On nights like that night, when sex hung in the air, I felt envious, frustrated and inadequate.

I think I must have fallen asleep, but only for an hour or so. I awoke feeling tense, drunk and hung over all at the same time. I could hear regular breathing from Guy’s bed. My stomach didn’t feel good, and I needed a pee, but my limbs felt so heavy I wasn’t sure I had the strength to get out of bed.

The pain in my bladder worsened until it overcame my feebleness, and I crawled out of bed and staggered through to the bathroom. After I had finished I splashed my face and took a long drink of water. I still felt sick. I thought I would step outside in the hope that the night air would do me good.

It worked. A cool gentle breeze bathed my face. I was surrounded by the urgent communications of a thousand insects. I walked over to the marble railings and looked towards the black silhouette of Cap Ferrat against the shifting grey of the sea. I could make out the ruined watchtower in the gloom next to the lone olive tree, silently guarding the house as it had for centuries. The smell of salt and pine mingled in the air. I leaned over the railings and peered down to the small breakers below, and felt better.

I’m not sure how long I stayed there, slumped against the railings. I may even have fallen asleep. But I slowly became aware of voices in the house behind me. Angry voices. I stood up and strained to listen. It was Tony and Dominique. They were speaking French and I couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. Until Dominique’s voice rang through the garden towards me. ‘Salaud! Une gosse! Tu as baisé une gosse!’ A door slammed and the garden returned to the sounds of the crickets and the wind in the trees and the waves.

‘Salaud! Une gosse! Tu as baisé une gosse!’ My addled brain scraped through my French vocabulary. It was all a bit colloquial for me. What the hell was a gosse? A goose, perhaps? Then I remembered baiser from a Molière play we had studied at school. Kiss. Tony had been kissing someone he shouldn’t have. And somehow I doubted it was a goose. Hm.

I made my way back to my room and crawled into bed, wondering if what I thought had happened really had happened. Perhaps I had got completely the wrong end of the stick, like the time when I had confused the French word for vicar with that for virgin in a French dictation, with disastrous consequences. The words tumbled over and over in my increasingly disjointed mind until I lost consciousness.

5

April 1999, The City, London

I had never been sure I could trust Guy in the seventeen years I had known him and I wasn’t sure I could trust him now. He was asking me to place my career, my savings, my whole future in his hands and, as so often in the past, he was tempting me.

Guy was like that.

When he had phoned me that afternoon, out of the blue, I had recognized the American-tinged public-school drawl immediately. He suggested we meet for a beer. It was seven years since I had decided I would be better off avoiding him. Seven years is a long time. Besides, I was bored and I was curious. So I agreed to meet him at the Dickens Inn in St Katherine’s Dock.

I arrived early; I was eager to escape the office and the walk from Gracechurch Street had taken less time than I had anticipated. I ordered a pint of bitter at the bar and pushed through the heaving mass of bankers, commodity traders and the odd tourist to the door. The evening sun glanced off the smooth water of the dock and slapped against the sleek motor-yachts and sedate wooden sailing boats tethered there. The air was cool, but after a week of rain it felt good to be outside.

‘Davo!’

Only one person called me Davo. I turned to see him shouldering his way through the scrum, a lithe figure in black jacket, T-shirt and jeans. ‘Davo, how are you?’

‘Great,’ I said. ‘How about you?’

‘Large, Davo, large.’ The blue eyes twinkled. He glanced inside the crowded pub. ‘Jesus, doesn’t anybody work any more?’

‘I thought seven o’clock was a bit late for you?’

‘Not these days.’

‘Here, let me get you a beer.’

I fought my way back through the mob and returned with the brand of Czech beer that I knew Guy used to like. I noticed that he had moved a few feet away from the clump of drinkers outside the pub.

‘Don’t want to be overheard, eh?’

‘Since you ask, no,’ he said, taking a swig of his beer. ‘So, you’re a true City boy, now? Leipziger Gurney Kroheim. That’s as fancy as they come, isn’t it?’

‘Not since the merger,’ I said. ‘A lot of the top people left Gurney Kroheim, and Leipziger is one of the more staid German banks.’

‘But it’s still a merchant bank, isn’t it?’

‘We’re all called investment bankers now.’

‘Are you enjoying it?’

I paused before answering the question. I had been proud to join the ancient and still-powerful institution of Gurney Kroheim four years before. But after it had been swallowed up by Leipziger Bank, one of the largest banks in Germany, it underwent reorganizations every six months or so. And somehow Project Finance, where I had ended up, had turned out to be a bit of a backwater. I usually put an optimistic face on things to people outside the bank. But not to Guy.

‘Not really. I seem to do a lot of work and get little credit for it. The story of my life.’

‘But they pay you well?’

‘I suppose. Most of your pay these days comes from bonuses, and I don’t get much of those. Not yet, anyway.’

Guy smiled sympathetically. ‘Give it a couple of years.’

‘Possibly. I’m not convinced. Leipziger is pretty bad at the moment. How about you? How’s the acting? I’ve been looking out for you on the box but I haven’t seen anything yet.’

‘Then you obviously don’t watch every episode of The Bill.’

‘I can’t imagine you as a cop,’ I said, surprised.

‘I wasn’t even a villain. More a passer-by. But then I got the call from LA.’

I realized now that the trace of American in his accent was stronger than I remembered it.

‘Hollywood, eh? I bet Brad Pitt was shaking in his shoes.’

‘He coped. There’s room in that town for Brad and me. Plenty of room. They wanted me for a movie: Fool’s Paradise. Have you seen it?’

‘No.’

‘It got pretty bad reviews. Anyway, they wanted an English actor to speak three lines and snog Sandra Bullock. I was their man.’

‘You snogged Sandra Bullock?’

‘I did. It turned out it was the pinnacle of my career.’

I had to ask: I couldn’t help myself. ‘What was it like?’

Guy smiled. ‘What can I say? It was a passionate scene. She’s a great actress. The bad news was I got killed two minutes later.’

Sandra Bullock. I was impressed.

‘I stayed in LA for a couple of years after that, hoping for a big break, but nothing happened. So I came back to London to try my luck.’

‘Have you had any?’

‘Not much.’

I wasn’t completely surprised. Guy had the looks of a certain type of actor and I suspected that his charisma would translate well on to the screen. But I remembered the last time I had seen him, seven years ago, when he had just got out of drama school. His attitude then could hardly have been called professional.

‘Still flying?’ I asked.

‘Sadly, no. Can’t afford it these days. Dad isn’t quite as understanding as he used to be. You?’

‘Yeah, every now and then when the weather’s OK. Still from Elstree.’ It was Guy who had inspired me to take up flying. An expensive hobby, but one I enjoyed. ‘How is your father? Do you see much of him these days?’

‘Not much. You could say we’ve grown apart. Far apart.’

‘Too bad,’ I said. I didn’t mean it. After what had happened in France, it wouldn’t bother me if I never saw Tony Jourdan again.

I sipped my beer and waited.

‘You and I haven’t seen each other since, well, since Mull, have we?’ Guy began hesitantly. ‘What, six years ago?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘And it was seven.’

Guy touched his nose unconsciously. I noticed a small bump, the only blemish in the symmetry of his face. A reminder of that day every time he looked in the mirror.

‘I’d just like to say...’ he paused and looked straight into my eyes. ‘Well, I’m sorry. About what happened.’

‘So am I,’ I said. ‘It’s a long time ago now.’

Guy smiled with relief. ‘A long time. Yeah, a long time.’

Guy hadn’t changed. I knew I was being warmed up. ‘You want something from me, don’t you?’

‘You cynic,’ Guy said. Then he smiled sheepishly. ‘But you’re right, I do. I expect you’re wondering why I rang you out of nowhere like that?’

‘I was, actually.’

‘There’s something I want to talk to you about.’

I leaned back. ‘I see. Talk.’

‘I want to start an internet company.’

‘You and a thousand other people.’

‘It’s where the money is.’

‘Funny money. It’s not real money. No one’s made any real money out of the Internet yet.’

‘I will,’ said Guy, a quiet smile on his face.

‘Oh, yes?’ I smiled myself, at the idea of Guy as a thrusting entrepreneur.

‘Yes. You can too, if you like.’

‘Me?’ Then the penny dropped. ‘Guy, I might work for a merchant bank, but I don’t have much money. And what I do have, I’m not going to throw into cyberspace.’

‘No, I don’t mean that. I mean I’d like you to join me.’

‘Join you?’ I laughed. But I saw he was serious. ‘Guy, starting a business, even an internet business, is a big deal. You need financing, you need to employ people, you have to work. You have to get up before noon.’

‘I can get up before noon,’ said Guy. ‘In fact, I’ve been working on this during every waking moment for the last month. I’m going to do it. And I’m going to make it work.’

I felt a little guilty. Perhaps I had been a touch patronizing. There was no way in hell I was going to work with Guy, but I thought it polite to let him have his say.

‘OK. Tell me about it.’

‘I’ll give you the elevator pitch.’

‘The elevator pitch?’

‘Yeah. You have to be able to tell your story in the time it takes to ride an elevator with a venture capitalist. You don’t have more than thirty seconds to catch these guys’ attention.’

‘Fine. Give me the elevator pitch,’ I said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

Guy ignored it, if he even noticed. ‘The company is called ninetyminutes.com. It will be the brand for soccer on the web. We’ll start out with the best football website on the Internet. As we become well known, we’ll sell sports clothing off the site, including our own brand. Football is big business and sports clothing is a thirty-billion-dollar market worldwide. We’ll be to soccer what amazon.com is to books.’

He watched me, a smile of supreme confidence spreading across his face.

‘The brand. You mean the number-one brand?’

‘The only brand.’

I composed myself, pretending to take him seriously. ‘That will make it quite a big company.’

‘A very big company. An awesome company.’

‘I see,’ I said, maintaining my composure. ‘That will also take some money.’

‘Fifty million bucks to start. More later.’

‘Hmm.’

‘That’s why I need you,’ said Guy.

That was too much. I burst out laughing. ‘You’d be lucky to get five hundred quid out of me.’

‘No, stupid. I want you to help me raise the money.’

‘You’re the one with the rich friends.’

Guy’s enthusiasm dropped a notch. ‘I’ll try them, of course,’ he said. ‘But I’m not sure how many of them I can count on. Most of them have already financed me in one way or another.’

‘Oh, I see. And they didn’t get much of a return?’

‘Not much.’

We both knew what Guy meant. He had led an expensive lifestyle for quite a while with dwindling support from his father and little from his own earnings. He had borrowed from everyone he knew. The lenders had never really expected their money back. You spent money on Guy, you didn’t invest in him.

‘So why me?’

‘I want someone who understands finance. Someone who’s solid. Someone I trust. Someone I’ve known for a long time and who knows me. You.’

I watched him. He was sincere. And I was flattered. I couldn’t help it, I was flattered. Ever since school I had wanted Guy to count me as one of his friends and I had never been sure that he did. Now he said he needed me. Only me.

Then I pulled myself together. ‘You want me to give up a secure job in one of the City’s foremost banks for this? You’ve got to be crazy.’

Guy smiled. ‘You hate your job, you told me so yourself. And it’s not secure. Everyone gets fired these days. How do you know it won’t be you next time they reorganize everything?’

I didn’t answer, but shifted in my chair. He had hit a nerve. I glanced at him. He knew it.

‘So who else is involved? You know sod all about computers.’

‘I know a bit now. But Owen’s over here with me. He’ll help.’

‘Owen?’ I remembered Guy’s brother. Whatever his faults, I couldn’t deny his proficiency with computers.

‘Yeah. He’s spent the last six years in Silicon Valley. He joined a start-up that went bust, and then became a freelance programmer. He’s worked on half a dozen different internet ventures. He knows his stuff.’

‘All right. But what about the soccer angle? I know you’re a Chelsea fan, but you’re hardly an expert. And marketing? And you mentioned your own brand of clothing. Who’s going to design it? Where will it be manufactured?’

‘I’ll get the people. That’s my role. I’ll get the people. Good people.’

‘Who?’

‘I’ll find them. Don’t forget, I’m starting with you.’

Flattery again. I had to admit Guy’s confidence was impressive. But my mind had been trained to spot the holes in the most thorough of plans and this idea was full of them. ‘What about the competition? There have to be some soccer websites out there already. And what about the TV companies? The cable companies?’

‘We’ll be faster than they are. While they’re still drawing up their marketing budgets or whatever, we’ll be up and running and grabbing eyeballs.’

I laughed. ‘ “Grabbing eyeballs”? Sounds painful. What is this, gouge.com?’

‘Sorry. I’ve been reading too many e-business books.’

‘You have. And the fifty million bucks? Where will you get that? Do you even need fifty million?’

‘Fifty million was just a guess. That’s why I need you. To tell me how much we need and where we can get it from.’

‘I’m not sure I can do that,’ I said.

‘Sure you can.’

He looked at me steadily. He meant it. Guy really thought that I could find him the money to put this thing together.

‘You know what’s really good about this idea?’ he said.

‘What?’

‘The Americans can’t do it. It’s soccer. The Americans are incapable of understanding soccer. They can dominate everything else on the Internet, but they can’t dominate this. If there is ever going to be a global soccer brand on the Internet, it’s got to come from Europe.’

‘That’s true, I suppose.’

‘Admit it. It’s a good idea, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose it is,’ I agreed. And it was. I couldn’t deny the Internet was growing exponentially. And football was a huge source of entertainment for people throughout the world. But I couldn’t quite see Guy as the man to take advantage of that.

‘Look, you’re dead right,’ Guy went on. ‘For this to work, someone is going to have to persuade a lot of talented people to take big risks for no guaranteed return. And I’m not just talking about employees. We’ll need all kinds of partners: technology, marketing, content, merchandising, financial. That’s where I come in. I can persuade people to do things they don’t really want to do.’

‘Can you?’ I asked.

‘Can’t I?’

I drained my pint. I could feel myself getting sucked in, and I wanted to escape before it was too late. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Look at it this way, if it works, we’ll make millions. If it fails, we’ll have a lot of fun.’

‘Goodbye, Guy.’

He pulled a brown A4 envelope out of a shoulder bag and thrust it into my hands. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’

I left him at the table and fought my way through the crowd of drinkers towards Tower Hill station. I looked for a litter-bin to toss the envelope into, but there weren’t any around, so I stuffed it into my briefcase.

Me work for Guy? No chance.

6

I flopped into the only empty seat in the carriage. A miracle. Normally I didn’t mind standing, but that morning I felt as if the world owed me a little something. Not much. Perhaps one journey a month sitting down for the price of my tube card. Travelling to work was always a nightmare. Travelling back wasn’t so bad: I didn’t usually leave the office until well after the crush had thinned.

I opened my briefcase to take out the Financial Times and saw the brown envelope Guy had stuffed into my hands the night before. I hesitated. I had planned to throw it away, but I was curious. Curious to see what had Guy so worked up, and curious to see what he was planning to do about it. Guy was certainly no businessman, so I wasn’t expecting much. I pulled out the envelope and opened it. Inside was a neatly bound business plan of about twenty pages or so. I started to read.

It began with the two-page Executive Summary, which was much the same as Guy had described in his ‘elevator pitch’. Then there were discussions of the potential market, revenue-generating models, competition, technology, implementation, and some very sketchy sections on management and financial analysis. With the exception of the last two sections, it was good. Very good. Every time a question popped into my mind, the answer appeared on the next page. Like a good novel, it drew me in. It was carefully researched and, apart from a couple of grandiose claims on the first page, it was understated, which made it more powerful. I was surprised by the quality of the work and a little ashamed at my earlier underestimation of its author.

I was three-quarters of the way through when my train pulled into Bank. I fought my way through London’s most labyrinthine underground station to the surface and headed for my usual coffee shop. Rather than taking the cappuccino away, I decided to drink it at a stool by the window and finish the report.

Most start-ups failed. I knew that. The Internet was all hype, I knew that too. I was a banker, good at my job, known for my high standards of work. I could enumerate the risks, spot the downside. This wasn’t the kind of business that a bank like Gurney Kroheim, sorry, Leipziger Gurney Kroheim, should get involved in. My considered opinion should be to politely turn the proposal down.

I put the report to one side and sipped my coffee, watching thickening crowds rushing along the pavements outside. The trouble was, at that moment, I didn’t want to be a banker. Guy was talking about a dream. About a spark of an idea that could become a vision, then a small group of dedicated people, then a real company, and then... who knew?

There was definitely a market opportunity. During the 1990s English football had transformed itself into a money-spinning machine with the conversion of the First Division into the Premier League, the flotation of a number of clubs on the stock market and above all the heavy investment in TV rights by satellite companies. Everyone knew the Internet was going to change everything, even if they didn’t know exactly how. Guy’s plan to capitalize on this opportunity made a lot of sense. Would I, as a diligent Gurney Kroheim banker, have backed Bill Gates? Or Richard Branson? Or any of the billionaires that were springing up all over Silicon Valley? No. Because David Lane, Vice-President, Project Finance, didn’t have that kind of vision or imagination.

At Broadhill I had caught a glimpse of a wide variety of exciting lives. The children of actors, sports stars, millionaire entrepreneurs all suggested that there was much more to be done in life than get a job, a wife and a mortgage. Then at university the world had narrowed. I graduated during a recession, when the best and the brightest competed hard to become chartered accountants. I had competed too, succeeded, qualified as a Fellow of the Institute of Chartered Accountants, and then joined a merchant bank. The City had its glamour, I knew, but it was not to be found in the Project Finance Department of Gurney Kroheim. Sure there was travel, and that was interesting, and I found much of the work intellectually challenging, but where was it leading? To a wife, as yet unidentified, and mortgage in Wandsworth? Was that so bad? Isn’t that what I had worked for since leaving school?

Guy was right, it would be fun to work with him. I had admired him at school. We had had difficult times together in France, and then again in London when he was a struggling actor and I a soon-to-be-qualified accountant. More than difficult. But despite these the idea of spending the next few years with him tempted me. Of course he had let me down in the past. And he came from a world totally different from mine. But that was the point. I could give him the stability he needed and he could give me, well, excitement. Although in theory my career was steadily moving upwards, it didn’t feel like that. It felt like it was going nowhere. With Guy, something would happen. Something that would shake up my life. Whether it would be good, or bad, or both, I did not know. But I wanted to find out.

There is a premise that underlies almost all financial theory and it is this: a rational investor will avoid uncertainty. At that moment, I didn’t feel like a rational investor.

I finished my coffee and sauntered towards the office, brushed on either side by workers more eager than me to reach their desks.

When it had built its Gracechurch Street offices in the 1960s, Gurney Kroheim had been a major power in the City. Since then it had become a minnow. As I walked through the lobby, I instinctively searched out Frank, the commissionaire who had guarded this entrance since my first day in the bank and for a few decades before then. His memory for names and faces was legendary and outdid any database in Human Resources or Marketing. But he had been pensioned off the week before to be replaced by a tattooed operative with an earring from an outside security firm who looked as if his previous assignment had been in Wormwood Scrubs rather than Threadneedle Street.

The third floor, my floor, had also changed in the last year. The Project Finance Department was now four desks tacked on to the end of a larger entity known as Specialized Finance. Teams of specialists in the funding of ships, aircraft, films, local government, and oil and gas were grouped together in an uneasy alliance. There had been a time when Gurney Kroheim had excelled in all these fields. But since the merger most of the best people had left to be replaced not by Germans, but by either outside hires or people from the second-tier US investment bank that Leipziger had swallowed a few months after Gurney Kroheim. My own group, Project Finance, had consisted of ten people. The best six had gone, leaving my nice but ineffective boss, Giles, in charge of a rump of three of us. We hadn’t closed a deal in six months.

I powered up my computer and, with my cup of coffee already drunk, got down to work. Work was a huge spreadsheet, a computer model of all the flows of gas, steam, electricity and money in and out of a proposed electric cogeneration plant in Colombia. It was a gigantic beast, literally thousands of numbers all linked together that attempted to recreate all the variables involved in building, financing and operating the plant. I had started the model on my laptop computer six months before when Giles and I had visited the Swiss offices of the firm that was bidding to construct the plant. The thing had grown since then; grown, but still remained under my control. If you wanted to change the dollar — peso exchange rate in 2002, I could do it. Oil prices falling in 2005? No problem. Borrowing in fixed-rate Swiss francs rather than floating-rate dollars? Give me a minute and I’ll print off six pages analysing the results.

Working on a computer model like that for as long as I had, I had developed a good feel for the key variables of the project: those risks that mattered and those that didn’t. Giles and I had come up with what we thought was an ingenious financial structure that would allow our client to put in the lowest bid for the contract.

Giles came in, pink shirt, loud tie and sharp pinstriped suit beneath a dull brain.

‘Morning,’ I said.

‘Oh, morning, David,’ he said nervously.

I looked up sharply. Bosses shouldn’t be nervous, certainly not at eight-thirty in the morning.

His eyes dodged mine and moved to his own computer.

‘Giles?’

‘Yes?’

‘What’s up?’

Giles looked at me, looked backed at his computer, realized there was no refuge there, and let his shoulders sag.

‘Giles?’

‘They’ve pulled their bid.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean the Swiss have pulled their bid. They are convinced they won’t win. Apparently the Americans have the best local partners, and our boys have lost confidence in their own people. You know what Colombia’s like.’

‘No! I don’t believe it.’ I glanced at my spreadsheet. At the box-files stacked three feet high and two feet wide beside my desk. ‘So we just drop it?’

‘I’m afraid so, David. You know how it is. We only get paid if we back a winner.’

‘So I was right. Remember when we first saw them in Basel? I told you they were flaky then. They never were serious about making a bid.’

‘We don’t know that. Look, I know you’ve done a lot of work on this, but you have to get used to these things not coming off.’

‘Oh, I’m getting used to it all right. This is, what, the fifth in a row?’

Giles winced. ‘It will give us a chance to look at that sewage project in Malaysia. We can go to Dusseldorf on Friday and pin the deal down.’

‘Pin the deal down! Face it, Giles, you’ve never pinned a deal down.’

I had gone too far. I was right, of course, but because I was right I shouldn’t have said it. Giles appeared more hurt than angry.

‘Sorry,’ I said.

Giles closed his eyes for a couple of seconds, wincing under the strain. Then he opened them. ‘Get Michelle to book those flights, will you?’

We sat there staring at each other. We’d never get the Malaysian deal. I knew it and Giles knew it. Suddenly everything became very clear.

‘Giles.’

‘Yes?’

‘I resign.’

7

July 1987, Côte D’Azur, France

I awoke about nine, with the worst hangover I had ever experienced in my short drinking career. Guy was still asleep and I tried to stay in bed, but once I had woken up there was no going back. Besides, I needed to do something about my head. I wasn’t sure what — water, coffee, food, pills — but I had to do something.

I pulled on a T-shirt and some shorts and staggered out of the guest cottage. The morning sunshine was absurdly bright, and I stood still for a full minute with my eyes shut, gently swaying. Delicately I opened them, and saw that the table we had eaten at the night before was now laid for breakfast. Ingrid was sitting there, with some coffee and croissants. I stumbled over to her.

‘Morning,’ she said.

‘...’ I opened my mouth and no sound came out. I tried again. ‘Morning.’ It was a hideous croak.

Ingrid tried to suppress a smile. ‘Are you always this sprightly in the morning?’

‘God,’ I said. ‘I’m never going to drink Pimm’s again. How come you look so good?’

And she did. She was wearing a light denim dress. Her skin shone golden in the morning sunlight, and her pale-blue eyes smiled at me. ‘Practice.’

‘Really?’

‘Actually, not really. I think I must have a good head for it. I got myself in quite a lot of trouble last year over drinking so I try to stay clear of it.’

‘Trouble? What kind of trouble?’

‘Big trouble. I got thrown out of Cheltenham Ladies’ College.’

‘You did?’ That explained why she had arrived at Broadhill in the middle of the A-level syllabus. I squinted at her in the strong morning sunlight. ‘You don’t look much like a Cheltenham Lady to me.’

‘I beg your pardon? You haven’t seen me in my uniform.’

‘That’s true.’ Broadhill didn’t have a uniform. Or rather it did, but it was imposed by the pupils and was far too complicated to be written down. I wasn’t even sure I understood it. Guy did, of course. So did Mel. ‘I bet your parents were proud of you.’

‘I think my mother thought it was quite funny. My father was furious, though. And since my mother doesn’t talk to my father her support didn’t help much. It was a bit unfair. It was a first offence and it was my birthday.’

‘And Broadhill didn’t mind?’

‘You know they have an appeal going for a new library?’

‘Yes.’

‘They got quite a large anonymous donation.’

‘Ah.’

The young North African gardener appeared on the other side of the pool and began weeding. Shirtless. Ingrid happily watched him, but I closed my eyes. The sun shone pink through my lids. A grasshopper started up somewhere very close. I winced. ‘Is anyone else up?’

‘Mel’s awake, but she’s still getting herself ready. She’s in a pretty bad way too. I haven’t seen Tony or Dominique. Or Owen. What about Guy?’

‘Asleep. Where did these come from?’ I asked, glancing at the croissants.

‘Miguel. Here he is.’

And he was. ‘Orange juice, monsieur?’ he said, bearing a large jug of the stuff.

‘Yes, please.’

He poured me a glass and I drained it, realizing that it was orange juice I craved. The cold sweet liquid made me feel very slightly better. Miguel understood and refilled the glass.

He noticed Ingrid’s glass was almost empty. ‘A senhorita aceita um pouco mais?’

‘Sim, por favor.’ He filled it. ‘É o suficiente. Obrigada.’

‘De nada.’

‘What the hell was that?’ I asked, as he withdrew.

‘Miguel’s Portuguese,’ she said.

‘Of course. Silly me.’ I sipped some more juice. ‘I can’t get over this place, can you? I mean having someone bringing you your breakfast in the morning.’ Then I paused. I really had no idea what Ingrid’s background was. ‘Sorry. Perhaps you’re used to it. You probably have a dozen places like this.’

She saw my hesitation and laughed. ‘You’re right. This is a nice place.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘That’s quite difficult to answer. And you?’

‘Easy. Northamptonshire. England. How can it be difficult to answer?’

‘It assumes that you have a family. I have several families. And each one has several houses.’

‘Sounds very grand.’

‘Actually, it’s a pain in the arse.’

‘Oh. What kind of name is Ingrid Da Cunha anyway? It sounds like an island off the coast of Sweden.’

Ingrid laughed. A little too loudly for my head. ‘I feel like an island off the coast of Sweden. Perhaps that’s a good description of me. It’s actually Ingrid Carlson Da Cunha. My mother is Swedish, my father’s Brazilian. I was born in London so I actually have a British passport. I’ve lived in Tokyo, Hong Kong, Frankfurt, Paris, São Paulo and New York. Broadhill is my ninth, and I hope last, school. Believe me, I would love to be able to say that I’d lived in one place for the last eighteen years.’

I didn’t believe her. Her background sounded impossibly glamorous to me. I rubbed my temples. ‘How long does it take for a hangover to go away?’

‘A week, I think,’ said Ingrid.

‘That’s not funny. A week of this and I’ll be dead.’

Ingrid smiled with amusement, tinged with just a little sympathy.

Then I remembered what I had overheard last night. ‘I suppose you speak a lot of languages?’

‘A few.’

‘Is one of them French?’

‘It’s supposed to be. I’ve just done my French A level.’

‘Do you know what “gosse” means?’

‘Yes. It’s slang. For a child. Or a kid.’

‘Oh. And just to make sure I haven’t got something wrong, “baiser” means “to kiss”, doesn’t it?’

Ingrid laughed. ‘It used to. But not any more.’

‘Not any more?’ Suddenly I remembered the giggling that followed Madame Renard’s explanation of the meaning during that French lesson a couple of years before. ‘Oh, God. It means fuck, doesn’t it?’

Ingrid nodded.

‘Ah.’ This was more serious than I had feared.

The smile had disappeared from Ingrid’s face. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I heard it last night.’ Ingrid was looking at me oddly. ‘Did you hear anything?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘But I think some people were doing more than just saying it.’

‘Yes.’

We sat in silence for a moment.

‘So where did you hear it?’ Ingrid asked.

‘It was the middle of the night. As you can tell, I’d had a bit too much to drink, so I went out into the garden for some air. I heard shouting. It was Dominique. She was screaming at Tony: “Salaud! Une gosse! Tu as baisé une gosse!”’ I hesitated. There was really only one conclusion.

I glanced at Ingrid, afraid to voice my thoughts. Did she know? It was hard to tell. Her face was impassive. But she was watching me, too.

‘Tony slept with Mel last night, didn’t he?’ I ventured.

Ingrid nodded slowly.

‘I can’t believe it. What a perv!’ Teenage boys like to think that there is nothing about sex that can shock them. But Tony was somebody’s father, a parent. It seemed unnatural. It seemed wrong. ‘But his wife was right there in the house!’

‘I know,’ said Ingrid. ‘And it sounds like she’s guessed what he was up to. Hold on,’ she whispered. ‘Here’s Mel.’

Mel crept out on to the terrace from the house. She looked dreadful. Her face was a grey shade of off-white and her eyes were red and puffy. She had applied lipstick and some black eye shadow, but that just made her look worse.

‘Hi,’ I said.

‘Hi.’ She sat down and dived for the coffee. I didn’t know what to say. She didn’t say anything. So the three of us sat in silence.

Feeling a little better for my breakfast, I went for a swim in the pool. The cold water felt wonderful. There was life after alcohol after all. I was joined by an energetic Tony, who did thirty lengths at a disgusting speed. After a few minutes, Guy appeared. He dived in, keeping up with his father stroke for stroke. It seemed obscene to me to see them both striving to outdo each other in the water after what Tony had done with his son’s girlfriend the night before. It was almost as if the night’s activities had given Tony a shot of unnatural energy. Unlike the dazed and bleary-eyed Mel, who was still nursing a cup of coffee on the terrace.

I left them to get on with it, pulled myself on to a chair by the pool and closed my eyes, letting the sun do its stuff.

Around midday Guy roused me. ‘Come on! Get your clothes. We’re going to a restaurant in Monte Carlo. Then we’re off to the beach in the afternoon.’

I grunted and did as I was told, not quite sure whether I was up to a big lunch and the alcohol that would probably go with it. Everyone was milling around in the large hallway. Dominique had appeared, wearing her sunglasses and acting as though nothing had happened the night before. The only person not present was Owen. Guy said he was plugged in to his portable computer and didn’t want to join us. That bothered nobody.

‘OK, let’s go,’ said Tony. ‘We can all squeeze into the Jeep.’

‘I’ll take my car,’ said Dominique.

‘If you like.’

‘I can take someone with me,’ she turned to me. ‘David?’

I was a little surprised that she had picked me. I would have preferred to go with the others and slump in silence in the back; I wasn’t sure I was up to making conversation with Dominique that morning. But I didn’t want to be impolite. ‘OK,’ I said.

We all trooped outside, Tony pulled up in the Jeep and everyone but me piled in. Dominique had gone back inside for something. Tony waited a few seconds, muttering to himself, and then started the engine.

‘Sorry, David, she’s always late for everything. We should go on ahead. Do you want to come with us?’

I hesitated a moment. ‘No, I’d better wait for her,’ I said eventually, deciding that that was the least rude thing to do.

‘OK. Tell her we’ve gone to the usual place. See you there!’ and the Jeep shot off up the driveway.

I waited a couple of minutes and then went inside myself.

‘David!’

I heard Dominique’s voice calling from the living room. I went in. She was drinking from a large crystal tumbler of clear liquid.

‘Do you want some?’

‘What is it?’

‘Vodka. It’s cold.’

I shook my head. ‘Not after last night.’

She laughed. ‘Do you have a headache?’

I nodded.

‘Well, have some, then. It will do you good. I promise you’ll feel much better.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

She poured a large amount of vodka into a tumbler and handed it to me. ‘Here. Try it.’

I looked at her doubtfully. What the hell, I thought, and took a big slug. The ice-cold liquid turned to fire as it hit the back of my throat, and I scowled.

‘Wait a moment,’ she said, smiling. ‘It won’t take long.’ She watched me, as I held the tumbler awkwardly. ‘Well?’

It was true, I did feel slightly better as the vodka entered my bloodstream.

‘Have some more. Salut!’ She drained her glass and refilled it. Under her watchful eyes, I drank more from mine.

‘Shouldn’t we be going?’

‘There is no hurry. This is France. In any case, Tony always complains I’m late for everything.’

‘OK,’ I said, not quite knowing what to do. We were standing a couple of feet apart. She was wearing a loose white dress, and her blonde hair was tied back behind her neck. She had taken off her sunglasses. Her eyes rested on me as she drank. I wasn’t sure what to do or where to look. I could feel the warmth in my face; I didn’t know if it was from the vodka or the embarrassment or both. I gulped some more of my drink nervously. In the end, my eyes ran out of other places to look and I met hers. They were blue. There was something odd about them, but I didn’t have time to work out what.

She moved towards me.

I let her come. She brushed my lips with hers. Then she put her arms around my neck and pulled me down to her. Her tongue was coarse and she smelled of perfume and tobacco; to me at that moment a heady, adult smell. Eventually, she broke away.

‘Come,’ she said.

She led me up the stairs by the hand, like a child. We passed through her enormous bedroom, dominated by a large unmade bed, and out on to a balcony. The blue of sea and sky surrounded us. My heart beat fast. My throat was dry.

She kept her eyes on me, those strange eyes. She reached behind her back, undid something and wriggled. Her dress fell to the ground showing her body, naked apart from some tiny panties. I had never seen a real, breathing, three-dimensional woman’s body before, and certainly never one like this. I could scarcely breathe. I stretched out a hand towards her. She placed it on her breast. I felt the nipple spring hard under my fingers.

‘Come here, David.’

8

April 1999, The City, London

I paused at the top of the steps and glanced at the traditional red-and-white striped pole. I was in a narrow alley behind the Bank of England. In front of me, crammed into a basement, was the barber’s shop I had visited every six weeks or so for the previous three years. Except that it was only a fortnight since I had been there last.

I took a deep breath, descended the steps and pushed open the door.

Within five minutes I was in the chair, examining my hair in the mirror. Short. Slightly curly. Not fashionable, but not unfashionable either.

‘The usual, sir?’

‘No, George. I’ll have a number two all over.’

I had been mumbling the phrase to myself all morning. I had rejected a number one as just being a little too final.

The Greek Cypriot barber raised his heavy eyebrows, but said nothing and reached for his electric clippers. He fiddled with attachments and switched it on. The buzz made my heart rate soar. In the mirror I saw him hold the vibrating clippers just above my head. He caught my eye and smiled. Sweat poured from my armpits. Get a grip, I thought. This is only hair. It will regrow. I smiled back.

He lunged. I closed my eyes. The noise increased. I braced myself for the pain of hair being ripped from my scalp, but the sensation was more like a brief, intense massage. I opened my eyes again. A swathe of stubbled skin bisected my hair where my parting used to be. It was like an inverted Mohican. George’s smile widened.

There was no going back now.

Wapping High Street wasn’t much of a high street. More a lane between converted warehouses, or modem apartment blocks made to look like converted warehouses. There was little traffic, no pedestrians, but plenty of grinding and chugging from the construction equipment hidden behind hoardings.

I found Malacca Wharf and took the lift to the second floor.

‘Nice haircut,’ Guy said as he opened the door.

‘I knew you’d like it.’ I pushed past him into the flat. Half of the small living room was taken up with a pine table, groaning under the weight of computers and piles of paper. Owen’s bulk was hunched over a keyboard, tapping away. He looked little different from when I had last seen him several years before, except that the hair peeking out beneath his baseball cap was dyed an unlikely shade of white-blond.

‘Hello, Owen.’

He glanced up at me for a moment. ‘Hi,’ he responded in his high-pitched voice.

‘What do you think?’ Guy said. ‘This is ninetyminutes.com’s global HQ.’

‘Impressive. And where’s my office?’

‘Just here.’ Guy indicated a chair at the table, opposite a pile of paper.

‘Very nice.’

‘Good view, though, don’t you think?’

I walked over to the French windows that opened on to a small balcony. The Thames rushed past brown and turbulent, and on the opposite side of the river more converted warehouses stared back at us.

‘Why do you live here? Not much going on, is there?’

‘It’s Dad’s place. An investment he bought a while ago. He’s trying to kick me out, but I won’t go.’

‘You said you two weren’t getting on.’

‘We’re not. We have as little to do with each other as possible.’

‘Ah.’

I realized that that meant more than just Guy having to curtail his spending habits. It meant that the most obvious source of finance for ninetyminutes.com had already dried up. I’d find out more about that later.

Guy went through to the tiny kitchen and began making coffee. ‘How did they take it at Gurney Kroheim?’

‘My boss didn’t like it at all,’ I said. ‘I was quite touched, actually. He tried to plead with me at first, but he gave up after a few minutes. He said I was better off out of it. Poor guy. I don’t give him long.’ Giles was history and he knew it. The next reorganization would see him whited out of the Specialized Finance organogram. I hoped he would find another job.

‘Much better job security here,’ said Guy.

‘Of course,’ I replied with a wry grin. I took off my jacket and hung it on the back of my chair. ‘So. What do we do?’

Guy started talking. And talking. It was like a dam bursting. He had obviously been thinking of nothing else for weeks and he was desperate for someone to share those thoughts with. Owen wasn’t exactly right for the job, but I was. Guy was clearly glad to have me around. It made me feel needed and totally involved right from the outset.

The first thing to do was to get the ninetyminutes.com website up and running. Guy had a pretty good idea of what he wanted to put on it. There was the basic stuff: match reports, news, photos, player profiles, statistics, different sections for each club, the kind of things every soccer website needed. Then there were the things that Guy hoped would make Ninetyminutes different: gossip, chat, humour, cartoons to start with. And later betting, a fantasy football game, video clips, and the ultimate prize: e-commerce. Once we had attracted visitors to the site, we would begin selling merchandise: clothing, mugs, posters, anything and everything the football fan could want. Stage three would be to design our own range of clothing and other products to push through the site.

It was amazing how much of all this could be done by outsiders. Owen was working on the technical specifications of the site, making sure that it was ‘scalable’, in other words it could grow as the traffic and complexity increased. But outside companies would provide us with the software and hardware we needed, and a design consultancy would help us with the all-important look and feel of the website itself. News, photos and statistics could be downloaded in digital form from press agencies and then manipulated however we wanted.

This left the all-important question.

‘Who’s going to write all this?’ I asked. ‘The opinions, the humour, the chat? Are we going to leave it all to Owen?’

‘Ha ha,’ said Owen, his only contribution to the conversation so far.

Guy smiled. ‘Come and look.’

He hit some keys on his computer and a sheet of bright purple flashed on his screen. The words ‘Sick As A Parrot’ in a shaky font were emblazoned on it in green.

‘Nice title,’ I said. ‘And lovely graphics.’

‘I know, I know. But take a look.’

I looked, clicking on stories about the latest England manager, a volatile Arsenal striker, the rumoured transfer of a French international to Liverpool. There were articles about grounds, commentators, notorious supporters, the businessmen behind the clubs, what had happened to the star players in the previous year’s World Cup in France. There was a whole section comparing the tactics of the Premier League teams in terms that even I could understand. It was brilliantly written. Witty in places, opinionated in others, every piece was concise, clear and interesting.

‘This guy knows his stuff,’ I said. ‘That is, assuming it is all one guy.’

‘Oh, it is.’

‘What’s his name? Gaz?’ I said, peering at the screen.

‘His full name is Gary Morris and he lives in Hemel Hempstead.’

‘But who’s behind it?’

‘No one. Just him. It’s an unofficial site. He probably has a day job, but spends the rest of his waking life watching football and reading and writing about it.’

‘So what do we do?’

‘It’s our first corporate acquisition, Mr Bigshot. We’re going to buy Sick As A Parrot.’

‘For how much?’

‘I don’t know. A pint of lager and a packet of peanuts? We won’t find out until we meet Gaz.’

‘And when are we going to do that?’

Guy looked at his watch. ‘In about two hours.’

Number 26 Paget Close was a white pebbledashed terraced house in a row of white pebbledashed terraced houses. We opened the low wooden gate and stepped carefully through a tiny, immaculately kept front garden. A plastic ginger cat guarded the door. Guy rang the bell. It chimed sweetly.

A small but stout woman with tight grey curls appeared.

Guy hesitated for a moment, but he recovered quickly. ‘Mrs Morris?’ he asked with his best smile, which was generally recognized as a pretty good smile.

The woman glowed. ‘Yes.’

‘Is your son in?’

‘You’re the people from the internet company, aren’t you?’

‘That’s right,’ said Guy. ‘I’m Guy Jourdan, Chief Executive, and this is my Finance Director, David Lane.’

‘Come in, come in. Make yourselves at home. Gary’s still at work, but he should be back any minute now.’ She led us through to a small living room. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ And then hastily, to make sure we hadn’t misunderstood her: ‘A cup of tea, perhaps?’

Guy and I sank into a deep chintz-covered sofa while Mrs Morris busied herself in the kitchen. Then we heard the front door open and close and a male voice call ‘Hi, Mum!’

‘Those internet people are here to see you, dear.’

Gaz appeared. He was a thin man in his early twenties, dressed in light blue shirt and blue trousers with red piping. A postman. Guy was wearing black jeans and a lightweight black polo-necked jersey. I was in an old denim shirt and crumpled green trousers. We all sat down on the three-piece suite and the takeover battle began.

He was no fool, Gaz. Guy started on some spiel about how ninetyminutes.com was a leading European internet holding company, when Gaz stopped him.

‘You’re just two blokes with some bullshit, aren’t you? I know all the footie websites, and ninetyminutes.com isn’t one of them.’ He had a prominent Adam’s apple that wobbled up and down as he talked, and he spoke with a sub-cockney accent. But he was right. ‘So how much will you pay me for Sick As A Parrot? Cash on the table.’

Guy smiled. ‘I discussed this with my finance man this morning, and we’ve got an opening offer.’ He looked across to me. We had discussed a price on the way, but I thought it was far too early to put it on the table. I decided to give Guy the benefit of the doubt and nodded sagely.

‘A pint of lager and a packet of peanuts,’ Guy said, with a smile. ‘That’s just a down payment, of course. There’s more to follow.’

Gaz frowned, then returned the smile. ‘That’ll get you to the table. Let’s go and discuss this properly.’ He stood up and called down the hallway. ‘We’re just going out, Mum!’

Mrs Morris rushed to the door to hold it open for us, and fluttered her eyelashes at Guy.

‘Nice cat, Mrs Morris,’ said Guy as he passed the plastic mog.

‘Oh, thank you. I do like cats. We’d have a real one, but Gary’s allergic.’

‘Bye, Mum,’ said Gaz, escaping through the wooden gate.

We continued the discussion in the pub around the corner. Guy bought Gaz his promised pint of lager, and he got one for himself and his Finance Director as well.

‘Sorry about the bullshit, Gaz,’ he said. ‘It’s what I do. I’ll give you the real scoop in a moment. But before that, tell me about the site.’

Gaz was happy to talk. He was proud of his work, as well he should have been. ‘I started it two years ago. At first it was nothing more than a home page. Then it sort of developed a following all by itself. I adapted it into a proper-looking site, people told other people about it, pretty soon it had more or less taken me over.’

‘How many visitors do you get?’

‘About a hundred thousand a month, last time I checked.’

‘Wow. It must take a lot of time to keep it up.’

‘It does. I spend almost all my free time on it. I don’t get much sleep. But I enjoy it.’

‘It’s very good,’ said Guy.

‘I know,’ said Gaz.

‘I can tell you’re an Arsenal fan. Why didn’t you just do an Arsenal site?’

‘There are two types of people who like football,’ Gaz replied. ‘The tribal type, who are looking for a grouping to give them some kind of identity, and those who just love the game. I’m not writing for the tribal type. Sure, it makes it much more interesting if you support one team or another, but I’m just as happy watching and writing about teams other than Arsenal. More happy: it’s easier to be objective.’

‘And do you design the website yourself?’

‘Yeah. That’s no problem. I studied physics and philosophy at uni, so I can get my head around a computer. At first I did the whole thing from scratch in HTML, but these days you get packages like Dreamweaver that make it all pretty easy anyway. Don’t get me wrong,’ Gaz said. ‘I’m not a geek. It’s football I love. It’s just that I understand computers and that’s how I tell people about football.’

‘So if you’ve got a degree in physics and philosophy, how come you’re a postman?’ I asked.

‘I like being a postman,’ Gaz replied defensively. ‘It gives me time to do what I like to do. And funnily enough knowing about Wittgenstein and the theory of matter didn’t seem to impress the recruitment people.’

‘It should have done,’ I said.

‘OK, OK. But where did you learn to write like that?’ Guy asked.

‘I’ve always written, ever since I was a kid. It comes naturally, especially when I’m writing about football. It’s like I’m compulsive. I just have to get it down.’ He sipped his beer. ‘What about you? Tell me what your real story is.’

Guy talked about his plans for ninetyminutes.com and for its growth. He admitted Ninetyminutes would need a lot of money to get off the ground, and that we hadn’t raised any of it yet.

Gaz listened hard.

‘What do you think?’ Guy asked him.

‘You’ve read my site?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you know my views on the commercialization of football.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well?’

‘Do you like living at home?’ Guy asked.

‘It’s all right, I suppose.’

‘Wouldn’t you like your own place within walking distance of Highbury? Wouldn’t you like to write this stuff during the working day instead of at night or at weekends?’

‘Yes. But I don’t want to sell out. All the commercial sites are crap. They’re all pushing this TV station, or that football shirt. You can’t say the chairman is a wanker if he’s the one paying your salary. Or if his best mate is.’

‘That’s the point,’ said Guy. ‘The commercial sites are all crap. But so are the unofficial ones too. Even yours.’

Gaz raised his eyebrows. He wasn’t expecting this.

‘The design’s crap. Sorry, but it is.’

The colour rose in Gaz’s thin cheeks. He slammed his pint down on the pub table. ‘What’s wrong with the design?’

‘Gaz, we’re not here because of your eye for colour, or your sense of perspective. We’re here because you write the best stuff on the net and off it. But you need more. You need a good site design, you need a PR and marketing campaign so millions of people will hear about it, you need hardware that can deal with the traffic, you need people working for you who can write the stories you want in the way you want. You need someone to pay those people, you need someone to pay you, you need an office, a computer, time to think, time to watch football.

‘This site is going to be what you make it, Gaz. And it’s going to be big. And I’m sorry, but you’re going to make a shit-load of money out of it too.’

Gaz was listening. I watched his face. I could see Guy’s magic working on it. ‘OK. So, what’s the deal?’

‘Twenty thousand quid up front and five per cent of the shares of the company.’

Gaz looked from Guy to me. We let him think.

‘Thirty.’

‘Twenty-five.’

‘Done.’ Gaz held out his hand. Guy shook it. ‘And another pint of lager.’

‘So, what do you think, Davo? Six hours in the job, and we’ve already done our first deal.’ We were zipping down the outside lane of the M1 in Guy’s electric-blue ten-year-old Porsche, roof down, stereo and wind loud in our ears.

‘I tell you, that’s more than I did at Gurney Kroheim in the last year,’ I said. ‘But I couldn’t believe that bullshit you gave him at first! People aren’t going to fall for that, Guy.’

Guy smiled. ‘Precisely. He was expecting bullshit, so I gave it to him. Then he had a chance to see through it and I could make the real story more credible.’

‘Wasn’t that a bit risky?’ I said. ‘Don’t we want him to think he can trust us?’

‘Oh, he’ll trust us now. But remember what he’s looking to us for. He wants us to talk the talk. He can’t do that. I wanted to show him that we can do his bullshit for him. And it worked, didn’t it?’

‘It did. Not bad.’

‘There are some advantages to an actor’s training.’

‘So I see.’ It was clear that Guy’s finely honed skills in manipulating people were going to come in handy in the months ahead.

Guy slowed as he spied a police car on the inside lane.

‘You know,’ I said, ‘at some point soon we’ve got to talk about money.’

‘Money?’

I leaned forward and turned the Gallagher brothers down. ‘Yes. Like, how much of it do we have?’

‘I’ve got zip in my account. I think Owen’s got about thirty k left in his.’

I winced. ‘Which he’s willing to give to Gaz?’

‘Absolutely. Owen’s willing to put everything he’s got into this. We both are. In fact we both have. Owen’s already put over twenty thousand in.’

‘And you?’

‘Well, as you can guess, I had less. But that’s all gone too. What about you?’

‘I think I can put in forty thousand.’

Guy slowed a fraction, and turned to me. ‘Forty? Is that all? Come on, Davo, if you’re in, you’re in. You can’t keep nest eggs on one side.’

‘Forty thousand is all of my savings. Or nearly all. It will leave me with a few thousand to get through the next few months. I told you I wasn’t seeing any of the big bonuses at Gurney Kroheim. And my place in Notting Hill is mortgaged up to the hilt.’

‘OK, Davo, I believe you,’ said Guy. ‘And the forty is good. Very good.’

‘But we need more money.’

‘Right.’ Guy slowed as he entered the slip road off the motorway. The traffic thickened.

‘What about your father?’

Guy shook his head. ‘No.’

‘You mean “no you won’t ask him”, or “no he’d say no”?’

‘I mean both.’

‘You’ve got to try.’

‘I can’t, Davo. I’ve asked him for money so many times in the past. At first he used to give it to me. I think he liked the idea of me having a good time. Plus he felt guilty about what happened in France. Neither of us really got over that, as you know.’

Guy drove on in silence, embroiled in his own thoughts. I didn’t interrupt him; France was a topic I wanted to stay well clear of.

Then he came back to the present. ‘Dad paid for my flat in London, he paid for drama school, he paid for me to go to Hollywood. Remember the Cessna I used to fly? Golf Juliet? He paid for that. And there’s all kinds of other stuff.’

‘But this is different.’

‘That’s the point. This is different. This time I’ll use that money properly. But I’ve fed him so many stories over the years, I don’t want this to be another one. If I tell him I’m going to start an internet company, he’ll laugh in my face. Worse than that, he won’t even laugh. He’ll just look disappointed.

‘And I wouldn’t blame him. I know I’ve pissed away the last few years. Sure I’ve had a good time, but I’ve never actually achieved anything at all. I used to think Dad was cool because he knew how to have fun. But at least he’d earned the money to spend. He’d done something. I haven’t. Until now. But it’s all going to change, you’ll see. No drink. No women. I know I can make something out of Ninetyminutes, Davo. But I’m going to have to do it without my father.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘If you’re sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘Have you tried anyone else? Friends? Contacts? Relations? Your mother?’

‘I have. Lots of them. It’s humiliating. The truth is, they all think I’m a loser. Just like you did when I first told you about it in the Dickens Inn. At least you listened in the end. Most people don’t. Anyway, any of them that would be willing to give me money without much chance of ever seeing it again have already done it.’

‘What about Torsten Schollenberger?’

‘Torsten’s worth a try. I haven’t seen him for a while, but he’s always up for a night on the town. And his father’s loaded. I’ll go to Hamburg and give it a whirl.’

‘Can’t do any harm.’

‘But what about venture capitalists?’ Guy said. ‘Won’t they be falling over themselves to get into this deal?’

‘I doubt it. At least not yet. I think they’ll think the same as Gaz did at first. Two bullshitters with nothing.’

‘But you said the plan was good?’

‘The plan is good. And as soon as we get back to your flat I’ll make it better. But it’s too early to go to them yet. They’ll want to see a website with real people visiting it. Lots of real people.’

‘We’re going to need some money from somewhere,’ said Guy. ‘Once we go to the next stage with the web consultants, we’re going to have to pay out real cash. And when we hire people we’ll need an office. And we’ll need money for the marketing campaign. TV advertising, that sort of thing.’

‘I think we’re probably going to have to start slower than that, Guy,’ I said.

Guy slammed his hand down on the steering wheel. ‘No! We have to move fast. If we start slow, we’ll end up nowhere. We have to start in the lead and move ahead quickly enough to stay there.’

I frowned. ‘Let’s see what we can do.’

9

I had never worked so hard in my life. My social life ended, I had no time for flying, I scarcely watched any TV. Every morning I arrived at Guy’s flat before eight. I walked from the tube station opposite the Tower of London, alongside Tower Bridge and St Katherine’s Dock to Wapping High Street, passing the grim faces of suited bankers on their way in to the City sweatshops. Guy was already at work when I arrived, but Owen didn’t emerge from his bedroom until about eleven.

For the first couple of days I found his hulking silent presence intimidating, but I soon got used to him. He preferred to communicate by e-mail rather than speech. Sometimes Guy and I would discuss something for half an hour, only to get back to work and find an e-mail waiting for us from Owen giving his views on the matter. Very strange. But it was quite possible to work a few feet away from Owen all day and ignore him completely, and he liked it that way.

He was making good progress on the architecture of the website. But, as Guy tacitly recognized, Owen had a people problem, so normally either Guy or I would accompany him to meetings. I quickly began to gain a basic understanding of the various components that would make up our website: the host servers lodged in fireproof, bombproof, high-security premises, the internet connections, the routers, the proxy servers, the firewalls, the databases. At this stage, it was all fairly straightforward, but once we started selling stuff over the web it would become much more complicated fast. Owen was wise to look ahead.

I spent a lot of time on the finances. One moment I would be worrying about whether the revenue in year five should be £120 million or £180 million. The next I would be figuring out how to save a few quid on printer toner. Guy had picked up a lot about internet businesses in a short time, but the money side had passed him by. I bought a bookkeeping software package and laboriously typed strings of figures into it. I set up files and simple procedures. I opened a company bank account. And I put a lot of thought into company structure, who owned what proportion of how many shares, how much to keep back for future key employees and how to value the company now and in the future.

I was concerned about the shareholders’ agreement. I wasn’t a lawyer, but it seemed to me that there were holes in it. As the number of shareholders grew, this agreement would become more important. Guy had used a law firm who specialized in film and TV contracts. They were difficult to pin down and when I did get hold of them, they waffled at my objections. We considered using some of the City firms I knew, but they would be far too expensive at this stage so we decided we would have to put up with Guy’s lawyers until we had proper funding.

Ninetyminutes wasn’t exactly going to be a ‘virtual’ company but it was going to be pretty close. Especially in the early stages. We didn’t have the time or the money to employ our own experts on everything: we were going to have to use consultants. The most important of these was the web designer. Guy had selected a firm called Mandrill, and they called us to say they were ready with our design.

Mandrill’s office was a large loft above a garment trader in one of the small streets just north of Oxford Street. Brick, pipes, skylights, precious little furniture, no internal walls. A folded-up micro-scooter rested against a cappuccino machine by the door. There were three islands of people working their computers around large curved black tables. We were met by two men and a woman. They intimidated the hell out of me. The men had tightly cropped goatee beards, carefully arranged combat trousers and T-shirts, hair cut just so. I had suddenly become an aficionado of shaven heads, but neither of the two men had had a simple ‘all over’ job. The woman, whose black hair was at least an inch longer than the men’s, sported an eyebrow stud and at least six rings in each ear. Against this, Guy’s all-black kit and inch-long blond hair looked so 1998. Owen and I weren’t even contenders.

We crowded round a small table bearing a projector. The leader, one of the goatees called Tommy, asked for the lights to be dimmed and switched on the machine. It flashed a search-engine page on to the screen. We watched as Tommy typed the letters www.ninetyminutes.com. A click and up it came, our new logo on a light blue background. Another click and we were into the site. It didn’t look anything like the other soccer sites on the web. Most of these resembled the contents pages of magazines transferred to the Internet. Mandrill’s site, or rather our site, consisted of a series of dark blue bubbles floating on a light blue background. There was something about it that invited you to click to see what was in the bubbles. We clicked. And clicked. And clicked.

‘Nice,’ said Guy. ‘What do you think, Gaz?’

‘Cool. Yeah, cool.’

‘Let’s take a closer look at the logo.’

Tommy clicked on the opening screen. The woman with the multiple earrings handed round a T-shirt with the new logo printed on it.

‘Obviously the real clothing will be better quality than this,’ she said. ‘But it should give you an idea.’

The T-shirt bore the figures nine and zero, with a few strokes suggesting a stopwatch within the zero. Next to it was a tiny football, and the word ‘com’ in forward-sloping lower-case letters. It looked good.

‘It’s like a kind of mixture between Ralph Lauren and Adidas,’ Guy said.

Tommy changed the screen. An image of a whiteboard splattered with scribblings appeared. I recognized Guy’s writing. Tommy zoomed in on the words ‘Adidas’ and ‘Ralph Lauren’.

Guy laughed. ‘You’re just giving my ideas back to me!’

‘Dead right,’ said Tommy. The lights came up. ‘Well? What do you think?’

Guy glanced at me.

Mandrill were charging thirty thousand pounds plus one per cent of our equity. At this stage in Ninetyminutes’ life thirty thousand was a lot of money. But a well-designed website was vital. I nodded to Guy. ‘OK with me.’

‘What do you think, Owen?’

‘Cotton candy. It’s, like, pink fluffy cotton candy.’

‘But do you think they understand the technical stuff?’

‘It’s like I always say. No one understands the technical stuff in this country.’

‘Well, thanks for not calling them morons, Owen,’ Guy said, flashing a reassuring smile at Tommy and his team.

‘No problem.’

‘Gaz?’

‘I like it. I think it’s cool.’

Guy smiled. ‘So do I. Tommy, we’ve got a deal.’

Saturday came. We all worked in the morning, but Guy told me I had a mystery meeting in the afternoon. We took the tube to Sloane Square and then grabbed a cab.

‘Stamford Bridge,’ said Guy, as we climbed in.

I smiled. ‘I didn’t realize you still went.’

‘Every home game, when I’m in London,’ said Guy. ‘And I intend to keep going. It is the point, after all.’

‘That’s true.’

As a small boy my loyalties had fixed on Derby County, and I had stuck with them until university, making the trip up from Northamptonshire a couple of times a year to see a game. But once I started working, there never seemed to be the time. My interest in the game, both as a player and a spectator, had quietly slipped out of my life, unnoticed. The last time I had been to a football match was seven years before, with Guy.

Then Stamford Bridge had been undergoing major improvements. There was still some work in progress, but I was amazed by the transformation. The ground was reached through the glitzy ‘Chelsea Village’ full of shops and bars. There were some families in the horde of people thronging the ground, but there were also some pretty frightening individuals. Thugs perhaps, but thugs with cash. Money was changing hands everywhere. I looked at my ticket. Twenty-five pounds. Extortionate. As we filed into the all-seater stadium and sat down in the warm spring sunshine with thirty-four thousand other people, all of whom were shelling out at least that much for their Saturday afternoon entertainment, I began to see that there really was a lot of money in football.

The Blues were playing Leicester City. Within ten minutes of the kick-off I had forgotten all about websites and money, and was urging them on with the rest of the crowd. I cheered after half an hour when Gianfranco Zola calmly lobbed the ball over the Leicester goalkeeper. I cheered some more when an own goal from a Leicester defender put Chelsea two up. And then I felt the agitation and frustration boil up inside me as Leicester pulled back first one and then two goals in the last ten minutes.

The draw at home had put paid to Chelsea’s hopes of winning the Premier League that season, and Guy was fuming. But it had been a great game to watch and, as I fought my way home on London’s creaking transport system, I couldn’t help smiling to myself. This was going to be fun.

10

July 1987, Côte D’Azur, France

I leaned against the car door as the Alfa Romeo Spider took the hairpin bend fast. Too fast. Dominique was an aggressive driver. She had told me not to worry, she knew the road well, and it was some comfort to know that she had torn along this stretch many times before without killing herself.

It was impossible to believe. Here I was, sitting in the passenger seat of a sports car, a beautiful blonde beside me, the Mediterranean below, the sun above, the air rushing past as we careered down the Corniche. It was one of those moments I wanted to freeze into my memory so that back in my grey life in grey England it would always be within reach, ready for me to take out and enjoy.

And I had made love for the first time.

I felt like punching the air and letting out a whoop of victory. But with Dominique beside me I had to keep cool. Even so, I couldn’t prevent a grin creeping across my face.

Dominique saw. ‘Ça va?’

‘Ça va bien.’

Actually, making love wasn’t quite the right description of what had happened. It was more like an explosion of adolescent lust. It couldn’t have lasted much more than two minutes. Dominique hadn’t seemed to mind. In fact she seemed to find the whole thing amusing, which didn’t bother me in the slightest. Afterwards, she had gone to get a cigarette. She had sat opposite me, naked, her legs crossed, and lit up. She offered it to me. I had never smoked, to be honest I didn’t know how, but I accepted the cigarette and took a long drag. She thought the paroxysm of coughing that resulted very funny. She kissed me. I stirred.

She noticed and raised her eyebrows. ‘So soon?’ she said.

I shrugged and smiled. ‘It looks like you get two for the price of one.’

She giggled. ‘What a deal.’

The second time took longer and produced much more sweat. I lay in a crumpled heap on the balcony as she took a quick shower.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I know we’re going to be very late, but we should at least try to get there before they leave. It’s only polite.’

The gradient was levelling off and we turned onto a busier road with houses and apartment buildings on either side. We were nearing Monte Carlo. Nearing lunch with Guy and his father. Nearing the enquiring glances, the questions, the excuses. Since the moment when Dominique had led me up the stairs by the hand I had blanked out all thought of the consequences of what was about to happen. But those consequences were only five minutes away.

I had slept with another man’s wife. I had slept with my friend’s stepmother. It was wrong. I knew it was wrong. There were all kinds of justifications to myself that I could use, probably would use. Her husband had been unfaithful to her the night before. She knew entirely what she was doing. I hadn’t encouraged her in any way, I had been an accomplice rather than an instigator. This was France; married people in France had lovers, everyone knew that.

But after I had argued it all through with myself, I knew the answer would still be that I had done wrong.

I wouldn’t have changed the decision, though. I couldn’t have done anything else. For a moment I was being offered a small taste of life from another world, a life of money, sun, sex, beautiful women. I had seen glimpses of this life reflected through some of the other pupils at Broadhill, but I had never experienced it myself. Perhaps I wouldn’t experience it again. Carpe diem.

How the hell would I deal with Guy and his father? There was no need to lie, just mumble. They would never find out. Dominique wouldn’t tell them. Just stay quiet and I’d get away with it.

Dominique hustled the Alfa through the cramped streets of Monte Carlo, orange and yellow high-rise apartment buildings rising above us on all sides, and parked illegally by the port, blocking in a yellow Rolls. The restaurant was just over the road, and Guy, Tony, Ingrid and Mel were sitting at a table outside. A large man was sitting with them.

‘Darling, I’m sorry we’re so late,’ Dominique said, approaching Tony with a broad smile. He stood up and accepted her energetic kisses. The debris of a finished meal littered the table. ‘And Patrick! Comment vas-tu?’

The stranger stood up with difficulty, almost upsetting the unsteady table with his stomach, and kissed Dominique on both cheeks.

‘David, this is Patrick Hoyle,’ Dominique said. ‘He is Tony’s lawyer. He is a very clever man. He lives here in Monte Carlo and saves himself millions of francs in taxes. Patrick, this is David Lane, a friend of Guy’s from school. A charming friend.’

I shook Hoyle’s hand, which was damp. ‘Pleased to meet you, David,’ he boomed. He had a large, round head edged with black tufts of hair. He wore pink-tinted glasses and his skin was pasty for someone who lived in such a sunny place. He was also fat. Really, really fat.

I mumbled something in return. I thought the ‘charming’ was a bit unnecessary and I tried not to go red.

‘We’ll just order a salad,’ Dominique said.

The others seemed awkward, uneasy about something. Mel looked miserable, Ingrid cool, Guy mildly irritated and Tony pensive. Only Hoyle seemed comfortable as he poured himself another glass of red wine.

Dominique gazed out over the multi-million-dollar motor-yachts that were crammed into the harbour in tight rows. ‘Ah, Tony, it’s such a lovely day, don’t you think?’ she said, giving him a dazzling smile.

Tony was caught off guard. I knew they had been screaming at each other the previous night, and I’d seen them ignore each other before lunch. He looked at Dominique questioningly, and then turned his eyes to me. They met mine for a fraction of a second before I had time to look down at my menu in panic. But that fraction of a second was enough.

He knew.

I wanted a hole to open under my chair and swallow me up.

He knew.

And what’s more, I realized that the whole thing had been done by Dominique for just this delicious moment of revenge against her husband. He could fuck a child; well, so could she.

I glanced over to her. She was chattering away, smoking a cigarette and smiling a smile of triumph. I couldn’t hear what she said. It was all meaningless anyway, and only Guy seemed to be responding half-heartedly to any of it. I didn’t hear anything at all. I was buried deep in my menu, wishing to God I was somewhere else.

I felt used. Used and dirty. But I knew I didn’t deserve sympathy. Because most of all I felt stupid. I should have realized what Dominique was after, that all she wanted was to hurt her husband, that I had nothing to do with it. My self-esteem could cope with the idea that it was all just a laugh on her part, but not that I was an inept instrument in a piece of petty malice.

What an idiot.

Lunch was a nightmare of awkwardness. Afterwards, we set off for the beach, thankfully leaving Hoyle to return to his office. This time I made sure I was in the Jeep. Ingrid went with Dominique.

The beach was just a small stretch of sand in a rocky cove beneath the cliffs upon which Les Sarrasins perched. It was difficult to get to: we had to scramble down a rocky path, and the waves rushed in with more vigour than at the sedate beaches of Beaulieu. It was flanked on one side by nudists and on the other by gays. There were very few other people there and in a better mood I would have thought it beautiful. It did at least give me the chance to lie down, shut my eyes and ignore everyone else.

I spread my towel over a smooth rock next to Ingrid, lowered myself face down upon it and closed my eyes. I could hear activity around me. Guy and Tony had brought a cooler of beer and were getting stuck into it. It sounded like they were having some kind of father-and-son bonding session, but nobody else was interested.

It made me sick. Tony had just screwed his son’s girlfriend and yet he was quite happy to drink and joke with him. Guy didn’t have a clue. The girlfriend in question was keeping very quiet, despite Guy’s efforts to bring her into the conversation.

I felt a gentle tickle on my thigh. I turned and opened one eye. Dominique was lying next to me, leaning on one elbow, her uncovered breasts hanging down towards the smooth rock. A smudge on the inside of her forearm caught my eye, as though there were a patch of make-up that had picked up the sand. Odd.

‘Ça va?’ she said with a smile that could have been seductive, or could have been mocking, or could have been both.

I turned the other way. It was rude, perhaps, but it was the only way to make my point I could think of.

The other way was Ingrid. She too was topless, as was every woman on the beach apart from Mel. Although her skin was a lovely warm golden colour, her breasts were nothing like as full as Dominique’s, and she didn’t have Dominique’s curves. She was quite ordinary looking, really. But suddenly a girl my own age seemed so much more attractive than the supposed sophistication of Dominique.

I realized that Ingrid was watching me through her dark glasses. She grinned.

‘Sorry,’ I said and closed my eyes, too wretched to feel embarrassed. The sun beat down on my back and I think I fell asleep.

Some time later, I heard the hiss of a beer can being opened next to me. Then the shock of cold aluminium on my overheated back. My head jerked upwards. Tony was sitting where Dominique had been. I looked round. The others had gone. I scanned the waves and saw them splashing in the sea.

‘Want one?’ asked Tony.

‘No thanks,’ I said.

He took a swig of his. He was sitting a foot away from me, staring out to sea.

‘If you touch my wife again, I’ll kill you,’ he said matter-of-factly.

My throat went dry. I swallowed. ‘I understand.’

‘Good. Now tomorrow morning you are going to ring your parents in England. They are going to tell you that there is a family emergency and you have to fly home immediately. What the family emergency is, is entirely up to you. I will drive you to the airport and you will catch the four o’clock flight to Heathrow. Don’t worry, I’ll pay for the ticket.’

‘All right,’ I said. That was fine with me.

‘Good. And let me make it absolutely clear. I don’t want to see you ever again.’ His eyes glinted. ‘If Guy invites you here or to any of my other properties you will say no. Do you understand?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘Excellent. Now, I think I’ll join them.’

Without looking, he poured the remains of the beer over my stomach. I flinched as the cool liquid touched my skin, but I let him do it. I watched him climb down towards the waves: a rich, powerful man who wanted to prove to himself that he was still as young and good-looking as his son. Which, of course, he could never do. However much power he had, however much money he spent, however many young girls he seduced, he would always be twenty-eight years older than Guy. It was sad to see someone otherwise so successful in life fail to grasp this inescapable truth. But I wasn’t going to argue about leaving so soon. The prospect of six more days had been weighing heavily on me and now Tony Jourdan had given me the perfect way out. I wouldn’t miss him.

As soon as we arrived back at the house I excused myself, saying I wanted to go and lie down. Guy walked with me back to the guest cottage.

‘What’s up with everybody, Davo?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ I said.

‘Everyone’s acting weird. Mel’s gone ice-cold on me. Something’s up.’

I didn’t answer.

‘At least Dad seems in good form. You should talk to him more. He’s a great guy. It’s cool when you can talk to your parents like normal people, don’t you think? It’s hard to believe he’s forty-six. I just wish I’d had a chance to see more of him these last few years.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘What he’s doing with that French tart, I don’t know. Sure, she looks hot, but I think Dad can do better than that. What do you think? You’ve spoken to her more than I have.’

‘I don’t know,’ I mumbled.

‘Jesus, Davo, you as well! Cheer up, will you? What’s wrong with you? And why were you and Dominique so late for lunch?’

I was going to have to lie. I answered Guy speaking to my feet.

‘She realized I had a bit of a hangover, so she decided to give me some neat vodka. I took it. It worked for a little bit, but I feel even worse now.’

‘Stupid sod. I thought you said you’d never drink again?’

‘I won’t,’ I said, looking him in the eye for the first time. ‘Believe me, not for a long time. Now I’ve got to hit the sack.’

Guy left me to curl up in a little ball of my own misery.

I couldn’t hide in bed for ever, so I emerged at supper-time. Wine and beer were on offer on the terrace, but I didn’t take anything. Neither did Ingrid, nor Owen, who had appeared after a whole day spent on his portable computer. Guy and Tony were drinking more beer, Guy with determination.

‘How are you feeling?’ I asked Mel, who was holding an almost empty glass of wine.

She glanced up at me, as though surprised by the sympathy in my voice. ‘A bit shaky,’ she said.

‘Me too.’

‘Cheer up, Mel,’ said Guy, putting his arm round her and refilling her glass. ‘This place isn’t so bad, is it?’

‘Oh, no,’ she said, summoning a smile. ‘No, it’s lovely.’

‘We’ll go over to Monte again tomorrow. Check out a casino.’

‘Sounds great,’ said Mel, unenthusiastically.

I drifted away from them, leaving Guy working hard. I wandered over to the marble railings and stared down at the sea far below. As I watched closely, I realized that it was so far below that the sound of the waves breaking on the rocks was out of synch with the rhythm of the waves themselves. A long way down.

A voice spoke beside me. ‘This is awful, isn’t it?’

It was Ingrid.

‘Mel looks bad,’ I said. ‘Has she spoken to you about it?’

‘A little.’

‘How did it happen?’ I’d seen Mel laughing at Tony’s jokes all evening, but I had never suspected anything would come of it.

‘Everyone was drifting off to bed. Dominique had already gone. Apparently Tony started talking to Mel about the Romans and the watchtower. He took her over to look at it in the moonlight. Then he kissed her. Then...’

I shuddered.

‘Why did she do it? He’s in his forties, for God’s sake!’

‘He’s a charming man. He may be in his forties, but he’s sexy, and he knows it. Men like that have a pull for some women. Mel’s a romantic and Tony had engineered the most romantic of situations. He’s a pro. She’s an amateur. She never really stood a chance.’

‘But it wasn’t rape or anything?’

‘No. Mel was willing. At least at the time.’

‘Do you think she regrets it?’ Throughout the day I had seen no sign of Mel showing any interest in her lover of the night before.

‘Oh, yes. She definitely regrets it.’

‘What’s she going to do?’

‘Brave it out, I think. What else can she do?’

‘Go home?’

‘Maybe.’

‘She doesn’t look too happy now.’

‘Neither do you,’ said Ingrid.

I didn’t answer.

‘Hey, what are you two doing here? Won’t you come and join us?’ It was Dominique, now dressed in tight white jeans and black top under a white jacket. She smiled broadly. ‘Come on, David. Come talk to me.’

‘I think I’ll stay here for a bit, thanks. It’s a beautiful spot.’

‘As you like,’ Dominique replied, touching her lip with her tongue.

‘What was that?’ said Ingrid, watching Dominique swing her hips back to the terrace.

‘Don’t ask,’ I said. ‘Please.’

Ingrid gave me a look. ‘Curiouser and curiouser.’

The evening was flat. I avoided talking to anyone much, especially Dominique. No one was having a good time and Tony still looked angry. At about ten the gathering broke up, and I went back to the guest cottage with Guy, who was still bemused by everyone’s lack of sparkle.

I lay in bed for a long time in a kind of crazed semiconsciousness. Images of Dominique naked spun around my brain in a tumult of excitement and shame, until my eyes burned and my loins ached. There was a strange sickness in my stomach and a tightening in my throat. My heart beat fast. I would open my eyes and try to calm myself down. Then it would all begin again. I had no idea what to expect of sex for the first time, but it certainly wasn’t this. Eventually, somewhere in the middle of the night, the images left me and I fell into a deep sleep.

I was woken by a loud rap at our bedroom door. A moment later the ceiling light was turned on. I sat up to see Tony standing in the doorway, his face haggard in the artificial light.

‘What time is it?’ croaked Guy.

‘Four o’clock.’

Guy and I just blinked. What the hell was Tony doing waking us up at four o’clock in the morning?

‘I have some bad news,’ Tony said. ‘Very bad news. It’s Dominique. She’s dead.’

11

April 1999, The City, London

You have to get to Sweetings early to get a table. It is a crowded little fish restaurant near the Mansion House presided over by an Italian with a full moustache who harries his customers mercilessly. Quickly in, quickly out, and a huge bill to settle at the till as you leave. The place has a kind of institutional feel to it, like a school dining room with alcohol. And excellent fish. But I think it is the jam roly-poly and the spotted dick with custard that keep pulling in the punters. My father loved it.

Every few months since I had started work at Gurney Kroheim he would meet me there for lunch while on one of his trips up to London for business. He was never specific and I never quite understood quite what business the manager of a small building-society branch had to do in London, but I never questioned him. I suspected he just wanted to get out of our little town, see an old crony or two, wander around the metropolis for a couple of hours and have lunch with me. I enjoyed those lunches and so did he.

I was five minutes late, but he had grabbed a couple of stools by one of the bars set for lunch, behind which hovered a spotty teenage waiter. He was nursing a half-pint of Guinness in a pewter tankard, and had one ready for me. His face lit up when he saw me, and he pumped my hand enthusiastically.

He was a large, kind man with a balding head and glasses perched half way down his nose. It was a minor miracle that he had managed to survive into his sixties as the manager of the branch. The reason was his shrewdness, which he always kept well hidden, and his refusal to accept promotion to the political minefield of the higher regional offices. He was very good at his job. He was well known throughout the small market town where we lived, and trusted. Competitors might try new marketing campaigns, higher deposit rates and thrusting customer-service managers, but none of that made a dent in his following. The building society he worked for had not yet been shaken up by demutualization, and his bosses realized that there was nothing to be gained from moving him and a lot to be lost. There had been a rocky moment during the recession of the early nineties when he had been criticized by head office for not taking a tougher line with some of his clients who were in arrears on their mortgage payments, but he had weathered it. Two more years and he would make it through to retirement.

‘Sit down, David. I got you a Guinness. Thanks for coming here. I suppose I could have gone to Wapping...’

‘Oh no, Dad. Don’t worry. This is fine.’

‘I’ve been looking forward to my pudding all week. Your mother doesn’t cook that kind of thing any more.’ He rubbed his comfortable stomach. ‘It’s not as though she’d notice another pound.’

We ordered potted shrimps and sole and a bottle of Sancerre.

‘I like the haircut,’ said my father. ‘Reminds me of my National Service days. It certainly makes you look different.’

I smiled. ‘I feel different, I suppose.’

‘What? Colder?’

‘No. This thing I’m doing with Guy Jourdan. It’s nothing like anything I’ve ever done before.’

I was slightly nervous as I said this. I knew that my father had been pleased when I had become a chartered accountant and very proud that I had joined a prestigious merchant bank. I had made my decision to join Guy without referring to him, but I found I wanted his approval none the less.

‘It was a big step to leave Gurney Kroheim,’ he said.

‘It was. But it’s changed so much since Leipziger took over.’

‘Don’t like working for the krauts, eh? I can understand that.’

‘No, it’s not that. There aren’t many Germans around in any case, and those that I dealt with are perfectly fine. It’s just the whole industry. The hire-and-fire culture, mergers, reorganizations, politics, it just doesn’t seem any fun any more.’

‘And this thing with Guy Jourdan is fun?’

‘Oh, yes. At least so far. In fact, I’ve never had so much fun in my career before. I mean, there are just the three of us working out of Guy’s flat. We have nothing but a blank sheet of paper. We’re building something from the ground up entirely ourselves. It feels totally different from working for a huge organization.’

‘How’s it going to work?’

I told him. Through the first course, the fish and most of the bottle of wine. He listened. He was a good listener.

The waiter whipped away our plates and thrust menus into our hands. My father agonized over his decision before going for the jam roly-poly with custard. I had the bread and butter pudding.

‘What about Guy?’ he asked.

‘He’s fine. He’s very good, actually.’

‘Do you trust him?’

I hesitated. ‘Yes,’ I said.

My father raised his eyebrows.

‘Yes,’ I repeated, more firmly this time.

‘I thought you and he fell out a few years ago. Something to do with a girl?’

‘That and other things.’ I hadn’t told my father much about that.

‘And there was that business in France.’

‘Yes.’ I hadn’t told him much about that either.

‘Tony Jourdan was a bit of a sharp operator, I seem to remember. Successful, but a sharp operator.’

‘That’s true.’

‘Well?’

‘I think Guy’s changed,’ I said.

‘You think?’

‘I’m pretty sure.’

My father watched my face closely. ‘Good,’ he said at last. Then he beamed as the pudding arrived. ‘Ah. Tuck in.’ He took a mouthful. ‘Delicious. Well, I think it’s an excellent move.’

‘You do, Dad?’

‘Yes, I do. There’s a time in everyone’s life when they should take a risk. I missed mine somewhere along the line. But it sounds as if this is yours. I’m glad you’ve got the guts to go for it.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, trying to suppress my smile. I wanted to pretend that I was adult enough not to care what my father thought. But actually I was pleased that my act of rebellion had received the parental seal of approval.

We talked about my mother and sister. My sister had recently moved into a flat in Peterborough with her boyfriend. My mother was having difficulties with this. My father disapproved too, but more of the boyfriend, whom he thought dull, than of the cohabitation. A few moments after the last trace of custard was scraped off my father’s dish it was whipped away and we were out on the street.

‘Tell you what, David. Send me the business plan, will you? I’d love to have a look at it.’

‘Will do, Dad. And thanks for lunch again. Give my love to Mum.’

I left him outside the restaurant and disappeared underground to take the three stops to Tower Hill, the wine and my father’s blessing leaving a warm glow inside me.

I posted the business plan off to him as soon as I returned to Wapping. Four days later I found a letter waiting for me back at my flat addressed to me in my father’s handwriting. I opened the envelope and a cheque fell out. I picked it up and read it. Pay ninetyminutes.com fifty thousand pounds. Jesus! I had no idea my father had that much money lying around. With trepidation, I read the letter.

I stared at the letter. I couldn’t suppress a smile. There was the evidence that he believed in me. Incontrovertible. Fifty thousand quid.

I realized immediately that I couldn’t accept it. I didn’t know what my father’s savings amounted to, but there had never been very much money around the house and I was pretty confident that the cheque I was holding accounted for a large proportion of them. He would need the money for his retirement. Sure, I believed in ninetyminutes.com, but I knew it was risky. Not the place to put your retirement nest egg.

The injunction not to tell my mother was another problem. If I went ahead and cashed the cheque, that would be a disaster just waiting to happen. I picked up the phone and punched out my parents’ number. After some small talk with my mother, she put him on.

‘Dad, I don’t believe what came in the post today! Are you crazy?’

‘Not at all,’ he said. I could hear the smile in his voice, which was low, presumably so my mother wouldn’t hear. ‘I’m sure it will be an excellent investment.’

‘But, Dad. It’s a start-up! It could go bust within a year. It’s an enormous risk.’

‘That’s the point, David. We talked about it at lunch. I feel it’s about time I took a risk and what better way to take it? The Internet is going to change the way we live, even I realize that. And I have confidence in you. I can’t think of anyone else I would trust to do what you’re doing. At my age I can’t give up everything and start a company myself. But I can invest in one.’

‘I’m sorry, Dad. I can’t accept it.’

‘What do you mean, you can’t accept it? Is fifty thousand too little? What’s the problem?’ He was beginning to sound angry. My father rarely sounded angry.

‘It’s not that. It’s just if I lose your money I’ll feel terrible.’

‘And what if ninetyminutes.com is a runaway success? What if I could have earned ten times my money and you hadn’t let me invest? How would you feel then?’

‘Oh, Dad, come on...’

‘No. You come on. You have to admit there’s a good chance that this is going to work, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Well then?’

‘I can’t let you do this, Dad.’

‘David. I don’t believe this.’ My father’s voice was still low to prevent my mother hearing, but he sounded genuinely angry now. ‘I am capable of making up my own mind about investments, you know. I know this is high risk. I want to take a risk, just like you. And in the same way I won’t stop you from risking your career, you shouldn’t stop me from risking what is, after all, only money.’

I took a deep breath. ‘OK, Dad, I’ll think about it.’

‘David—’

‘I said, I’ll think about it. Bye.’ I hung up. I rarely fought with my father, if ever, and I felt bad. I knew the right decision was not to accept his money.

But we needed money from somewhere. Guy was finding it difficult to pin down a meeting with Torsten in Hamburg and he was still adamant he didn’t want to ask his father. Which left us with the venture capitalists.

Venture-capital firms invest in new or growing companies. Until the late 1990s they were cautious and careful. It was not unheard of for them to spend months investigating a start-up company before deciding that they did not want to invest. I knew what they were looking for: experienced management, proprietary technology and a proven method of making money. None of which Guy and I had. Which was why I had been reluctant to approach them until we had at least a website to show that we meant business.

But Guy couldn’t wait that long. And in the increasing heat of the last year of the century, neither could they. Stories were emerging of venture capitalists falling over themselves to back young entrepreneurs barely out of business school. Boo.com, an internet fashion retailer that was nothing but an idea and two hip Swedish founders who had started and sold an internet bookshop, had just raised forty million pounds. We only needed three million to get us going. Guy saw no reason why we shouldn’t get it.

So, despite my doubts, I polished up our plan. Now all I needed was people to send it to.

12

The place was heaving. It was Tuesday, the first Tuesday of May, and I was at First Tuesday, the event for anyone in the internet world. It had all started six months before when a group of entrepreneurs had agreed to meet in a pub once a month to share war stories, and it had grown and grown. It was now the place to network, to find employees, office space, clients, suppliers, and that most precious commodity of all, money. I was there to make contact with venture capitalists, to give them the thirty-second ‘elevator pitch’, to collect their cards and send them our plan. Pretty straightforward, really. I was wearing a green badge, showing I was an entrepreneur. The venture capitalists were wearing red badges.

The venue was the converted warehouse of an internet consultancy company near Oxford Street, quite close to Mandrill’s offices. There must have been two hundred people there, all talking frantically. Most were my age or younger, most were dressed in T-shirts or fleeces, nearly all were men, and nearly all had green badges.

I took a deep breath and dived in. I was searching for the red badges. They were few and far between, but I soon realized how to spot them: they were the ones in the middle of tight groups of men and women all talking at once. Be forceful, I thought, pushing my way through to one such group. At its centre was a young-looking man in a suit being harangued by a voluble American who had an idea for selling wedding gifts over the net. It was clear he wasn’t going to go away until the VC had given him his card and told him to send him a plan. There was an unruly crush of green badges in front of me vying to give their own pitches. Most of them were selling something mundane over the Internet, from babyloves.com selling gifts for babies to lastrest.com selling prepaid funeral services. I wondered who lastrest.com’s target customers were — perhaps people who woke up in the middle of the night with chest pains and nipped off to their computer to make sure their funeral was sorted before it was too late. Some of the ideas were highly technical and incomprehensible. One or two made some kind of sense. But the venture capitalist had no chance of distinguishing one from the other.

I tried to get the attention of the red badges, I really did. I managed to exchange cards with one harassed woman before being elbowed out of the way by the wedding-gift American. But otherwise, nothing. You had to be very pushy to get attention. Most of the green badges were expert attention-seekers. They left me way behind.

I retired to the gents. Standing next to me was a man in a suit. I didn’t look up at the face, but I saw the lapel. A red badge. Now, if I were a true entrepreneur I would have no compunction about foisting myself and my elevator pitch on a man while he was urinating. It was then that I discovered something about myself. I wasn’t a true entrepreneur. I kept my eyes down.

The suit next to me moved. ‘David? David Lane?’

I looked up at his face. ‘Henry, how are you?’

It turned out I knew the owner of the badge. Henry Broughton-Jones had trained with me as an accountant. He was a tall man with thinning fair hair brushed back above a high forehead. His father was a gentleman farmer in Herefordshire, and you would have thought Henry would have been happier in an agricultural college than a big firm of accountants, but in the end he had done rather well. When I had left the firm he had been one of the rising stars groomed for eventual partnership.

‘Hassled,’ he said. ‘Severely hassled. I’ve never been to one of these before. I thought it would be a good place to look for deals, but I can barely fight them off. Here, let’s get a drink.’

We left the gents and grabbed a couple of glasses of wine. Within thirty seconds they’d spotted the red badge and were circling. Henry glowered at them. ‘Do you mind?’ he growled. ‘This is a confidential conversation here.’

‘So you’re a venture capitalist, now?’ I said.

‘Yes. Orchestra Ventures. I’ve been doing it for three years now. Left soon after you. It’s quite jolly. Crazy days, though. And you? I see you’ve gone over to the ranks of lunatic entrepreneurs.’

‘A soccer website,’ I said. ‘It’s called ninetyminutes.com.’ A hunted look appeared in Henry’s eyes. I made a quick decision. I didn’t want to spook my only venture-capitalist friend. ‘Don’t worry, we don’t need any money at the moment. I’m just here to “network”, whatever that means.’

‘Thank God,’ said Henry, relaxing.

We talked for several more minutes. He told me he was married and had two small children. They were just about to buy a cottage in Gloucestershire. I told him Gurney Kroheim was miserable and I was well off out of it. We exchanged news about mutual acquaintances and then he couldn’t fend off the green badges any longer. Just as he was being dragged away, he thrust his card into my hand. ‘Look, if you do need any money, give me a call.’

‘Will do, Henry. Good to see you.’

I fingered his card, smiling to myself, and fetched another glass of wine.

After half an hour or so, a Chinese-American in a checked shirt and neat chinos climbed up on to a table and gave a gung-ho speech about how we were in the middle of something big. The most significant technological change to hit the world in the millennium. Right here. Right now. Tomorrow’s movers and shakers were here in this very room. Then the scrum continued as the crowd moved and shook.

I circled, looking for that rarest of species, an unattended red badge. I couldn’t see one, but I did see another face I thought I recognized. I moved closer.

She looked about thirty-five and she was wearing a blue suit with her hair scraped severely back. Downward-sloping lines edged her mouth, but her lips wore a familiar pout.

‘Mel?’

She turned to me and blinked for a second before she placed me. ‘David!’ She smiled and proffered her cheek for a kiss. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

‘I’m working for a start-up. An internet company. Soccer website.’

‘You’re not? Not you? The chartered accountant!’

‘I am,’ I said, grinning. ‘With Guy.’

‘No! I don’t believe it.’

‘It’s true. And it’s going well. Although we need some investors pretty badly.’

‘Doesn’t everyone?’ said Mel, surveying the crowd. ‘I’m amazed you’re working with Guy. You know, after what happened in Mull and everything.’

‘That was seven years ago.’

‘Yes, but still.’

‘He’s changed.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ Mel looked doubtful.

‘He has. Have you seen him recently?’

‘Not since then. In fact, I’ve more or less forgotten about him.’

‘Probably not a bad thing,’ I said. ‘Anyway, what are you up to? Still a lawyer?’

‘Yes. The only people wearing suits here are lawyers. Still at Howles Marriott. It’s going quite well, actually. I’m not a partner yet, but perhaps soon.’

‘I never had you pegged as a corporate lawyer.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t have imagined you as a dot-commer. It’s a miracle I recognized you with that hairstyle.’

‘You haven’t changed much,’ I said. It was a lie. Mel had aged more than seven years, but that’s not the kind of thing you say to an acquaintance. It was the kind of thing I would tell Guy, though.

‘Rubbish,’ she said. ‘I’ve even got the odd grey hair now.’

It was true, she had. I remembered her hair as it used to be when she was eighteen, dark, with a streak of blonde. Now the streaks were grey.

‘Have you seen Ingrid?’ I asked.

‘No. Not since then,’ she replied, the enthusiasm leaving her voice.

‘Oh.’

We were silent. Both of us remembering.

Mel breathed in and sighed. She still had a fine chest, I couldn’t help noticing. Something else to tell Guy.

‘Have you any clients here?’ I asked.

‘Two or three.’

‘Can they pay their bills?’

Mel grinned. ‘So far. I’m betting the Internet will be the next hot market for lawyers. I’ve got about half a dozen internet clients at the moment. I reckon at least one of them will make it. And that could mean lots of legal work in the future.’

‘Sounds like a good strategy,’ I said. We sipped our wine. ‘Um. I wonder...’

‘Yes?’

‘This may sound a bit cheeky. But would you mind having a quick look at our shareholders’ agreement? The firm who drew it up are entertainment lawyers Guy knows from his acting days. I’m not sure it’s quite right.’

‘No problem,’ said Mel. ‘Fax it to me tomorrow. I’ll tell you what I think. And no charge. Here’s my card.’ She handed me one.

I gave her mine. ‘One of Qwickprint’s finest,’ I said. ‘It’s funny I bumped into you. You’re the second person here tonight I know.’

‘That’s not so strange,’ said Mel. ‘Everyone our age is doing this now. There are probably two or three more people you know here you just haven’t spotted. As the man said just now, this is the place to be.’

‘He did say that, didn’t he?’

Mel stood on her toes in an effort to see over the heads. ‘Oops. Just spotted one of my clients. Speak to you tomorrow.’ With that she disappeared into the throng.

I tried to work the crowd again, but I didn’t get very far. Half an hour and only one venture capitalist’s card later I decided to call it quits.

I emerged into the cool night air feeling low. There were an awful lot of people doing the same kind of thing as Ninetyminutes, and all of them seemed pushier than me. I had read about the internet revolution in the press, but I had never seen it, felt it. And it didn’t feel right. The cautious Gurney Kroheim banker in me didn’t like it. There were a couple of people with good ideas, such as an articulate blonde woman I had spoken to who had started a company that sold cheap last-minute tickets. But most of it was rubbish. And the rubbish was getting funded.

For the last few weeks I had felt like a true entrepreneur, on the cutting edge of a new wave of technology. Now I just felt like a chartered accountant with delusions. Unlike the Chinese guy who had made the speech, I feared I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

13

July 1987, Côte D’Azur, France

Guy stared uncomprehendingly at his father standing in the doorway of our bedroom. ‘Dead? Dominique’s dead?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘How?’

Tony sighed and rubbed his eyes. ‘A drug overdose.’

‘Drug... Jesus!’

‘The police are here. They want to talk to everyone. You’d better get up.’

We staggered out of bed and I struggled to gain some control of the random thoughts colliding around my brain. Dead? Suicide? Police? Drugs? Dominique? Me? Sex? Investigation? Guy? Tony?

As I followed Guy into the garden illuminated by the first chilly fingers of dawn I had a horrible feeling that everything was going to come out. Everything.

We crossed the garden and I looked up at Dominique’s bedroom and the balcony where we had made love the previous afternoon. There were lights, shadows moving around, the intermittent flash of a photographer. There was the murmur of footsteps, voices, instructions, and the sound of a vehicle sweeping into the front courtyard.

We followed Tony into the living room. Ingrid, Mel, Owen, Miguel and a couple of maids were sitting there in silence, all looking stunned. Mel had been crying. Two gendarmes in uniform stood a few feet distant, watching us idly. It was a large room, with tile floors covered in chic rugs, abstract sculptures dotted about the place and large canvases with bright splashes of colour daubing the walls. It was a room for the elegant and the sophisticated to relax in, not for a bunch of eighteen-year-olds just out of school to wait for interrogation. Not for the first time I found myself thinking, what am I doing here?

‘The police will want to ask you questions individually,’ Tony said in a monotone. ‘It should be just a formality. Nothing to worry about.’ He looked exhausted, numb. I could still smell the alcohol of the previous night on him.

‘What happened, Dad?’ said Guy.

Tony turned to his son. ‘I found her an hour or so ago. She was in bed. There was a needle on her bedside table. Heroin.’

‘Are you sure?’

Tony nodded, all his vitality gone.

He knew she took heroin, I thought. In fact, that probably explained the strangeness in her eyes. And the make-up on the inside of her forearm hiding the injection marks.

I stared up at the ceiling, at the motionless fan. A drug addict. I had had sex with a drug addict. Who was now dead. The urgent question was, what should I tell the police?

My first instinct, of course, was to lie. Or at least not to mention what had happened that afternoon. But a moment’s thought persuaded me that was a bad idea. I had done nothing wrong; or rather nothing illegal. Once I started lying to the police I would be breaking the law. And there were all sorts of ways they might find out. The post-mortem, Tony, perhaps even Ingrid. Besides, I wasn’t a good liar at the best of times, and this was the worst of times. A competent policeman would find me out in no time.

The door opened and two detectives entered. One of them signalled to Tony. They spoke in heated whispers. Whatever it was the policeman said, it shocked Tony. He looked anxiously over towards us. The detective broke away from him and approached us.

He was a tall, burly man in a baggy double-breasted suit who managed to look both tired and alert at the same time.

‘My name is Sauville. Inspector Sauville,’ he said, in good but strongly accented English. We were listening. ‘I must inform you that we believe we are investigating a murder. In a few minutes I will begin questioning each of you in turn. It is imperative that you stay here at the house today. And keep well clear from the scene of the crime. Do you understand?’

We nodded. A murder. No wonder Tony looked so shocked. I glanced at Guy. He seemed stunned.

Sauville spoke to his detectives and disappeared into the dining room. In a moment he called in Tony. One of the other detectives began to interview Ingrid. They were splitting up the work.

The interviews took a long time, especially Tony’s. When he came out he looked dazed. He spoke to Guy quickly and then disappeared.

‘What did he say?’ I asked Guy.

‘They think Dominique was suffocated with a pillow. She had taken heroin, but the police have no reason to think it was an overdose. They’ll know for sure when they’ve done the post-mortem. Dad said they think he might have done it. He’s gone to call Patrick Hoyle.’

Guy looked stricken. Both by the idea that his stepmother had been murdered and that his father might be suspected of doing it.

More police were arriving. I could see them outside, picking their way methodically through the garden. We heard movement on the stairs and we went outside into the hallway to watch as Dominique’s body was carried down and out of the house. She was covered, of course, but we could easily make out her shape beneath the sheet. A chill ran through me. I glanced at Guy, whose face was drained of all colour. Ingrid let out a tiny gasp and Mel began to weep. I put my arm round her; of all of us, she had had a particularly hard couple of days.

Then Sauville called her into the dining room. She wiped her eyes and tried to pull herself together. But she looked scared. I realized she must be agonizing over whether to tell them about Tony seducing her. Like me, she had no choice; I hoped she understood that. Meanwhile the other detective was cracking through the witnesses. I was anxious for my turn. I wanted it to be over. We talked little, but drank many cups of coffee. Ingrid stayed close to Mel, and took her up to her room after she had finished her interview. Guy looked agitated and anxious. Owen sat impassively, as if he were in a doctor’s surgery, waiting for a routine check-up. My turn came eventually, after Guy.

I got Inspector Sauville. He sat at the head of the table, a lackey by his side taking notes. He gestured for me to sit down.

‘Your name is David Lane?’

‘Yes,’ I whispered.

‘Comment?’

‘Yes,’ I said more strongly. He had only asked my name, but already I could feel my palms sweating. This was not going to be fun.

‘How old are you?’

‘Eighteen.’

‘And you are a friend of Guy Jourdan’s?’ He pronounced ‘Guy’ to rhyme with ‘key’, just as Dominique had.

‘That’s right. We go to the same school in England.’

‘When did you arrive here in France?’

‘Two days ago.’

‘I see.’ He paused and leaned back in the dining chair. It creaked. For a moment I was worried he would break it. ‘David?’

‘Yes?’

He swung forward. ‘What were you doing at about one o’clock yesterday afternoon?’

He knew. The bastard knew. I’d have to tell him now. My mouth was dry and I hesitated.

‘Hein?’ He was a big man, and leaning forward he seemed even bigger.

‘I was, er... with Mrs Jourdan.’

The policeman exchanged glances and a twitch of the lips with his sidekick. ‘And what were you doing with her, David?’

I was, that is, we were, well...’ I squirmed.

‘Yes?’

‘We were having sex.’

‘Ah.’ A smug smile of triumph crossed the policeman’s face. He thought this was funny. ‘Tell me more.’

So I told him the whole sordid story, and it did seem sordid that early in the morning when told to a policeman in slow English. I told him about overhearing Dominique shout at Tony the night before, and my suspicions about Tony and Mel, and Dominique’s motivation for seducing me.

‘Did you see or hear anything last night?’

‘No. I went to bed pretty early. About ten. It took me a while to get to sleep, maybe an hour or two. Then I slept until Mr Jourdan woke me up this morning.’

‘And Guy?’

‘He went to bed the same time as me.’

‘Did you hear him get up in the night?’

‘No.’

‘No other noises outside?’

‘Nothing woke me till this morning.’

‘I see.’ Sauville paused, studying me. He was probably just thinking of his next question, but I found the silence unnerving. At last he spoke. ‘When you were with Madame Jourdan yesterday, did she seem suicidal?’

I thought before answering. ‘No. Quite the contrary. She seemed animated, excited. I think she was enjoying her revenge on her husband.’

‘And you? How did you feel about being manipulated in that way?’

‘Actually, it made me quite angry,’ I said. Then I hesitated, worried I had put my foot in it. ‘Of course, not angry enough to murder her or anything.’

The inspector dismissed my comment with a contemptuous wave of his hand. ‘What about Guy Jourdan? What was his opinion of his stepmother?’

I paused. I was still a schoolboy. I didn’t want to get my friend into trouble with the authorities. I tried to think through the angles.

‘Just answer the question honestly,’ Sauville commanded.

I did as I was told. ‘I don’t think he had ever met Dominique before this week. I think he didn’t like the idea of her. He called her a bimbo and a tart.’

‘I see. Not nice things to say about your stepmother?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘But as I said, it wasn’t her he didn’t like. It was the idea of her.’

‘Very philosophical. And the younger brother? Owen?’

‘I have no idea what Owen thinks about anything. I doubt if anyone has.’

The large policeman raised his eyebrows. Then he leaned back once again in his chair. ‘Bon. Thank you for your cooperation, David. But I must ask you to remain here until we have concluded our investigation.’

My heart sank. I wanted to get out. Quick. I was looking forward to the family crisis Tony had ordered me to invent, now more than ever. ‘Do you have any idea how long that will be?’

‘A few days,’ replied the inspector. ‘Perhaps more.’

‘You won’t tell Mr Jourdan what I said about his wife, will you?’ I asked.

‘Oh, we will have to. But I think you’ll find he knows already.’ Sauville winked and smiled gratuitously. ‘Au revoir.’

I left the room to be met by Patrick Hoyle, who was demanding to see the inspector urgently in fluent French. He pushed past me, almost crushing me against the door-frame with his great stomach, and began to harangue Sauville. I left them to it and went to look for Guy.

I found him in the garden, sitting against the trunk of the olive tree beside the old watchtower. He was looking down between his knees, ignoring the morning sun throwing golden sparkles across the sea in front of him. Bees were murmuring in the lavender behind. I winced as I remembered this was the spot where his father had seduced Mel.

‘Guy!’ He ignored me. I ran over to the watchtower. ‘Guy!’

He turned to face me. I had never before seen Guy as he looked then. The muscles in his face were clenched tight, his blue eyes were cold and hard and his skin pale.

‘Yes, Lane?’

‘Look, I’m er, sorry...’

‘Sorry? Sorry! For what?’

‘Well, about Dominique.’

‘What about Dominique? About shagging her? Do you want to apologize for screwing my father’s wife? Is that it? Because if it is, then your apology isn’t accepted.’

‘Yeah. I’m sorry about that. I wish I’d never done it.’

‘Bullshit. You loved every second of it. You probably thought you were a real stud, didn’t you? I bet it beat fondling some slag’s tits at the school disco. If you could find one desperate enough to let you, which I sincerely doubt.’

I tried to ignore the venom in his voice. ‘Who told you? The police?’

‘They asked me about it. But I’ve just spoken to my father. He told me a lot of things. About you and her. And about him and Mel.’ He watched my face for a reaction. ‘You knew about that, didn’t you?’

‘I guessed.’

‘You guessed! What the fuck is going on here? My father screws my girlfriend, my friend screws my stepmother, and I don’t have a fucking clue. And you know where my faithful father was when his wife was being smothered with a pillow?’

‘No.’

‘In some club in Nice. And for club read bordello, by the way. That’s why he didn’t discover her till three o’clock this morning.’

‘Guy, I am sorry. If there’s anything I can do...’

‘There is. I should never have asked you out here. This isn’t your world, Lane. You’re way out of your depth. Go back to the sad little semi-detached stone that you crawled out from under and leave me alone. OK?’

He was glaring at me with something close to hatred in his eyes.

‘OK,’ I said. I left him alone.

I hid in my room and tried to make sense of the previous couple of days. I couldn’t. I had never known anyone who had been murdered before. And I wasn’t sure I had ever really known Dominique. The body I had thrilled to touch was now lifeless, the skin cold, the muscles stiff and rigid. But the person? Who was she? The very proximity of death made me shiver, the callous nature of my relationship with the victim made me cringe with guilt. Then there was my friendship with Guy ruined, probably permanently. He had shown me the kind of anger that would take years to die away, if it ever did. He hated me now, and I had so badly wanted him to like and respect me. I even felt guilty about Guy’s father, although I knew his sins were greater than mine. I had done something very wrong, and someone had died, and I would have to live with it.

I picked up my book. For the first time since I had started to read it, War and Peace came into its own. I wanted to lose myself in Napoleonic Russia, which seemed at that moment much less threatening than twentieth-century France.

But after two or three hours, hunger began to gnaw at my stomach. I hadn’t eaten anything since a croissant very early that morning and the anxiety was releasing its own juices. I was eighteen. Eighteen-year-old boys get hungry regularly. I decided to brave the possibility of bumping into Guy or Tony for the chance of food.

I walked through the garden. It was another bright, cloudless day outside. It was hot, but the edge was taken off the heat by the sea breeze. There was no one on the terrace, but I could detect movement and plates of food inside.

I walked into the main house, and through the dining-room door I spied a table laden with bread, cold meats, cheese and salad. Mel was standing outside the room, listening. I stopped just behind her. I could hear Guy talking to Patrick Hoyle in an urgent whisper. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but I heard Hoyle’s response.

‘Abdulatif? The man’s name is Abdulatif?’

Guy murmured in confirmation. Then Mel suddenly became aware of me standing at her shoulder. She reddened and walked into the room. I followed her. Guy turned and glowered. Hoyle coughed and nodded at me. I made straight for the lunch, to be joined a moment later by Mel.

In the awkward silence, the two of us helped ourselves, a large pile of food for me, a couple of spoonfuls for Mel. As Guy and Hoyle left the room I turned to her. ‘What was that about?’

She glanced at me quickly and just shook her head. She clearly didn’t want to talk. I knew she must be feeling fragile, and I didn’t want to intrude. So I sat down and began to eat.

Ingrid appeared at the door. ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘I’m famished.’

‘I know what you mean,’ I said. ‘Help yourself.’

Ingrid did just that.

‘Are the police still here?’ I asked her, glad to have someone to talk to. ‘I didn’t see any in the garden.’

‘They’ve been combing it all morning,’ she said. ‘Perhaps they’ve finished, or maybe it’s just a lunch break.’

‘Have you seen Tony?’

‘He’s with some French guy in a suit. I think Patrick Hoyle got him a lawyer.’

‘I thought Hoyle was a lawyer.’

‘He may be. But this guy’s probably a criminal lawyer. I imagine they’re different.’

‘Do you think Tony killed her?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine. The French cops seem to think he did, though. Hang on, here comes one of them.’

I looked up. Sauville was marching towards us. My heart sank as I realized his eyes were focused on me. ‘Monsieur Lane. When you have finished your lunch, I would like you to assist us, please.’

‘What do you want me to do?’ I asked doubtfully.

‘We need to search your room. And we would like to take samples from the clothes you were wearing yesterday afternoon. Also we need your fingerprints. And afterwards I invite you to the police station.’

‘The police station?’ I didn’t like the sound of that. ‘Why do you want me to go to the police station?’

Sauville glanced at Ingrid and Mel. He coughed. ‘Er... We need some samples.’

‘What kind of samples?’ I said, my suspicions aroused by his hesitation.

Sauville glanced at the girls again. ‘You will find out at the station.’

He left the three of us alone at the table. Mel remained sullen and withdrawn. But Ingrid looked as if she was trying to control a giggle.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘I think I know what they’re after,’ said Ingrid.

‘What?’

‘They want your sperm,’ she said.

I grimaced. ‘Oh, God.’

Sauville returned to hurry me along with my meal.

‘Have fun,’ said Ingrid as I left the room with him.

A policeman drove me down the switchbacks to the prosperous little town of Beaulieu-sur-Mer. We passed through streets lined with bright awnings, under which parfumeries, boutiques, galeries and salons de beauté enticed wealthy tourists in off the pavements. There were flowering trees everywhere. Above and behind the town stretched a curtain of high grey cliffs. Les Sarrasins and its watchtower were clearly distinguishable up there, silhouetted against the brilliant blue sky.

The Gendarmerie Nationale was a scruffy building near the railway station. It was scruffy inside too: linoleum floors, dog-eared posters, functional metal and chipboard furniture. Thankfully, Ingrid was wrong about the precise nature of the samples they wanted, but I was sure she was right about their purpose. A doctor took a swab of saliva from my cheek, a syringe full of blood from my arm and hairs both from my head and, humiliatingly, from my pubic region. Afterwards I hung around in a waiting room until the policeman who had brought me down the hill came by to drive me back.

We were just leaving the building when a police car pulled up outside. Sauville stepped out, followed by another detective and two other figures, Tony and Patrick Hoyle. Tony looked tired and grim. He caught my eye as he entered the station. The hostility of that brief glare made me flinch.

It looked as if he was going to have some difficult questions to answer.

14

As soon as I arrived back at Les Sarrasins I headed for my room and opened up War and Peace again. This time I couldn’t lose myself in its pages. I just kept thinking about Tony.

Had he murdered his wife? He must have. He had the motive: I had provided that. He had discovered the body in the middle of the night. And I had seen him being led into the police station for questioning. Did he look to me like a murderer? I had no idea what a murderer looked like. He was certainly charming. Just as certainly I would never trust him. But I couldn’t envisage him actually killing Dominique.

Despite my last bruising meeting with Guy, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. I knew how much he admired his father, and now he had to face the possibility that he was a murderer. It would be tough on him.

Tough on Owen too, but I didn’t care about that.

There was a gentle knock on the bedroom door. Ingrid put her head round. ‘How was your trip to the police station?’

‘Horrible.’

‘Look. I’m sorry I teased you about it earlier. That was hardly fair. Mel and I are having a drink. Would you like to join us?’

I dropped my book with a thud on to the floor by my bed. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I would.’

I followed Ingrid out on to the terrace, where Mel was sitting alone at a table under the shade of a pine tree. Two glasses half-full of bubbly clear liquid and ice were standing in front of her. I went to fetch a beer for myself. I couldn’t face a vodka and tonic: vodka reminded me of things I would rather forget.

‘I saw Tony at the police station,’ I said, taking the first sip.

‘Yeah. They said they wanted to ask him some more questions,’ Ingrid said. ‘He didn’t seem anxious to go.’

‘What did Guy say?’

‘Nothing. But he looked worried.’

‘I bet he did.’

Despite all that had happened, the sun was shining brightly. Too brightly. Mel was cowering behind dark glasses. I couldn’t blame her. She was drinking determinedly.

‘Are you OK?’ I asked her gently. I knew it was a stupid question, but I wanted to show her I cared about how she felt.

She sniffed and rubbed her nose. She had been crying. ‘Not really. And you?’

‘Not really.’

Mel looked at me awkwardly. ‘Was it your first time?’

I nodded. ‘And you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Pretty bad way to start, isn’t it?’ I said.

Mel laughed. ‘Yes. After all those years of saying no, all that saving myself for the right man, and I go and do it with a fifty-year-old pervert.’

‘Quite a good-looking fifty-year-old pervert, isn’t he?’

‘That’s not the point. He’s old enough to be my father. And that’s what really scares me. Maybe I’m going to be one of those sad girls who chase after men twice their age because they’re trying to get their fathers back.’

‘Are your parents divorced?’

Mel nodded. ‘My dad ran off with his secretary two years ago.’

‘Sorry.’

‘And yours?’

‘No. They seem quite happy. But then, Dominique is nothing like my mother.’

‘Or anyone’s mother.’

‘It’s strange,’ I said. ‘She didn’t seem like a real person at the time, and she seems even less like one now that she’s dead.’

‘Yes,’ said Mel. ‘It’s easy to forget that someone has died.’ She shook her head. ‘What if Tony did kill her? I was with him just twenty-four hours before.’ Her face filled with disgust, for herself as much as for Tony, I imagined.

‘Don’t beat yourselves up,’ said Ingrid. ‘You were both taken advantage of by two very manipulative people. Tony was trying to prove to himself he can pull girls better than his son. Dominique was having her piece of petty revenge. It wasn’t either of your faults.’

‘Of course it was my fault,’ said Mel. ‘I let him do it. In fact, I was a willing accomplice. It seemed so glamorous, so grown-up. I thought I was in control.’ A tear ran down her cheek. ‘You know the worst thing, David?’

‘What?’

‘I really like Guy. I had just about decided that he was the one that, you know... What’s happened has just made me realize how much I like him. And of course now he won’t talk to me. He won’t ever talk to me again.’ She fought back a sob.

Once again I marvelled at the effect Guy could have on girls. And on this one it was clearly deeper than superficial physical attraction. Did he know? Did he care?

‘I’m pretty sure I’ve lost him as a friend,’ I said. ‘If he ever was my friend. He was furious with all of us when I saw him this morning: you, me, his father.’

‘I’ll tell you what I think,’ said Ingrid. ‘You’ve both had a bad time. But we’re all young. We can learn from it. You can’t feel guilty about it for ever. Those two, Tony and Dominique, were fucked up. You can’t let them fuck you up too.’

She was right, of course, but Mel and I had plenty of guilt to wallow in.

The police came to see us once more that day. They wanted to check the shoes we had been wearing the previous evening. They had found a footprint, I supposed. Not much good that would do them, we had all been tramping around everywhere from what I remembered. But I gave them mine, again.

There was no sign of Tony. Presumably he was still at the police station, answering questions. Guy managed to avoid us that afternoon and evening and Owen was tucked away in his room playing with his portable computer. But we did see Hoyle. He spent most of the time ensconced with Guy somewhere upstairs, but he dropped in on Ingrid, Mel and me in the living room before he left.

He was wearing a baggy tan suit and a tie, and beads of sweat sparkled on his broad forehead with the exertion of running up and down the stairs. ‘I trust Miguel is taking good care of you?’

‘He certainly is,’ Ingrid answered. She had used her Portuguese to charm the servant and he had responded by looking after us very well.

‘Good, good. Let me know if you have any problems. But I’m sure Tony will be back tonight.’

‘Mr Hoyle?’ Ingrid said as he tried to leave.

‘Yes?’ He frowned. He had things to do.

‘Can you tell us how the investigation is going? We’ve been left in the dark up here.’

‘Of course,’ Hoyle said reluctantly, lowering himself on to the edge of an armchair. ‘As you know, they’re interviewing Tony at the moment. But they haven’t arrested him yet, and I don’t think they’re going to. He’s innocent, and I’m quite sure we can prove it.’

‘How?’ I asked. ‘Does he have an alibi?’

‘Yes. But not a reputable one.’ A companion from the Nice bordello Guy had mentioned, I thought. ‘No, we’re, um...’ Hoyle hesitated, ‘working on something else.’

‘So who did kill Dominique?’ Ingrid asked.

‘It must have been a thief. Someone broke in in the middle of the night, stole some jewellery and disturbed her. When she saw him, he suffocated her with the pillow. She had taken heroin, so she was probably disoriented.’

‘So there’s some jewellery missing?’ I asked.

‘Yes. Just her day-to-day stuff. But still worth a few hundred thousand francs.’

‘And the police are certain she was suffocated?’

‘They’ve done the post-mortem. She had some heroin in her bloodstream, but it wasn’t an overdose. She died of asphyxiation. And the pillowcase was missing.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means the murderer got rid of it to avoid leaving any traces for the police to find. After he’d used the pillow to smother her.’

‘Do you have any idea why they wanted to examine our shoes?’

‘Not specifically. But it’s good to hear they’re checking other leads. They probably realize they’ve got the wrong man.’ He shook his head. ‘I still can’t believe Dominique has been murdered. It just doesn’t seem real. Tony and I have been in some scrapes together, but nothing like this.’

I nodded in agreement. It all seemed totally unreal to me.

Hoyle checked his watch. ‘I need to get back to Beaulieu. I’ve got Tony a good criminal lawyer, the best in Nice. But I want to make sure they don’t try to keep him in the station overnight.’

With that he heaved himself up out of the armchair and left us.

Sure enough, he returned an hour later with an exhausted-looking Tony. They ignored us and shut themselves in the study. Tony clearly wasn’t off the hook yet.

I went to bed but stayed awake reading my book. Guy came in at about eleven. He ignored my greeting, quickly stripped off his clothes and jumped into bed.

I carried on reading.

After a minute or so, Guy leaned on his elbow and glared at me. ‘Turn the fucking light off, Lane.’

I turned the light off. It took me a long time to get to sleep that night.

I was woken by a violent banging. I opened my eyes to see the door flung open. It was Sauville and two uniformed gendarmes. Morning sunlight streamed in behind them.

‘What the...?’ Guy began.

Sauville’s eyes scanned the floor and found a pair of trainers. He picked one up and glanced at the sole.

‘Is this yours?’ he demanded of Guy.

‘Er... Yes.’

‘Put on your clothes and come with me down to the police station. You are under arrest.’

Guy sat up in bed. ‘I’m what?’

‘You heard me.’

‘That’s stupid!’ Guy protested. ‘You’ve got no reason to arrest me. I didn’t kill anybody!’

Sauville picked up some of the clothes at the end of Guy’s bed and flung them at him. ‘Get dressed!’

Guy swung himself out of bed and put them on, glaring at Sauville the whole time.

Sauville muttered something in French to one of the policemen behind him. The man produced a pair of handcuffs, gesturing for Guy to hold up his arms. Guy stared at the cuffs, as if he was only just realizing what was happening to him, and slowly did as he was told. They closed around his wrists with a snap.

‘Good luck,’ I said.

Guy turned towards me. For a moment I thought he was going to ignore me again. But then he spoke. ‘This is all bullshit. They have nothing on me.’

‘We will see,’ said Sauville, as the policeman grabbed Guy by the elbow and shoved him roughly out of the room.

15

May 1999, Wapping, London

‘So, how did you do last night?’ Guy asked. The two of us plus Owen were getting down to work in the cramped Wapping flat. It was the Wednesday after the Tuesday before.

‘Not too well. It was a zoo. I couldn’t get a word in.’

‘How many cards did you get?’

‘Only three.’

‘Three! That’s pathetic. You’ve got to hustle, Davo. You can’t get trampled by the herd.’

‘I did come across one VC I knew from my accounting days. I talked to him for a bit.’

‘Did he like the idea?’

‘I didn’t ask him. It didn’t seem appropriate.’

‘Didn’t seem appropriate! Why do you think you were there? Why do you think he was there?’ Guy shook his head. ‘I knew I should have gone myself,’ he muttered.

I felt a flash of anger, but bit my tongue and put my head down. I was angry because I knew Guy was right. I felt guilty and inadequate. I was not good at this. Guy had hired me to help him raise money. He relied on me. I didn’t want to let him down, especially at this early stage.

Guy and I worked on in angry silence. Of course, Owen was working in silence too, but there was nothing new in that. The tension crowded in on us in the small flat, hovering over the dining table we all shared as a desk.

Determined to make up for the previous evening’s failure, I sent our plan to the three venture capitalists I had met, including Henry. I took some time over his covering letter. I toyed with elaborate excuses as to why I had suddenly discovered a need for funding the day after I had told him I didn’t have one, before settling on the truth, which sounded better anyway. He just hadn’t looked as if he wanted to hear yet another elevator pitch.

I looked up the British Venture Capital Association website, found three more likely names and sent the plan off to each of them.

Now all I could do was wait and see.

‘Coffee?’ asked Guy, after an hour or so of silence.

‘Please,’ I said.

He returned a couple of minutes later with a mug. ‘I’m sorry I jumped on you like that,’ he said. ‘I know you tried your best.’ He smiled a smile that said ‘friends again?’ and was impossible to resist.

‘No, you’re right. You probably should have gone. You’d have done better than me.’

‘Next time.’ He sipped his coffee. I was pleased that the tension had eased a little. We just didn’t have the room for it.

‘Bet you can’t guess who else I saw last night?’ I said.

‘Who?’

‘Mel.’

‘Mel Dean?’

‘That’s the only Mel I know.’

‘Well, well,’ Guy said. ‘There’s a memory. What does she look like? Has she changed much?’

‘She’s aged a bit.’

‘Don’t they all? What about those lovely breasts?’

‘They’re in great shape.’

‘That’s good to know. They always were fine specimens.’

‘She’s still a lawyer,’ I said. ‘Apparently she does a lot of work with internet start-ups. I’ve just faxed her our shareholders’ agreement. Remember I was unhappy with it?’

‘You faxed it to Mel?’

‘She said she’d take a quick look and come back to me.’

‘Waste of time.’

‘We’ll see,’ I said, feeling the irritation rising again and successfully controlling it.

It wasn’t a waste of time. Mel called back late that afternoon, ‘You were right,’ she said. ‘I think there are some real problems with that document. It would do fine for a small business with only a couple of shareholders. But for something that’s going to grow into a venture-funded company, it’s a disaster.’

‘Oh. You mean it’s not scalable,’ I said, remembering some Owenspeak.

She laughed. ‘Precisely,’ she said. ‘I see you’ve learned the lingo.’

‘Some of it. Is it something we can change later on, when we get a bit more money?’

‘You could, but it would be messy. Much better to start off with a proper structure.’

‘Could you draw up a better one?’

‘Certainly. I’d have to see the other company documents. And I’d probably have to charge you.’

‘What do you think about working with Guy?’ I asked as quietly as I could.

There was silence for quite a time. In the end she spoke. ‘You are,’ she said.

‘That’s true.’

‘And are you happy with it?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘OK. If it’s good enough for you, it’s good enough for me.’

‘All right. Let me talk to him. I’ll call you back in a couple of minutes.’

‘Now that’s what I call a short decision time,’ Mel said.

I hung up and turned to Guy.

‘I heard most of that,’ he said.

‘Our shareholders’ agreement stinks.’

‘Says Mel?’

‘Says Mel.’

‘Do you believe her?’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you think we should do?’

‘I think we should get rid of the other lot and hire her.’

Guy snorted. ‘But it’s Mel, for God’s sake! She’s an airhead. Everybody knows that.’

‘She was pretty bright at school, I seem to remember. She just acted like an airhead.’

‘Well, she fooled me.’

‘Obviously.’

Guy sighed. ‘Are you sure about this?’

I nodded.

We were a team. Shareholders’ agreements were more my thing than his thing. Suddenly it was very important to me that he showed he understood that.

He paused. Thought. Then smiled.

‘Call her.’

Guy finally pinned Torsten down. He flew to Hamburg for a late-afternoon meeting that would slip into a night out. All part of the plan.

I met him at City Airport the next morning. I spotted him coming through Arrivals. He looked tired after the previous evening’s excesses, but he was grinning.

‘He said yes?’

‘Not quite, but close enough.’

‘What do you mean “not quite”? Did he say yes or didn’t he?’

‘Calm down, Davo. Everything’s cool. He likes the deal. He likes it a lot. But he’d be investing money from the family trusts. And that means his father has to agree.’

‘How likely is that?’

‘Torsten says he’ll have no trouble.’

‘I hope Torsten is right. How much are we talking about?’

‘Five million Deutschmarks.’

‘That’ll do.’ Five million marks was just under two million quid. Not quite as much as we had hoped for, but enough to get us going. ‘That’ll do very well.’

Guy’s smile broadened. ‘Shall we see if we can get a bottle of champagne somewhere in this airport?’

Now it looked like the money was on the way, Guy was anxious to gear up. I wasn’t so sure. I remembered Torsten from school. He was flaky then and he was probably flaky now. But Guy’s view was that that was a risk we would have to take. And if Torsten didn’t come through we might still have some luck with the half-dozen venture capitalists who now had our business plan.

Guy persuaded me. I knew I had to change my whole attitude to risk. At this stage in Ninetyminutes’ life, we had to take risks, not avoid them.

We started recruiting. We wanted a head of merchandising to set up the on-line retailing. Owen and Gaz each needed help. We were also looking for an office to put everyone in. There wasn’t room for Gaz in the flat in Wapping, so he was working from Hemel Hempstead and communicating with us by e-mail. This was asking for trouble, especially once our team grew bigger. So the office search began.

Mel came through with a new shareholders’ agreement and some amendments to our articles of association. She decided to deliver them in person to the flat in Wapping. I was surprised when I opened the door for her to see that she had dyed her hair blonde. She also wasn’t quite as severely dressed as she had been when I had bumped into her at First Tuesday.

‘Very nice,’ I said, wondering whether the new look was for Guy’s benefit.

‘Thank you. I knew I had to do something, but I couldn’t quite face going to your lengths.’

‘It’s due for another trim soon,’ I said, running my fingers through my hair, which was now almost half an inch long.

‘Hello, Guy,’ she said quietly as she entered the living-room-cum-office.

‘Mel! Great to see you! Davo says you’re just the lawyer we need. And we get a personal delivery service.’ He rushed over and kissed both her cheeks. She glowed.

‘I make it a point to see my clients face-to-face.’

‘Good. I’d show you around the office, but this is it. That’s Owen over there. Wave to the nice lady, Owen.’

Owen raised a hand while not moving his eyes from the screen.

‘Here you are, David,’ Mel said, taking an envelope out of her briefcase. ‘I think you’ll find these an improvement on the old documents.’ I took them.

‘Do you want a cup of tea or something?’ I asked.

Mel hesitated, glanced at Guy and then looked at her watch. ‘No, I’ve got a meeting in the West End. I’d better be off now.’

‘I thought you said she’d gone grey,’ Guy said as Mel shut the door.

‘That was last week.’

‘You were right about her chest.’

‘I thought you said you’d given up women?’

‘Yeah, but it’s only Mel. That was a bit odd. It’s a long way to come just to stay for two minutes. She could have sent the papers by courier.’

‘Mm,’ I said.

‘Never mind. As long as she’s a good lawyer.’

She was. The new documents all made perfect sense to me. Since Torsten hadn’t signed the original papers yet I had the new ones couriered to Hamburg. Guy wasn’t concerned by the lack of communication from Torsten, but I nagged him into chasing him up. We needed to know for sure that the cash was there before we moved into a new office and put more people on the payroll. Guy had no success. Torsten was out of town until the following week.

We had some luck with recruitment. The media were beginning to notice the dot-com wave and people wanted to ride it. Gaz brought on board a young sports journalist called Neil from a regional newspaper in the Midlands. Owen somehow found someone whom he would deign to work with, Sanjay, a football-mad programmer. We signed up Amy Kessler to be Head of Merchandising. She was a friend of a friend of Guy’s, an American MBA who had worked for Adidas in Germany for a couple of years. She seemed frighteningly competent.

Guy and I realized we had too many chiefs and no Indians, and so I gave my old secretary at Gurney Kroheim a call. Actually, she wasn’t exactly my secretary, she was more of a general dogsbody for about eight people. She was an Australian woman called Michelle. I had been impressed with her attention to detail and her cheerfulness. Although we weren’t friends, I had always been careful to treat her with respect, something that most of my colleagues in the new Leipziger Gurney Kroheim hadn’t done. When I told her what we were looking for at ninetyminutes.com she jumped at the chance, even though it meant a significant cut in salary.

We found an office. It was in Britton Street in Clerkenwell. Plenty of other dot-com companies were springing up in the neighbourhood; there were four other start-ups in our building alone. Importantly for us, the internet access was excellent. But the best part was that we could move in immediately. Which was good, because we needed somewhere to put our new recruits.

My father phoned me.

‘You haven’t cashed my cheque.’

‘No, Dad.’

‘Why not?’

I took a deep breath. ‘I don’t think ninetyminutes.com is a good investment for you.’

He was not impressed. ‘I should be the judge of that.’

‘I know, but... Look, how much have you got saved beyond this fifty thousand?’

‘That’s none of your business. Now please cash my cheque. I’ve always trusted you, David; now it’s time for you to trust me.’

I hesitated, weighing it up. I was right; this was a bad place to put his retirement nest egg. But he was right; I should trust him. And things were really rolling. Of course, I couldn’t guarantee ninetyminutes.com would succeed, I wasn’t even certain we would get our initial funding, but I did feel good about it. And my father wasn’t looking for guarantees.

I sighed. ‘OK, Dad, if you’re positive about this. I’ll cash the cheque this afternoon. Thank you.’

‘Thank you’, he said. ‘And good luck. I’m counting on you.’

‘I know.’

I put down the phone with the nagging feeling that I had just made a big mistake.

16

July 1987, Côte D’Azur, France

I stood at the front door as the police car carrying Guy drove out of the courtyard, followed by Tony in his Jeep. I heard rapid footsteps on the stairs. A moment later Mel and Ingrid joined me, wearing the T-shirts they had been sleeping in.

‘What’s happened?’ Mel asked.

‘They’ve arrested him.’

‘Guy?’

I nodded.

‘Oh, my God!’ She put her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide. Another shock. I wasn’t sure how many more she could bear.

I described Guy’s arrest.

‘I can’t believe they’ve taken him,’ she said. ‘David, you must tell them they’ve made a mistake.’

‘I can try. I’m sure he is innocent. But I doubt Inspector Sauville will take my word for it.’

‘But what possible reason could they have for suspecting him?’

‘They must have found a footprint somewhere,’ Ingrid said, ‘Guy’s footprint.’

‘If they have, I’m sure there’s an explanation,’ I said. ‘After all, why would he kill Dominique?’

‘There’s no reason why he’d kill her,’ said Mel fiercely. ‘It’s that scumbag Tony. It must be.’ She collapsed into a chair and began to weep, gently at first and then in earnest, huge sobs wracking her shoulders.

Ingrid shot me an anguished glance and put an arm round her. Mel was cracking up. I couldn’t blame her, but there was little I could do to help. Ingrid led her outside to the terrace. Miguel had heard the commotion, and a couple of minutes later he materialized with breakfast.

Then Owen appeared, bleary eyed. ‘What’s the fuss?’ he asked, picking up a croissant and stuffing it into his mouth.

I told him.

He stopped chewing in mid-mouthful and stared at me, as though unable to comprehend what I had just said. ‘Shit,’ he whispered at last.

‘I’m sure they’ll let him go soon,’ I said. After all, Owen was Guy’s younger brother and I thought he deserved some words of comfort.

Owen ignored them. ‘Why did they arrest him?’

‘I think it might have something to do with a footprint.’ I described again Sauville’s visit.

‘Shit,’ Owen repeated. He looked anxious, almost panicked. His reaction was nothing like the sullen indifference he had displayed when his father had been interviewed at the police station. But then I knew how strongly he cared about his brother.

‘They’ll let him go,’ Mel said, her face damp with tears. ‘They’ve got to let him go.’

Owen glared at her. ‘What do you care, you slut?’

She just looked at him. Stricken with shame and self-loathing, she couldn’t answer.

‘Owen!’ I snapped. ‘There’s no need for that!’

Owen scowled and disappeared back indoors.

It was a long morning. I sat on the terrace and took refuge in War and Peace: past page 900 and going strong. Ingrid read her own book next to me and Mel withdrew to her room to lie down. And cry, no doubt.

It was eerily peaceful in the garden, with the quiet disturbed only by the competing hums of the bees in the lavender and the distant traffic a long way beneath us. No sign of Guy. Or Tony. Or the police. The action was all going on down there, in that scruffy police station in Beaulieu.

Then, just before lunch, we heard a car draw up to the front of the house. Ingrid and I rushed round to see who it was. To our disappointment, it wasn’t Guy. It was Tony.

He led us into the house and to the drinks cabinet in the living room, and poured himself a large gin and tonic. ‘God, that tastes good,’ he said, taking a long swig. ‘The room service in that police station was lousy.’

There was the sound of rapid footsteps down the stairs as Mel appeared.

‘Any news?’ Ingrid asked.

‘No,’ said Tony. ‘They’re still holding him.’

‘Have they charged him?’ I asked.

‘Not yet. Patrick says they can hold him for up to four days before an arraignment in front of an examining magistrate. Don’t worry. We’ll get him out before then.’

‘But they’ve arrested him, haven’t they?’ Mel protested. ‘They must have some evidence against him.’

‘Some mix-up about a footprint. Patrick will get him off.’

Mel didn’t seem convinced. ‘What about you?’ she said.

‘Me? Looks like I’m in the clear.’ Tony smiled. Which was fair enough, I supposed. But I couldn’t help thinking that his exoneration had been won at the expense of Guy’s guilt. Not that I believed for a moment that Guy was guilty, myself. I just didn’t trust the French police to uncover the truth when they could nail the easy suspect.

Tony looked at the three of us. None of us appeared in the slightest bit pleased to see him. He sighed and poured himself another drink. ‘I’ll be in the study if anybody wants me,’ he said, and left us.

‘I wish they had let Guy go instead of him,’ Mel said.

‘I’m sure Hoyle will swing something,’ I said, with as much confidence I could muster. But I wasn’t sure at all.

At around two o’clock a detective came to fetch me. Sauville wanted to talk to me again. I wasn’t surprised.

I thought hard during the car journey down the hillside. Thought about what I had done. Where my loyalties lay.

I was led into a small interview room. Sauville was there with his sidekick. He looked even more tired and irritated. He lit up a cigarette and offered me one.

I shook my head.

‘Thank you for coming here, Monsieur Lane.’

‘Not at all.’ I hadn’t been aware that I’d had a choice.

‘I am glad to say that your version of your liaison with Madame Jourdan accords with the forensic evidence. You have been honest with me. This is good. Good for you, good for me. Now...’ He took a long drag on his cigarette. ‘I want you to continue to be honest with me.’

‘Of course.’

‘Bon. You remember Tuesday evening? The evening that Madame Jourdan was killed.’

‘I do.’ I was alert now.

‘This is very important. When you went to bed, did you go alone?’

‘No. I went with Guy.’

‘OK. Tell me what happened.’

‘I wasn’t in a good mood that evening. No one was, really, apart from Dominique. At about ten o’clock I said good night and went off to bed.’

‘And Guy came with you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you go straight to your bedroom.’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure? You didn’t delay on the way?’

‘Um...’

‘Monsieur Lane?’

‘Let me think. It was a couple of days ago.’

And I thought. Rapidly. I knew the answer, of course. Guy and I had gone straight to the little guest cottage together. I could remember that clearly. But what should I tell the policeman?

My first instinct was to say just that. That Guy had been with me the whole time. That he couldn’t possibly have slipped away to murder Dominique.

But...

But they had found a footprint, that was clear. Guy’s footprint. I suddenly realized that that was what Sauville wanted an explanation for. I had to give him one, or at least the possibility of one.

‘I don’t think so. Or, at least, I didn’t. But, actually, I think I went first, and Guy followed me a couple of minutes later.’

‘A couple of minutes?’

‘I’m not a hundred per cent sure. But I can remember that he was brushing his teeth when I was getting into bed. So he can’t have been more than a couple of minutes longer than me.’ I wanted to give Guy enough time to leave a footprint but not enough time to murder Dominique.

‘Did you see where he went?’

‘No.’

‘Could he perhaps have gone into the bushes to er...’ Sauville was searching for the right word. ‘To piss?’

‘Possibly.’

‘That seems strange, don’t you think? To piss in the bushes when there is a toilet in the guest cottage?’

‘Not so strange,’ I said. ‘A bit drunk. A lovely night. The stars are out. It’s the kind of thing Guy might do.’

‘We found his footprint outside Madame Jourdan’s window. The soil there was watered during the afternoon, so we know it must have been put there that evening. Or perhaps later that night.’

‘Oh, I see. That explains it, then.’ So I was right. Fortunately I had managed to back up the story Guy had told.

‘Perhaps,’ Sauville said, considering the point. ‘Just one last question. Do you know the young gardener who works here? A North African?’

‘Yes. Abdulatif.’

Sauville frowned, as though surprised that I knew his name. ‘That is correct. When did you last see him?’

‘Hmm.’ I thought. ‘It was the morning before Mrs Jourdan was killed.’

‘And not since then?’

‘No. No, not since then.’

‘Did you see him doing anything suspicious?’

I remembered the smile he had given Guy, but didn’t mention it. It almost certainly didn’t mean anything, and even if it did, it was hardly suspicious. ‘No,’ I said. ‘He was just gardening.’

‘We are trying to locate him. It seems he has disappeared. He hasn’t been seen since the morning after Madame Jourdan was killed.’ Sauville stood up. The interview was over. ‘Thank you once again for your cooperation, Mr Lane. Now my colleague will take you back to the house.’

As the police car climbed up the hill, I watched the sun lowering itself towards the western horizon and for the first time since Dominique had died I felt good about myself. I had let Guy down by sleeping with Dominique. His contempt for me had been painful because it had been justified. And now I had helped him.

I had no idea how Guy’s footprint had turned up wherever the police had found it, but I knew it wasn’t because he had gone for a pee in the bushes on the way to bed. They didn’t know that, though. I looked honest and I looked scared and I was sure Sauville had believed me.

At that point I was only concerned with covering for my friend, making amends for my betrayal. The possibility that Guy might have been involved in some way in Dominique’s death didn’t occur to me. I wasn’t at all worried about how or when Guy’s footprint had been placed outside Dominique’s window, if that was indeed where the police had found it.

Perhaps I should have been.

It was strange staying at Les Sarrasins without Guy. None of us felt we should be there, we were like guests who had long overstayed their welcome, but there was no chance that Sauville would let us leave. Guy’s plea for me to crawl back under my semi-detached stone rang in my ears. He was right, of course. I had no business being there; I should be in the caravan in Devon with my parents. I should never have come.

We all gathered for an awkward supper. There was little conversation; we were all wrapped up in our own thoughts. Tony made a half-hearted attempt at small talk, which received little response from any of us. But he did have some news. The search for Abdulatif had turned into a full-scale manhunt. Miguel had heard from the Arab gardener of a nearby property that the police had turned over Abdulatif’s house, and had been asking about him in all the Arab hangouts in the area, with no success.

For the first time in three days there was the glimmer of hope in Mel’s eyes.

I was doing lengths in the pool the next morning when I became aware of laughter on the terrace. Familiar laughter. I stopped swimming and looked up. There were Tony, Guy and Hoyle, broad grins on their faces. Miguel was opening a bottle of champagne.

I pulled myself out of the water and grabbed a towel. Ingrid and Mel emerged from the house.

The cork popped. Tony poured.

‘I told you Patrick would get him off,’ Tony said, slapping Hoyle on the back. ‘Hey, where’s Owen? Guy, get him, will you? I won’t have him missing this.’

Guy went off to look for his brother.

‘Of course, it helps that they know who did kill her,’ Hoyle said.

‘Who’s that?’ I asked.

‘The gardener,’ he replied. ‘The police have been looking for him everywhere. But it’s hard to find one Arab boy on the Riviera, there are so many places he can disappear.’

‘How do they know it was him?’ I asked.

‘He ran away, didn’t he?’ Tony said. ‘And they found Dominique’s empty jewellery case in his room. I hope they catch the bastard.’

‘But they don’t have any conclusive proof?’ I persisted.

Tony frowned, unamused by my quibbling. ‘That’s conclusive enough for me. Ah, here he is!’ he said as he saw Owen approaching behind his brother. There was almost a spring in his step. He was as pleased as the rest of us to have Guy back. ‘Champagne, Owen?’

‘I’ll take a Coke.’

‘You’ll have champagne,’ his father said, thrusting the glass into his hands. ‘Here’s to liberty.’

We all drank. All of us but Dominique, I thought. She wouldn’t be joining in the celebration of her stepson’s newfound freedom.

Mel, Ingrid and I left as soon as we possibly could. Neither Guy nor his father was sad to see us go, although Tony was polite and charming to us, even to me. But he called a taxi this time to take us to the airport.

I packed my stuff and went to look for Guy. I found him beneath the watchtower staring out at the sea. I sat next to him.

‘I know this was a horrible week, but thank you for inviting me,’ I said.

He didn’t answer. I waited. He wasn’t going to answer.

‘OK,’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘Goodbye, Guy.’

I turned to go. ‘Davo?’ he said.

‘Yes?’

‘Thank you. For what you said to Sauville.’

‘No problem.’ I considered trying to say more, but Guy was still looking away into the distance, his hunched back towards me. I was dismissed. I should leave.

Ingrid, Mel and I climbed into the taxi for the airport.

‘Thank God that’s over,’ Ingrid said as the car pulled out of the courtyard, through the electrically driven iron gates and on to the road down to the Corniche.

‘Yeah. And thank God Guy’s out of jail.’

‘That was all very convenient, wasn’t it?’ Ingrid said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean.’ She was looking at me closely.

I thought through Ingrid’s suggestion. It was indeed fortunate that the gardener had disappeared. I remembered hearing Hoyle repeat his name to Guy. I remembered the mysterious footprint from Guy’s shoe. And Owen’s reaction when he heard that his brother had been arrested, almost as if he knew something.

Then I stopped thinking.

‘You know what?’ I said. ‘I don’t care. I’m just glad to be out of here.’

‘Hear, hear,’ said Mel, her voice stronger than it had been for the last four days.

Tony hadn’t come through with his earlier promise of the fare home and my meagre funds wouldn’t stretch to a one-way plane ticket, but Ingrid lent me two hundred francs which gave me enough for a bus fare. The taxi dropped me off at the bus station and I was sorry to say goodbye to her and Mel, but very pleased to get on the coach for the long trip back to England.

As the bus powered up the autoroute towards the lowering cloud of northern France, I pondered the one lesson I had learned from the previous week. I had finally glimpsed what the glamorous lives of people such as Guy were really like and I had discovered something.

They weren’t nearly as desirable as they seemed.

17

May 1999, Clerkenwell, London

It was Monday morning and we had the keys to the new office. The whole team showed up: Guy, myself, Owen, Gaz, Neil, Sanjay, Amy and Michelle. For most of them it was their first day in the job. Everyone was wearing jeans and ready for hard physical labour.

Britton Street was picturesque in its way, a narrow lane of modest Georgian houses and converted metalworking shops like ours, with the white spire and golden weathervane of St James’s Church, Clerkenwell, peeking out above the rooftops. There were signs of the dot-com invasion everywhere: young thin men in fleeces with wispy facial hair, flashier men and women in black on mobile phones, convenience shops full of convenience snacks, ‘Offices To Let’ signs where old jewellers’ or watchmakers’ premises were being refurbished. But our own office was nothing special: one side of the fourth floor of a brick building with white walls, blue-painted pipework, a light grey carpet and no furniture.

Workmen brought up second-hand desks, chairs, partitions and computer equipment, which everyone shifted around enthusiastically. We had thought of most things in advance, like the photocopier and the computer network, but we needed a coffee machine, a water cooler and a fridge. Michelle was despatched to find them. Gaz had arrived with his uncle’s van, in the back of which was a table-football table and a pinball machine. He said it was pointless keeping them at home if he was going to be at the office all the time. He and Neil played a couple of games of table football; they were both astoundingly good.

Owen had planned the phone system and the computer network meticulously, but it was Sanjay, rather than he, who directed the engineers who came to install things. The characters of the new members soon became clear. Amy was an adept organizer with leanings towards bossiness, who spent most of the day wandering round with a cloth and a bucket of hot water wiping things. Neil was willing but useless, but Gaz turned out to be surprisingly practical, especially with wires. Owen could lift anything. Miraculously, by four o’clock, the office was functional.

Guy disappeared for ten minutes and came back with three bottles of champagne and some glasses.

‘To ninetyminutes.com,’ he said.

We all raised our glasses and drank. I looked around at the odd assortment of twentysomethings, dirty, sweaty but smiling, and thought how much happier I was to be there rather than surrounded by the humourless bankers of Gurney Kroheim.

We were aiming to launch in August in time for the coming football season, only three months away. This meant that we needed to finish the site by mid-July to give us time to test it and to iron out any bugs. It was a tight deadline, but we were confident we could meet it. Owen had finalized the architecture of the system, and we had signed contracts with the firm that would house and maintain our server. Mandrill’s design was coming on well and Gaz was putting together some excellent content.

But I was becoming increasingly worried about Torsten and the venture capitalists. Suddenly cash was flying out of the door. Unsurprisingly, none of our suppliers was willing to advance credit to an internet start-up; it was all cash up front. It was fortunate we had my father’s funds, otherwise we would have been caught short. Alarmed by the dwindling balance of the company account, I checked my cash forecasts. We would run out in ten days unless we received Torsten’s two million pounds.

Three of the venture capitalists had turned us down cold. Henry Broughton-Jones at Orchestra Ventures had agreed to see us, but not for another week. And we were still waiting for replies from the two others. Even if Orchestra or one of the others did show interest, it was extremely unlikely that they would be willing to invest within our ten-day deadline.

We needed Torsten.

I pestered Guy. He called Torsten repeatedly at the office with no response, or rather a string of implausible excuses from his assistant. I could see Guy’s confidence in his friend evaporating before my eyes. I suggested we wait until eight o’clock, nine o’clock his time, and call him on his mobile. Torsten might hide at work but, knowing him, he would want to make himself available during his leisure hours for his friends. He wouldn’t risk any parties taking place without him.

Guy dialled Torsten’s mobile number and I leaned forward to try to catch what was going on. We had arranged our desks so that they faced each other, and I could see the tension on Guy’s face as he waited for an answer. It was five to eight, but everyone was still in the office working, even Michelle, whose hours officially ended at five-thirty.

‘Ja?’ I could just hear through the receiver in Guy’s hand.

‘Torsten? It’s Guy.’

I could only hear one side of the conversation. But from Guy’s face I could tell it was bad news. Very bad news. It was quick, too. Torsten couldn’t wait to get rid of his friend.

Guy slammed down the phone. ‘Shit!’

I closed my eyes for a couple of seconds, then opened them. ‘Did he say why?’

‘Not exactly, but I can guess.’

‘What?’

‘Daddy. Herr Schollenberger doesn’t want his little blue-eyed boy investing money in me.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. I know Torsten. He tried to make out it was his decision, but it wasn’t. Torsten knows where his bread and butter come from. His father says “jump”, he jumps. His father says “no” and...’ Guy held up his hands in a gesture of hopelessness.

‘Any chance of him changing his mind?’

‘None. Absolutely none.’

I exhaled. Suddenly I became aware of all those people beavering away around us. People who had given up well-paid, promising careers to join us. And within a couple of weeks we were going to tell them, sorry, it had all been a big mistake. You know that two million quid we said we were getting in soon? Well, that was just a joke. Game over.

And what about my father? I had known all along he might lose his money, but never had I assumed he could lose it in less than a month. What kind of idiot would he take me for? And my mother? He had kept the investment from her. At some point he would have to tell her that he had given it to sonny-boy David, who had pissed it away in three weeks. Boy, would she be angry. And with some justification.

I looked across the desk at Guy. ‘What are we going to do?’

‘I have no idea.’ He met my eyes. ‘I have absolutely no idea.’

We decided to tell them straight away. They had all put their trust in us, and we couldn’t let them think we were hiding anything from them.

Guy walked out into the middle of the office. ‘Listen up, everybody.’

Everybody listened. I watched their faces as Guy told them the news. Shock. Bewilderment.

‘How much cash do we have?’ Amy asked.

Guy glanced at me.

‘Twelve thousand, six hundred and thirty-four pounds,’ I answered. ‘That will only keep us going for the next ten days. We have no chance of meeting the salary payments at the end of the month.’

‘What if we put in some of our own money?’ said Michelle. ‘I’ve got two thousand saved. I was going to use it for a trip, but that will wait. I’d like to see this through.’

Guy gave Michelle his broadest smile. ‘Thanks, Michelle. But we’ll need more than two thousand.’

‘I reckon I can get my brother to put in a few thousand,’ said Neil. ‘He fancies himself as a savvy businessman.’

‘I can put in another ten,’ I said, to my surprise. I had been careful to leave a portion of my savings on one side in case Ninetyminutes hadn’t worked out. And now Ninetyminutes wasn’t working out, here I was committing it. Sod it. It was only money.

‘And perhaps we can take a minimum salary this month?’ said Amy. ‘Just enough to live on.’

Guy looked round the group. The enthusiasm had returned. ‘Excellent. That should buy us enough time to get some serious money from somewhere. David will talk to all of you about how much you can put in, and he and I will work on a plan to raise more finance. And I promise we will keep you informed all the way.’

We broke up.

Over the next few days and the weekend everyone became fund-raisers. They were good at it. On Monday morning I had cheques totalling sixty-seven thousand pounds. Amazingly, Neil had come up with twenty, most of it from his brother in Birmingham whose pest-control business was doing very well. Then there was my ten, seven more from Owen, which just about cleaned him out, two from Michelle, three from Gaz, ten from Amy, five from Sanjay and even ten from Mel. I did a series of complicated calculations to ensure that each person got a slice of equity commensurate with their investment. It was difficult, but they all seemed happy with the result.

We had to slash costs. We followed Amy’s suggestion; everyone agreed to take only five hundred pounds pay that month. The site had to be up and running for the start of the new football season in August. That would still be possible on our reduced budget, but the advertising and PR we had been planning would have to be cut way back. Too far back. If we wanted ninetyminutes.com to be anything more than just a revamp of Gaz’s Sick As A Parrot site we would need more cash. Very soon.

Two more rejections came in from the venture capitalists. Five down, one left.

The day came for our meeting with Henry Broughton-Jones. Orchestra Ventures was a relatively new fund, set up by three partners who had left a more established venture-capital firm three years previously. Henry had been one of their first recruits and had recently been elevated to the position of partner. He had his own glass-encased box, complete with armchairs and conference table. He welcomed us genially and encouraged Guy to talk.

Guy gave the twenty-minute pitch and he gave it well. He had me convinced yet again, and I was hopeful that he would convince Henry. Afterwards Henry asked the right questions, which Guy answered confidently. Henry touched on management, and Guy admitted his own lack of experience, but pointed out that Amy, Owen and I all had relevant backgrounds.

When our hour was up Henry showed us out, promising to call us with his initial reaction.

He did. The next day.

It was a no.

I cursed to myself, counted to three and asked him why.

‘It’s got a lot going for it. The idea makes a lot of sense to me. Especially if you really can sell clothing over the web. The way the Internet is developing, on-line retailers will need good content to sell their products and good content will need some way of making money out of visitors, so this is a neat combination. The real problem is the management.’

‘The management?’

‘You know how venture capital is supposed to be about management, management, management? Well it’s all true. Especially at our shop. Guy Jourdan talks a good story, but he’s never managed anything remotely like this before. Neither have any of the rest of you, although you all have good technical experience. I’d like to help, but I know if I took this further my partners would shoot me down in flames.’

‘You’re sure about that?’

‘Quite sure. Sorry, old chap.’

I sighed. ‘OK, Henry. Thanks for looking.’

‘No problem. And good luck.’

I turned towards Guy, who had just finished his own phone conversation. He saw the look on my face. ‘Oh, no.’

‘I’m afraid so,’ I said.

‘Why? I thought he got it. Why did he say no?’

‘Management.’

‘Management? Meaning me, I suppose.’

I nodded.

‘Bloody hell! What do these people expect? It’s like Catch 22. They won’t give you any money unless you’ve been a big success before, but you can’t be a really big success unless they give you money. It makes no sense! I’ll tell him.’ Guy reached for his phone.

‘Whoa! Wait a moment. He’s not going to change his mind just because you shout at him. He gave us a good hearing, we can’t ask for any more than that.’

Guy withdrew his hand. ‘All right. So where does that leave us?’

‘Nowhere.’

‘Oh, come on. There are plenty more VCs out there. Let’s have another look at the BVCA website.’ He began tapping at his keyboard.

‘No, Guy.’

‘Davo! We need the money!’

I nodded. ‘But we’re not going to get it from venture capitalists. At least, not yet.’

Guy could see the way I was looking at him. He knew what I was thinking. ‘No, Davo. No way.’

‘You’ve got to try. He’s our last chance.’

‘I’ve told you, I want to succeed without him or not at all.’

‘That was OK when we talked about this a month ago,’ I said. ‘But now things have changed. Everyone out there has put most of what they own into this. So have I. Ninetyminutes isn’t about just you any more. It’s about all of us.’

‘He’ll say no.’

‘We’ll never know that until we try.’

Guy closed his eyes and raised his face towards the ceiling. I let him struggle with himself. Finally, he spoke. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘We’ll go and see him. You have to come with me, though.’

‘But he hates me more than he hates you.’

‘I know. But I’m not doing this alone.’

This time, Tony Jourdan didn’t pick us up from Nice airport. We took a taxi. We barrelled along a highway through the centre of the city and climbed the steep Corniche. As I saw the sea, the trees and the rocky cliffs, that week twelve years before came back to me. I shuddered. And I remembered Tony’s threat to me. Did I really think he would talk to me, even twelve years on?

The door was answered by Miguel, who looked even smaller than I remembered him. He greeted Guy politely and led us through the house to the terrace. Once again, the view took my breath away. Cap Ferrat reached out into the Mediterranean, green and rich and lush, with its fabulous mansions and flotilla of super-expensive white craft buzzing around its shoreline. This early in the summer the sky was an even clearer blue. I couldn’t help taking a quick look for Corsica, and I thought I caught a grey smudge on the horizon.

Tony rose from a chair to meet us. The wrinkles around his eyes had deepened and his sandy hair was fading to grey at the edges, but he still looked slim and active. At least he wasn’t openly hostile. He smiled politely and introduced me to the dark-haired woman who was sitting with him. She stood up, and towered over him by at least three inches. A beautiful woman, I was not surprised to see, but in a more subtle way than Dominique.

‘Sabina, this is David Lane, an old school friend of Guy’s.’

‘Hello,’ she said, with a friendly smile. She held out her hand for me to shake, and then kissed Guy on both cheeks. A baby started crying inside. The noise shocked me, it seemed so out of place in these surroundings.

‘I must go and check on Andreas,’ said Sabina in a Germanic accent. ‘Make sure you see your brother before you go, Guy.’

‘I will.’

We sat down. I looked around. Up at the house and Dominique’s bedroom, which was presumably Tony and Sabina’s bedroom now, the place where I had lost my virginity and she had lost her life. At the guest cottage where I had skulked during the French police’s inquisition, at the old Roman watchtower where Tony had seduced Mel and where his son had declared his hatred of me.

Tony was watching. ‘I thought I told you I never wanted to see you again,’ he said. But he said it without hostility, as though he wanted to note our past enmity for the record, before putting it to one side.

‘I know,’ I said. ‘And I’m sorry. But this isn’t a social call.’

‘Of course not. You want some more money, don’t you, Guy?’

‘Yes,’ said Guy.

‘And why should I give it to you?’

‘I don’t know why you should,’ he answered. ‘Which is why I haven’t asked you before. In fact, I didn’t want to ask you even now, but David insisted.’

‘Oh, yes?’ said Tony, glancing inquiringly at me.

‘Guy didn’t want to ask you for money because he didn’t want to rely on you to bail him out of a hole yet again,’ I said. ‘But I’m not asking you to bail Guy out. I’m asking you to invest in something because you can make a good profit out of it.’

‘Hm.’ Tony lifted up the newspaper on the table to reveal the business plan we had couriered to him the day before. He picked it up and began leafing through it. ‘Did you write this?’ he asked me.

‘Some of it. Guy wrote most of it, though.’ Tony glanced at his son. It was a good document, and Tony knew it.

Then he started asking questions. They came thick and fast. Henry Broughton-Jones had asked some pretty good general questions, but they were nothing like this inquisition. Although Tony had only had the plan a day, he had virtually memorized it. He asked me to justify the assumptions behind the financial projections, an uncomfortable process. He had looked at several other soccer sites already on the web, and he wanted to know what we thought of them. He asked us about Champion Starsat, the big satellite TV company, and what their strategy for the web would be.

After an hour and a half, Miguel brought lunch and the questions continued. We did well. Guy in particular held his own. He knew his stuff, Tony couldn’t deny it.

‘So, Dad,’ said Guy eventually. ‘What do you think?’

Tony looked from Guy to me and back again to his son. He grinned. ‘It’s a good idea. I’ll do it.’

Guy could hardly believe it. His jaw dropped open.

‘I need to make some real money again,’ said Tony. ‘All this has to be maintained.’ He gestured to the house and gardens around him, seeming to take in his wife and son indoors. ‘The life went out of the property market years ago. The Internet is the place to be. The challenge will be good for me. But,’ he said, glancing at me, ‘David is right. I’m going to do this on a purely commercial basis. Which means I’m going to want a stake for my two million quid. A big stake.’

Guy and I exchanged glances. ‘Fair enough.’

Tony held out his hand for his son to shake.

‘Thanks, Dad,’ Guy said.

‘Good. I’ll come to England next week and we can finalize things with your lawyers.’ Guy winced. Tony noticed it. ‘You do have lawyers, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Guy. ‘We have a very good lawyer.’

‘Well, I look forward to negotiating with him.’

I wasn’t quite sure how much Mel would look forward to negotiating with Tony. Neither was Guy, judging by his expression.

We ordered a taxi to take us back to the airport, and after a quick look at Guy’s six-month-old half-brother, we left. Neither of us wanted to stay in that house a moment longer than we had to.

Guy shook his head. ‘I still can’t believe it.’

‘I told you it was worth a try,’ I said. ‘Cheer up. We’ve just saved the company yet again and you’re looking worried.’

‘It doesn’t feel right,’ said Guy.

‘Oh, come on. What do you want to do? Turn down his money?’

‘No.’

‘Well, then? This can only be good news.’

‘We’ll see,’ said Guy. ‘I don’t trust him.’

18

June 1992, The City, London

The long hot afternoon was beginning, and I was going to spend the whole of it in Nostro Reconciliations, reconciling nostros. The very thought of it made my limbs feel heavy and my brain tired, so tired. Computer printouts to go through, boxes to tick, mindless tedium. I was a junior member of the audit team for United Arab International Bank. My current task was to make sure that the balances at the bank’s main accounts in each currency, known as nostro accounts, reconciled with the bank’s own accounting system. In theory I might uncover a multi-million-dollar money-laundering fraud at any moment. In practice they added up, with mind-numbing regularity. I glanced across at the manager in charge of the department. He was a small, rather scruffy man who seemed to have a permanent itch just below his collar. He was too nervous to talk to me. I fantasized that this was because he was a master criminal, afraid I would unmask him at any moment. Of course I knew he was actually worried that my boss might criticize his department. But there wasn’t even much chance of that, I thought, as I ticked another box.

I had tried to get myself on the audit teams for as many banks as possible, on the theory that it would make it easier to escape accountancy for banking once I qualified. A fine theory, but boring, boring, boring.

I had one thought to sustain me, like the glimpse of an oasis across the desert sands. That evening I was attending a reunion for the old pupils of Broadhill School. It would be held at a hotel near Marble Arch, the headmaster would make a speech pleading for cash and there would be lots to drink. Lots and lots. I was looking forward to it.

I was also looking forward to meeting the people there. I hadn’t kept in touch with anyone from school; my life at university and as an accountant had taken me away from them. I had read about one or two of them in the papers: a quiet girl in my economics class who had won a swimming medal at the Seoul Olympics and a boy who had rescued his fellow explorers after two weeks lost in the Borneo jungle. I had also read about their fathers: Torsten Schollenberger’s had been accused of bribing a senior German minister and Troy Barton’s had won an Oscar. No mention of Guy’s, though. Nor of Guy. The thought of them both made me shudder. Even five years after the event I couldn’t think of Guy without the guilt flooding back. I hoped he wouldn’t be there that evening.

He was. He was the first person I saw as I walked into the already crowded hotel function room.

He was standing holding a glass of wine, talking to two people I vaguely recognized. He hadn’t changed much: his blond hair was now brushed back off his forehead and he had filled out a bit. I hesitated, flustered, unable to decide how to enter the room without him seeing me.

He looked up and his eyes met mine. His face broke into a wide smile, and he strode over to me. ‘Davo! How the devil are you!’ He held out his hand and pumped mine. ‘Let’s get you a drink.’ He peered at his full glass, downed it all, and dragged me over to a waitress with a tray. He swapped his empty glass for a full one, and handed me my first. ‘Cheers,’ he said.

An extraordinary wave of relief swept over me, as though a ball of tension that had been screwed up tightly somewhere inside me for the last five years had been released. I had assumed Guy would never want to talk to me again and I had told myself that this didn’t matter. I now realized it did. I also realized Guy was drunk. That was fine with me, but it did mean I had some catching up to do.

‘Thank God you’ve come,’ said Guy. ‘Do you remember those two? I don’t. But they seem to think we were best mates at school. Tedious as hell.’

My immediate thought was that they couldn’t possibly have more boring lives than mine.

‘So, what are you up to, Davo?’

‘Working undercover.’

‘Working undercover! Who for?’

‘I can’t tell you. Well, I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you. And that would be messy. I’ve been specially trained, you know. You wouldn’t stand a chance. What about you?’

‘I’m a famous actor.’

‘Famous actor, eh? How come I’ve never heard of you, then?’

‘I don’t use my real name. I’ve been in a lot of big movies recently. The Division, Morty’s Fall.’

‘I saw Morty’s Fall,’ I said. ‘I didn’t recognize you in that.’

‘That’s because I’m such a good actor.’

Just then, a big man with square shoulders and a rugby-player’s neck clapped his hands for attention. He was the new headmaster, and he talked about the school and how it needed money for a new theatre. He was inspiring in a down-to-earth way. But my attention was distracted by Guy. He seemed to have come to some kind of silent arrangement with a pretty black waitress who kept bringing us new glasses of wine.

We drank them.

‘Hey, isn’t that Mel Dean over there?’ Guy whispered.

I followed his glance. It was Mel. Dressed in a smart navy blue suit. And with her was Ingrid Da Cunha.

‘You’re right.’

‘Shall we go and talk to them?’

‘Yeah. If you like.’ I was surprised Guy actually wanted to talk to Mel, but I welcomed the chance to see Ingrid again.

Just then the headmaster stopped talking, there was clapping and the crowd, which had been becoming increasingly restless, began to move again. Guy and I weaved our way through to the two women. Guy gently placed his hand on Mel’s behind. She swung round, ready to say something sharp. When she saw who it was she froze, stunned.

‘Hi, Mel,’ Guy said. ‘You look amazed to see me. I did go to Broadhill, you know. They have to let me in, although I’m sure they don’t want to. You remember Davo.’

He kissed Mel and Ingrid on both cheeks. Neither of them had changed very much since school. Mel wore significantly less make-up, and the blonde streak in her dark hair had disappeared. But she still had the pouting softness that I was sure had first attracted Guy. Ingrid looked relaxed and tanned, as though she had just come back from a holiday. She gave us both a warm wide smile.

Mel recovered. ‘Have you been groping every woman in the room, or am I specially privileged?’

‘Only you, Mel. Although I could include Ingrid if she asked nicely.’

‘Little chance of that,’ said Ingrid.

Within a minute, we were all four talking like old friends; old friends who hadn’t seen each other for a couple of months, perhaps, but who had no trouble catching up. Guy, abetted by his pet waitress, kept everyone topped up and knocked back huge quantities of wine himself. He seemed to be able to take it well enough: practice, I assumed. Meanwhile I was getting pleasantly drunk.

Time passed and suddenly we were some of the last people left in the room. Guy looked at his watch. ‘Anyone want some dinner?’ he asked. ‘I know a good place near here.’

Mel glanced at Ingrid, who nodded her agreement, and soon we were out on the street and heading towards Bays-water. Guy led us into a Greek restaurant, ordered some retsina, and we were away. The group seemed to split into two, with Guy concentrating on Mel, who was quite drunk by now and giggling ecstatically at everything he was saying.

‘You’re not really working undercover for the CIA, are you?’ asked Ingrid.

I shook my head. ‘No, it’s much worse than that.’

‘Really?’

‘Look, I’ll tell you, but you have to promise not to leave the table immediately.’

‘OK.’

‘I’m training to be a chartered accountant.’

‘Oh, my God,’ said Ingrid. ‘Are you sure I can’t leave?’

‘You promised.’

‘I’ve heard about people like you, but I didn’t know they really existed.’

‘We do. But we’re not let out much, so we’re not a threat to society.’

‘It can’t be that bad.’

‘Oh, it can,’ I said, thinking of my fun-filled afternoon in Nostro Reconciliations.

‘Mel’s doing her articles to be a solicitor. That must be almost as dull.’

We looked over at Mel, who had just exploded in a shriek of laughter, eyes shining and hair all over the place.

‘I’m sure she’ll make a perfect lawyer. Sober, serious, reliable.’

‘We’re all grown-ups now,’ Ingrid said.

‘So what do you do when you’re not editing Vogue?’

‘Actually I’m a sub-editor on Patio World. It’s a new title. You may not have heard of it.’

‘Not yet. But I’ll be sure to subscribe.’

‘Well hurry, because I think they’re going to close it down soon. It’s only been going six months, but it’s been a bit of a disaster.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Don’t worry. They won’t blame me. They’ll find something else for me to do.’

‘I’m surprised you’re still in England. I’d have imagined you somewhere far more exotic.’

‘But London is exotic. The sky with all those fascinating tinges of grey. The people with their low-key warmth and friendliness. Very low key. And I find those dark wet winters so romantic.’

‘A real aficionado.’

‘Actually, it’s nice just to be in one place for once. My mother’s moved to New York with a new man and I’m so grateful I don’t have to follow her around the world any more. There is something pleasantly stable about London. And it’s a good place for my career.’

‘No better place for patios.’

‘When I’m running my own publishing empire, I’ll know where I can find someone to add up cab fares.’

‘I’d be more than happy to help,’ I said. ‘Just don’t forget to keep the receipts.’

‘I’ll start a special collection for you today.’

I poured us both another glass of wine. ‘It’s nice to see you again,’ I said. ‘You were kind to me in France. And I don’t know what I’d have done without that two hundred francs you lent me.’

‘I was so pleased to get out of there,’ said Ingrid with a shudder. ‘That was one of the more unpleasant experiences of my life.’

We were both silent, watching Guy and Mel.

Guy noticed us and seemed to sober up. ‘What are you two thinking about?’

Ingrid didn’t answer. ‘Nothing,’ I said.

Guy leaned forward. ‘It was France, wasn’t it?’

I nodded. Mel was suddenly still.

Guy poured out the dregs from the second bottle of retsina. ‘Well, let me tell you something. That was five years ago, when we were all still kids. I’ve forgotten about France. Totally and completely. And I hope you all will too. Is that a deal?’

‘Deal,’ I said, raising my glass. Ingrid and Mel raised theirs too, and we all drank to obliterated memories.

I was seriously drunk by the time we spilled out of the restaurant. Ingrid took the first taxi and I took the next, leaving Guy with his arm around Mel waiting for two more.

Who was I kidding? I didn’t know whose flat they were going to, but I could tell they were going there together.

I saw quite a lot of Guy after that evening. He seemed happy to count me as a friend, and he certainly made my life more interesting. It turned out he really was an actor, of the struggling kind. After three years at university, where he had only just escaped being thrown out, he had somehow managed to get into a reputable drama school, where he said he had done quite well. Since then, things had been difficult. He had had a few bit parts in repertory theatres and a small number of tiny roles in TV. He had been an extra in Morty’s Fall. He had an agent, who ignored him. He attributed his lack of success to the oversupply of young actors and an invisible network of contacts and friends of contacts that excluded him. That may have been partially true. A greater reason, I suspected, was that he just didn’t try hard enough. He went to the gym and watched Countdown on the telly when he should have been writing letters and knocking on doors. Young actors are supposed to be hungry. Guy was thirsty. And slaked his thirst every evening and many lunchtimes.

I was happy to join him in this. It made the afternoons much easier to get through if I knew I was going to meet Guy for a pint or five after work. Of course, it made the mornings quite painful and it played havoc with studying for my professional exams, but at least it shook things up a bit. Guy had a small flat off Gloucester Road and we frequented several pubs and bars in that area. We were occasionally joined by other friends of his, including Torsten Schollenberger when he was visiting London.

What did we talk about? I have no idea. Probably meaningless drivel. For our different reasons we needed to find friendship and escape the tedium of the daylight hours. Often, as the evening progressed, Guy would begin to chase women. He was usually successful at this. He was good-looking, of course, but he also seemed able to transmit an aura of danger and excitement that hooked them. I tried, unsuccessfully, to work out what kind of women went for him. Then I realized that almost any woman would, provided she was in the right kind of mood. The curious, those looking for excitement or searching for a quick escape were drawn to him. Guy offered sex, fun, danger and absolutely no chance of commitment. He provided an opportunity for good girls to be bad for a night.

Many of them took it.

Mel was different. He treated her like a backstop, someone to go to when he felt like sex and the evening had failed to provide him with any. He rarely seemed to make any arrangements to meet her, but often at ten or eleven o’clock he would slip off to her flat in Earls Court. From what I could tell, she was always there waiting for him.

Just occasionally she would come out with us. She was always lively and amusing and often ignored by Guy. He was never rude to her, but he was often indifferent, which was worse. I could see what was going on: Mel was in love with Guy and Guy was using her. Mel was too scared of losing him to complain and so she put up with him. If I had thought about this, I would have realized that this showed a deep self-centredness in Guy’s character. So I didn’t think about it.

Guy took me flying with him. His father had bought him his own plane, an expensive Cessna 182 with the registration GOGJ, which he kept at Elstree aerodrome, just to the north of London. We went for lunch to Le Touquet and Deauville in France and to a pretty grass airfield on a hill opposite Shaftesbury in Dorset. Guy was a skilful flyer, and enjoyed skimming along at fifty feet above the waves, or a few hundred feet above the English countryside.

Inspired by Guy, I decided to learn to fly myself. I trained in an AA-5, an old banger compared to Guy’s BMW. I was taught that it was safer not to fly much below two thousand feet, that it was important to check the aircraft thoroughly before every flight and that drinking any alcohol before flying was strictly banned. I wasn’t at all surprised that somehow different rules applied to me than to Guy but, as I learned more, I became increasingly nervous sitting next to him in an aeroplane.

On the surface, Guy seemed to be leading a great life. And I was very happy to deal with him on the surface. But it is hard being a struggling actor, even a struggling actor with a wealthy father.

One evening I left work on the dot of five to meet him at a pub near Leicester Square. He had an audition near by, and he had suggested a drink afterwards. He was already there when I arrived, staring at his bottle of Beck’s.

‘I take it you didn’t get the part?’

‘Don’t know,’ he said. ‘They promised they’d call. They only call you if you get the part, you know. So I probably won’t hear anything.’

‘Cheer up, you might get it.’

‘It’s just a crappy part in a dumb commercial. That’s not it, Davo. It’s just so humiliating.’

‘You’ve got to start somewhere.’

‘I know. But it’s not what I expected. I loved drama school. I mean really loved it. Standing in the middle of the stage, being someone else, taking the audience along with the fiction that I was creating, manipulating their emotions. It was great. A real power kick. And I was good at it too. Chekhov, Ibsen, Steinbeck, even bloody Shakespeare, I could do them really well. At the end of the year we had a graduation performance and I was one of only four people to get a call from an agent asking me to go on her books.’

‘Sounds promising.’

‘And now what happens? I go along to meet Diane from Casting, who takes a Polaroid of me, gives me a few lines of truly horrible dialogue to speak at a camera and then it’s “goodbye, we’ll call you.” ’

‘One day they will.’

‘Yeah, but most days they won’t. And to be rejected by Diane from Casting makes you feel like the tiniest speck of shit. I mean, it’s me they’re rejecting, isn’t it? What don’t they like about me? My voice? My face? Maybe I can’t act after all. Maybe this whole thing is one huge mistake.’

‘Come on, Guy. You’ll make it. You always do.’

‘Yeah, precisely. I’ve always been a success. I did well at school, didn’t I? Tennis, soccer, head of house. And I thought I’d do well at acting. I thought I’d do something that even my father would notice. But at this rate I’ll never get the chance. Diane from Casting will see to that.’

‘You need another drink, quick,’ I said. I went to the bar and bought him one. As usual, the alcohol did its work. Half an hour later we were chatting up two Italian girls. Guy got the pretty one and I passed on the ugly one. But it turned into a good evening.

I was in a newsagent’s looking for a copy of Private Eye when I caught sight of the cover of Patio World. I bought it, leafed through the pages with a total lack of interest and spotted a phone number printed inside the front cover. As soon as I was back at my desk I dialled the number, got through to Ingrid and suggested a film. We went to Dances with Wolves and afterwards to a Thai restaurant in Soho for dinner.

The evening didn’t seem like a ‘date’ but rather like two old friends meeting up after a long absence. Which was nice, especially since in reality we hardly knew each other. I liked Ingrid. She was refreshingly straightforward, but also perceptive. She seemed to understand what made me tick without me explaining it to her. She was a good listener, tempting me to tell her more about myself than I intended. Not that I had anything shocking to tell, rather the opposite. But that, too, she seemed to understand.

Our conversation turned to Guy. ‘Have you seen him since that Broadhill do?’ she asked.

‘Yeah. I see him quite a lot, actually. It’s fun.’

‘He sees Mel as well, doesn’t he?’

‘From time to time.’

‘Oh. That doesn’t sound good.’

‘It probably isn’t for Mel. It’s fine for Guy.’

‘Selfish pig.’ Her comment surprised me. Ingrid noticed. ‘Well, he is, isn’t he?’

‘I suppose so,’ I conceded.

‘I mean, Mel is totally gone over him. Always has been.’

‘Even after what Tony did to her in France?’

‘Yeah. Especially after that. You know how much she regretted it. I think since then she’s been desperate to show Guy that she made a mistake.’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t know what they all see in him.’

‘Oh, I think I do,’ said Ingrid with a twinkle in her pale-blue eyes.

‘Not you as well?’

‘Don’t get me wrong. The last thing in the world I would want is to be his girlfriend. I assure you I don’t envy Mel. But one can’t help wondering...’

‘I’ll tell him.’

‘Don’t you dare!’

I paused to chase a piece of curried fish around my bowl with my chopsticks. Not great technique, but I was hungry. I noticed Ingrid whipping the food into her mouth like a pro.

‘How do you do that?’ I asked. ‘It’s unnatural.’

‘I learned as a child. When I was little and we lived in São Paulo, we used to go to Japanese restaurants a lot. Did you know there’s a massive Japanese community there? And then we lived in Hong Kong for a bit, so I’ve had plenty of practice.’

‘Well I’m afraid I haven’t,’ I said, finally spearing the fish.

‘Mel’s had a rough time,’ Ingrid said. ‘She doesn’t need Guy making her life any more miserable.’

‘I’m sure she doesn’t.’

‘She used to talk to me a lot about her family when we were at school. It sounded like her parents hated each other and used her as a weapon. Especially her father.’

‘Didn’t he run away with a secretary?’

‘That’s right. I think Mel has been pretty uptight about sex ever since.’

‘Tony Jourdan can’t have helped.’

‘No. Yuk.’ Ingrid shuddered. ‘I visited her a couple of times when she was at university in Manchester. For someone who used to look like such a good-time girl at school I think she led a pretty celibate life at university. And afterwards probably.’

‘Until Guy.’

‘Until Guy.’ She helped herself to some more rice. ‘What about you?’ she asked.

‘What about me? Are you asking me about my sex life?’

‘Is it a secret? Like the accountancy? Surely it’s not as embarrassing as that?’

‘Not quite,’ I sighed. ‘It hasn’t been as successful as I would have liked, but it’s not a total disaster. No one really serious, though. And you?’

‘Hey, I’m Brazilian. But actually I only ever seem to sleep with the wrong men. That’s something I’ve decided I’m going to change.’

‘Oh,’ I said. Ingrid went very slightly red. I noticed, but pretended not to. ‘This green curry stuff looks horrible but it’s really tasty. You should try some.’

We went out again, a week later. It was another good evening, but marred for me by some disappointing news. Ingrid’s fears over the future of Patio World proved well founded. It was closing, slipping away from the specialist magazine shelves, leaving only a tiny band of readers with unfinished patios to mourn it. But her firm wanted her to go to Paris for a few weeks to work on a couple of titles that were proving successful there and might translate well to England. Ingrid was excited. It was a good career move, she spoke French and she loved Paris. I made encouraging noises, but I didn’t mean them.

I found myself looking forward to her return.

19

I saw Owen only once that summer. I hadn’t known he was coming; one evening I went to meet Guy in one of our usual watering holes and there he was.

Guy bought the beer and chatted away as though Owen wasn’t there. But it was hard to ignore his presence. He had filled out. He was now about twenty and he had transformed from overgrown kid to muscular adult. He hardly drank his lager, despite Guy’s attempts to ply him with more. I tried conversation.

‘What are you up to these days, Owen?’

‘UCLA. Studying computer science.’

‘Do you like it?’

‘College sucks. The course is OK.’

‘I know what Californian colleges are like,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen the films. Beaches, babes, parties.’

Owen peered at me suspiciously. It was true I was mocking him, but in what was supposed to be a good-humoured, English kind of way. He didn’t get it.

‘I’m not into that kind of stuff.’

‘Er, no. I suppose not.’ I drank my beer. ‘How long are you here for?’ I asked, hoping the answer was not long.

‘Four days. I’ve just been to see my father in France.’

‘How is he?’ I asked politely.

But Owen had had enough of my small talk. He ignored my question and spoke directly to his brother. ‘Abdulatif’s dead.’

That got Guy’s attention. And mine. He glanced rapidly at me and then spoke. ‘Abdulatif?’

‘Yeah. Abdulatif. The gardener. He’s dead.’

‘Oh. They found him, then?’

‘They found him all right. In, like, a trash can in Marseilles. It took them a week to figure out who he was. Matched his fingerprints.’

‘Do they know who killed him?’ Guy asked.

‘No. He was some kind of rent-boy. The local cops say they get killed all the time.’

Guy drank his beer carefully. ‘Well, I can’t say I’m sad to hear that.’

‘No.’ Owen turned to me and gave me a mocking smile. ‘Did Guy tell you, I saw him humping Dominique?’

‘No,’ I said, my blood suddenly running cold.

‘Yeah. It was the day before you and Guy arrived. Dad was out somewhere. I think she thought I was on the computer. But I wasn’t. I was walking around. Looking.’ He caught my eye and grinned.

‘Oh,’ I said. What else had he seen, I wondered.

‘Of course that would have been a couple of days before you had it off with her. I bet you didn’t realize you were having the gardener’s leftovers?’

I felt the anger boil inside me. Of course I hadn’t realized! Damn Owen.

‘I told the cops of course. That was why they were so sure he’d killed her.’ Owen saw my discomfort and laughed. ‘I’ve been wanting to tell you that for years.’

Guy noticed my unease and tried to change the subject slightly. ‘What did Dad say when he heard about the body being found?’

‘He was pretty damn happy.’

‘I bet he was.’

‘He’s coming over next week,’ he said. ‘He’d like to see you.’

‘Great,’ said Guy. ‘But you’ll be back in the States by then, won’t you?’

‘Yeah. He won’t care, though. He wasn’t real pleased to see me in France.’

‘I’m glad you went.’

Owen snorted into his beer.

For the rest of the evening Guy steered the conversation away from France and his father. Eventually we left the pub and headed back to his place to play some music and drink some more. We had just crossed a road when a scrawny red-haired man with a ravaged face and ragged clothes lurched in front of us.

‘Have you got change for a cuppa tea?’ he said to me. He was obviously drunk. But then so was I. I ignored him.

‘Wharrabout you?’ he said to Guy, standing in his way.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Guy politely.

‘Come on. Gi’ us ten p. You can spare ten p, can’t yer?’ He pushed his face close to Guy with an unsteady leer.

Guy tried to step around him.

The man wasn’t having it. ‘Yuppy bastard!’ he shouted.

Owen moved fast. He grabbed the man by the collar, whipped him off his feet and pinned him against a wall. ‘You leave him alone,’ he hissed.

The man’s intoxicated eyes looked confused. Then they seemed to focus. He spat, spraying Owen full in the face.

Owen dropped one hand and hit the man in the stomach. Hard. Very hard. The man slumped to the ground retching.

Guy grabbed hold of Owen and pulled him back. Owen stared at the man on the pavement, his black eyes gleaming.

‘Get him away!’ I shouted to Guy.

I bent down next to the man, who was gasping for breath. I sat him up against the wall. As the breathing came back the swearing started.

‘How are your ribs?’ I tried to feel the man’s chest but he pushed my hand away. ‘Shall I get an ambulance?’

A stream of abuse. I sat there with him swearing at me for a couple of minutes. He seemed to be recovering. I pulled out a ten-pound note, stuffed it in his pocket and left him. He didn’t thank me. I didn’t expect him to.

I waited until I was quite sure Owen was in California before I saw Guy again. We went to see a friendly international at Wembley. England were playing Brazil and amazingly managed to hold them to a one — one draw. After the game he gave me a lift in his electric-blue Porsche. As we sat in the car park with U2 loud on the stereo, waiting for several thousand vehicles in front of us to move, I mentioned Owen’s visit.

‘It was interesting what your brother said about the gardener being found murdered.’

‘Yes,’ said Guy, sounding uninterested.

‘Were they sure it was him who killed Dominique?’

‘Absolutely sure.’

‘I see.’

I listened to Bono for a minute, summoning up the courage for my next question.

‘Guy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you remember the police found one of your footprints outside Dominique’s window?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did it get there?’

Guy paused to let in the clutch as the car in front moved forward six feet.

‘I went for a pee on the way to bed.’

‘No you didn’t.’

‘Of course I did,’ said Guy, avoiding my eye, focusing on the car in front.

‘I was there, remember? You came straight back to the guest cottage with me.’

‘No. You’ve got that wrong. You’re thinking about some other night. That night I stopped off for a slash in the bushes. The police checked it all out. It’s five years ago. You must be confused.’

I opened my mouth to protest and then closed it again. History had been rewritten as far as Guy was concerned, and the rewriting had received the official police stamp of approval. It was his version of what happened and he would use the force of his personality to make sure it was the only version. The trouble was, I knew it was a lie.

‘I’m seeing Dad tomorrow night. Do you want to come?’ Guy asked.

‘No thanks.’

‘Why not? It’ll be fun. We’ll go out to dinner and then maybe on to a club later. Don’t worry, he’ll pay.’

‘No, really. I’d rather not see him. I suspect he’d rather not see me.’

‘After France?’

‘After France.’

The line of cars in front of us began to move. Guy kept the Porsche within a foot of the Vauxhall in front to make sure no one else barged in.

‘I try, but it’s hard to forget France,’ he said. ‘I still blame my father for what he did to Mel.’

‘I’m not surprised. But you still see him?’

‘Oh, yes. He’s a player, you know what I mean?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘He knows how to live. How to have a good time. He doesn’t take himself too seriously, or other people. Sure, sometimes other people get hurt, like I did and Mel did. But they forget.’

‘You can’t go through life thinking about yourself all the time.’

‘Why not?’ Guy said. ‘It’s not as if anyone else is going to look out for you, is it? I don’t mean you should actively harm other people. But you have to go out and grab what you want.’

‘And that’s what you’ve learned from your father?’ I said, unable to hide the distaste in my voice.

‘Oh, come on, it’s not that bad. Live and let live is all it is.’

‘So what does Owen think?’

‘Owen and Dad are on different planets. The only reason he talks to Dad at all is to keep me happy.’

‘It seems strange to me you two are so close. I mean, you seem so different from each other.’

‘We are. But we’ve always helped each other out. Right from when Owen was born.’

I felt like pointing out the obvious contradiction with Guy’s earlier musings, but I decided not to. Emotions have their own logic, as do families.

‘Mom and Dad have occasionally shown some interest in me,’ Guy went on, ‘but none at all in Owen. Basically, I’ve been the only person looking out for him. And he looks out for me.’

He laughed. ‘I remember when I was eight. Mom and Dad were still together and we were living in LA. We were by the swimming pool. I had committed some minor crime, taking a glass down to the poolside or something, and my father was tearing strips off me. He used to get really angry then, probably because he was pissed off with Mom. Anyway, he was taking it out on me. It went on for ten minutes or so.

‘Owen was watching it all. He was only five, but he was a big five-year-old, as you can imagine. Suddenly he let out this horrible scream and charged my father. The two of them went flying into the pool. Dad was wearing a suit. He was not amused. Owen went to bed early for a week. But he didn’t care. He was just pleased he’d helped me. It’s good when you’ve got a brother like that.’

‘It must be,’ I said, but I was thinking how lucky I was to have a normal sister whom I quite liked but scarcely saw rather than a brother like Owen.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to come tomorrow night?’ Guy said.

‘Quite sure. But I hope you have a good time together.’

I saw him a couple of days later in the pub after work. Or after my work. I guessed he had spent the afternoon watching television.

‘So, how did it go with your dad?’

Guy scowled. ‘Nightmare.’

‘Late night, was it?’

‘No. Not that kind of nightmare. A real nightmare. He wants me to get a job.’

‘Outrageous.’

‘Don’t be so bloody sarcastic. I told him acting was my job. It can be damned hard work. But he doesn’t seem to think that counts. He says I’m pissing away my life. He said he’s going to cut off my money.’

‘Harsh,’ I said. I had always been curious where Guy got his funds from.

‘Yeah. I’ve got a couple of trusts set up by Patrick Hoyle and I get the income from them. I said he couldn’t do anything about them, they were mine. He assured me he could. And I’m sure he can. Hoyle would do anything for him, including stopping me getting my hands on my own cash.’

‘The rest of us have to work,’ I said.

‘Don’t come over all proletarian with me, Davo. I know lots of people have to work. But not my father. It’s the hypocrisy that gets me. If it’s OK for him to spend his life lying around by pools on the French Riviera or skiing in Villars, why can’t I go to the pub every now and then?’

‘But he made his money,’ I said.

‘That’s exactly what he said,’ Guy muttered crossly. ‘It still pisses me off. And he’s going to sell my plane.’

‘Sounds like you’re in trouble.’

‘Yeah.’ Guy finished his beer and stood up to fetch a refill. ‘But I’m not going to give in. I know I can act. In a couple of years, I’ll show him.’

He returned with a bottle of beer for him and a pint of bitter for me. ‘Anyway, how are you?’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘Ingrid’s coming back to London next week.’

‘Really? Are you going to make a move?’

It was a question I had been asking myself ever since I had last seen her. The truth was, I wasn’t sure. There was no doubt I liked her, and I thought she liked me. But I didn’t want to screw up our friendship.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Go for it,’ said Guy, the master strategist. ‘I can get Mel to put in a good word.’

‘I don’t think that will be necessary.’

‘Hey! I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we go for a trip together for a long weekend in Golf Juliet? You, me, Mel and Ingrid. We could go to France. Or how about Scotland? I’ve always wanted to fly around the Hebrides. If my father’s serious about selling the plane I want to get the most use out of it I can this summer. What do you think?’

‘Sounds good.’

‘At the very least, you’ll get to know Ingrid better. At best...’

‘Are you trying to set me up?’

‘Of course I am. What’s the matter? Don’t you want to do it?’

I was slightly embarrassed at Guy trying to direct my love life, and I wasn’t even sure what my plans were for Ingrid if I even had any. Also, I had a big accounting exam the following week, for which I had done precious little work. I had performed very badly in the last exam after a heavy night out with Guy, and I had been warned by my boss to ‘pull my socks up’ this time. But a trip to Scotland would be fun. I’d worry about my socks later.

‘Yeah, I do,’ I said. ‘It’s a good idea.’

20

We all met at seven thirty on a wet, cloudy Friday morning at Elstree aerodrome. Guy and I whipped the covers off the plane and walked round to make sure everything was as it should be.

‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ asked Ingrid doubtfully, looking up at the sky, a roof of thick grey only a few hundred feet above us.

‘It’ll be fine,’ said Guy. ‘My rating lets me fly through this. I’ve checked the weather and the sun’s shining in Scotland. All we have to do is get there.’

I sat in the front next to Guy, with Ingrid and Mel in the rear seats. The Cessna 182 was one of the few single-engined planes powerful enough to carry four people and enough fuel to go any distance. We took off, and within a few seconds we were in cloud. A minute later, and we were above it.

We skimmed along on autopilot up the backbone of England a couple of hundred feet above the clouds, being passed from RAF controller to controller. We didn’t need it: ours was the only aircraft in the sky that early in the morning. I had only a few hours’ training under my belt, I hadn’t even done my first solo flight, but I was fascinated to watch Guy. He had already told me a lot about how the Cessna worked, and now he told me more.

As we reached the Clyde the cloud began to break and Guy lowered the aircraft beneath it. We crept along the Firth of Clyde through the gloom, passing low over a nuclear submarine and its attendant helicopter, skipped through a gap in the hills by the Crinan Canal, and emerged into glorious sunshine. Suddenly the sea changed from murky grey to brilliant blue, with patches of turquoise and cyan. Everywhere we looked there was sea, coastline, rocks, inlets and mountains. It was very difficult to tell what was the mainland and what was island. In the back, the women stopped talking and started looking. It was unbelievably beautiful.

We reached the south coast of Mull and followed it along until we passed over the monastery at Iona, a cluster of white and stone buildings clinging to the edge of the world. Guy descended to a hundred feet and we sped across the water towards the island of Staffa and Fingal’s Cave. At that height we could see right into the cave, with its black basalt columns. A couple of sightseeing boats rocked as we flew over and a flock of birds rose into the air in protest. We followed the north coast of Mull, passed low over an impossibly romantic castle and climbed for the approach to Oban, where we had planned to land for fuel and food. Guy dodged the mountain that blocked the approach path and landed the Cessna expertly, with the barest whisper from the wheels as we touched down.

We had lunch at a hotel close to the airfield. The girls, who had been showing signs of advanced boredom as we had droned over the English cloud, had come alive. We sat in the garden of the hotel, the heat of the sun tempered by a pleasant sea breeze, congratulating ourselves on not being in London. In the afternoon Guy planned to take us up between the Inner Hebrides and the mainland to Broadford, a small airfield on the Isle of Skye. We would spend the following day walking, before nipping over to Barra in the Outer Hebrides in the evening and then home the day after that.

I noticed that Guy drank a couple of pints and it made me uneasy. I also felt foolish. I knew Guy was an experienced pilot and I knew he could handle his drink, but I also knew that he was breaking the rules. Of course, that was the difference between him and me. He broke the rules and I didn’t. Although as a student pilot I wasn’t allowed to handle the controls without a qualified instructor, I restricted myself to a Coke, as if reducing the average intake of alcohol in the cockpit would help.

We returned to the airfield and refuelled. I checked the weather fax. I had just completed the meteorology paper in my pilot’s course and found the subject fascinating. What I read worried me. I went out to the apron and found Guy.

‘Here, come in and look at this,’ I said quietly.

He followed me into the caravan, which doubled as a control tower, and looked at the fax. Under Inverness it had the words ‘PROB 30 tempo tsra bkn0010cb’.

‘So?’ said Guy.

‘So doesn’t that mean thunderstorms?’

‘No, Davo, it means that in Inverness there’s a thirty per cent probability that for a temporary period there might be a thunderstorm. Inverness is on the east coast and we’re on the west.’

‘But isn’t Inverness the nearest place on the fax to Skye?’

Guy hesitated. ‘Maybe. But look outside. Where are the clouds? It’s a great day.’ He saw the doubtful look in my eyes. ‘They always say there’s a chance of thunder in the summer. It’s just the Met Office covering its arse. We see a thunderstorm, we fly around it, OK?’

‘OK,’ I nodded, reflecting how much happier I had been flying with Guy when I knew nothing about the subject myself.

We took off into clear skies and headed north along the craggy coastline, passing lighthouses, lochs, birds, crofts and castles. We nosed up the Sound of Sleat, past Mallaig towards the Kyle of Lochalsh. To our left were the dark mountains of Skye and to our right the Highlands. I looked over my right shoulder for Ben Nevis, which should have been about thirty miles behind us. I couldn’t see it. An enormous black cloud had suddenly appeared, rearing up over the mountains. It rose thousands of feet up into the sky, tapering into a tower that formed a flat white top. An ‘anvil’. It was a massive cumulonimbus. A thundercloud.

I had read about thunderclouds in my meteorology texts. They are a pilot’s worst enemy. Wind can make landing difficult, rain can make visibility tricky, but a thundercloud can shake an aeroplane to bits. In a big, mature thundercloud, warm air is dragged into the centre of the thunderstorm and thrust thousands of feet upwards, where it cools and rushes back towards the ground in a vicious downdraught. The resulting turbulence produces sudden shocks that an airframe is not designed to withstand.

I tapped Guy on the shoulder and pointed.

‘That’s OK,’ he said. ‘You often get cloud over mountains. We’ll be all right down here.’

We were approaching the shoulder of a hill that plunged down to the sound. We passed it and turned northwards. Right in front of us was a wall of black. The aeroplane shuddered a little, as if in nervous anticipation.

Another one.

Mountains rose above us on either side. It was impossible to fly around this as Guy had promised.

‘What now?’

‘We go under it,’ said Guy. ‘There might be a bit of turbulence, but we’re nearly there.’

‘Shouldn’t we turn back?’

‘No, we’ll be fine. It’s just forming. It’s not even producing any rain yet.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure,’ Guy said, irritation flaring in his voice. ‘Hold on back there, this might be a little bumpy.’

Guy descended to about four hundred feet, at which point it was possible to see underneath the cloud to the shoreline behind.

We approached the grey wall at a hundred and thirty knots. I was nervous. In front of us was what was increasingly looking to my inexperienced eye like a huge beast of a cumulonimbus, below was water, on either side mountains. Only behind us was safety. But glancing at Guy’s determined face, I could see there was no chance of us going that way.

He was an experienced pilot. I would have to trust him.

The air became bumpy, with jolts and lurches that prompted a cry of ‘Whoa’ from Mel. A bit uncomfortable, but easy to put up with, if that was all we were going to suffer.

Perhaps we would be OK.

We weren’t.

Suddenly the aircraft was slammed downwards as if a giant hand had slapped the roof. The water shot up towards us. Guy cursed, put on full throttle and tried to climb. The water was dark and choppy and only a few feet below us. Despite Guy’s efforts we weren’t going up. Another downdraught like that and we’d get very wet. Worse than that, the force would shatter the aeroplane against the surface of the water. But it didn’t happen. One moment the engine was straining to gain a few feet in altitude, and the next that great hand reached down and dragged us upwards. The water disappeared far below and after a few seconds we were enveloped in the cloud. Everything became very dark.

‘Jesus Christ!’ swore Guy as he wrestled with the controls. I didn’t know what he was trying to do. There was nothing he could do, the forces all around us totally overwhelmed any instructions Guy was giving to the airframe. I looked at the altimeter. We were being pulled up past one thousand and two thousand feet. Debris was flying all over the cabin: the map, a kneeboard, a flight guide. I felt a whack in the back of my head, and Ingrid’s bag flew upwards and hit the ceiling. I was totally disoriented as my insides were pulled and pushed in every direction. Outside, a sheet of water fell on us, flooding over the windshield. It didn’t matter. There was nothing to see but black cloud out there.

Mel started to scream. I turned. She was terrified.

‘Tell her to shut up,’ muttered Guy beside me. He was pale and sweating, straining hard at the controls.

‘Mel!’ I shouted. ‘Mel!’

It was no use. I couldn’t get the poor girl to stop screaming, but I could turn off the intercom to the rear seats. That helped.

There was a sudden flash of brilliant white light and then an explosion. It was as if we were actually inside a thunderclap. I looked out to check the wings. Unbelievably they were still attached to the plane.

‘What about the mountains?’ I shouted. There were mountains on either side of us. We couldn’t see anything. We could easily charge into the side of one at any moment.

‘I know,’ said Guy. ‘But look at the altimeter. We’re nearly at three thousand feet. We should clear most of them.’

I looked, and as I did so the altimeter started spinning the other way. We were going down. Two thousand. One thousand. There were plenty of hills that height within a couple of miles of our track. I peered through the rain into the darkness. They could be right in front of us, there was no way of telling.

Then the blackness ripped apart and we were out. Below us was water. Straight ahead was the brown flank of a mountain. The water split, one arm going to the left, one to the right. Guy had only seconds to decide. He took the right.

‘Thank God,’ I said.

‘Where’s the map?’ screamed Guy.

It was wedged on the coaming above the instrument panel. I handed it to him. He glanced around him and down at the map. We were entering a glen a couple of miles wide. Ahead of us and a little above was what looked like a saddle, a narrow pass between two mountains. Behind us was the storm.

‘We’re over Skye now,’ said Guy. ‘The airfield’s just over this saddle.’

He put on full power and began to climb. The Cessna 182 has a powerful engine and can usually climb at a thousand feet a minute, but we were achieving much less than that. We’d be lucky if we made it up to the saddle at that rate. We were climbing against a wind blowing down the mountain.

Mel had stopped screaming.

I looked down. We were passing over a small crescent-shaped loch. I grabbed the map and searched for it. I saw where Guy thought we were, just to the south of Broadford on the Isle of Skye. There was no crescent-shaped loch there. My eyes scanned the map, until I found one. There it was! On the mainland. Half way up a long valley that had a three-thousand-foot mountain at its head.

‘Guy, I don’t think we’re over Skye.’

‘Of course we are,’ said Guy.

‘But that loch down there. It’s on the mainland. We should turn back or we’ll hit this mountain.’ I tried to show him the map, but he brushed it away.

‘No way am I going back into that storm,’ said Guy. ‘And the airfield’s just a few miles ahead.’

‘It isn’t. Look at the compass. We’re flying north-east, not north.’

‘The compass is screwed up by the storm. Look. I’m the pilot-in-command. I’m the one with the licence. Will you just shut the fuck up!’

I shut up. Beyond the saddle was cloud. It might be hiding a mountain or it might not. The valley was narrowing. Soon it would be impossible to turn back without hitting the hills on either side. We were making some progress upwards and it looked like our rate of climb would just get us over the saddle. But after that? If I was right and there was a mountain there and not an airfield, we would have nowhere to fly but into it.

I looked down again. Another tiny loch with a clump of trees around it. I checked the map. Sure enough, a couple of miles up the glen from the crescent loch was a blue dot next to a green splodge.

‘Guy, turn around! I’m one hundred per cent sure there’s a mountain ahead.’

‘No! Now will you keep quiet!’

Guy wanted to believe that there was sanctuary over that saddle. He wanted to believe it so badly that he would ignore any evidence to the contrary. The saddle was close now. So were the sides of the valley. We might just be able to turn now, but if we waited ten more seconds...

I did what I had to do. I snatched the control column in front of me and yanked it to the right. Guy tried to regain control by pulling on his column but I was stronger than he was. The aircraft was sharply banked and we were turning. Turning right into a cliff.

‘Leave it, Guy, or we’ll hit it!’ I shouted. If Guy had succeeded in pulling us out of the turn we would fly straight into the mountain. He let go.

I saw rock, trees, bracken, a waterfall. Close, closer. We were only a few yards from the rock. Despite the steepness of the turn, we seemed to be moving round so slowly. Come on. Then the nose pulled away from the cliff and we were facing back the way we came. The throttle was still all the way in and I pointed the aeroplane upwards.

‘What are you doing!’ screamed Guy. ‘Are you crazy? You nearly got us killed!’

I looked back over his shoulder. There was a break in the cloud above the saddle. And through the break was a mountain.

If I hadn’t turned the aircraft round we would have ploughed straight into it. For sure.

Guy gasped. ‘Oh, my God.’ He went pale and his lips began to tremble. ‘Oh, my God.’

We were still climbing. The air was bumpy but I could see clear sky between the storm and the mountains. I pointed the aircraft towards it. I wasn’t sure I had the engine settings completely right, but the aeroplane was moving steadily and powerfully upwards and that was all that mattered.

The Isle of Skye was engulfed in cloud, but I was able to follow the coastline back to Mallaig in clear skies.

‘God,’ said Guy. ‘I’m sorry, Davo. Christ, I can’t believe it.’

I glanced at him. He was pale, in shock. I realized I would have to fly the aeroplane. I only had twelve hours in my logbook, and I had never flown anything as powerful as the Cessna before, but I could steer it and the throttle seemed to work in more or less the same way as the AA-5. I could have called up Scottish Information on the radio, but I wasn’t sure my radio-telephony skills were up to it. Fly to Oban and get Guy to land it was all I intended to do.

I turned the rear intercom on again and heard Mel sobbing. Ingrid was trying to comfort her.

‘Is it over?’ she asked.

‘I think so,’ I said.

But it wasn’t quite. I kept the coast on my left until I reached the white Ardnamurchan lighthouse, and then I followed the Sound of Mull towards where I hoped Oban would be. But what I saw was another towering thundercloud. There was no way we were going anywhere near one of those again. I remembered we had passed a grass airstrip on the north coast of Mull on our way up and I soon found it, just a couple of miles ahead.

I turned to Guy. He was hunched up, staring out of the window.

‘Can you land it now, Guy?’ I asked.

‘You do it,’ Guy said.

‘But I’ve never landed this aeroplane before. And I don’t know how to land on grass. You have to do it.’

‘OK,’ said Guy weakly. He took the controls and began to fiddle with the throttle and the propeller settings. Then he pushed them away. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I can’t do it. You do it.’

‘Guy!’

He didn’t answer and just looked away.

So I pointed the aeroplane towards the tiny grass strip. It was right by the sea with a bloody great hill in the direction I was supposed to land from. I had done a few landings, some of them without even bouncing, but each time on a familiar tarmac runway with an instructor next to me for when I cocked it up, which at that stage was quite often.

This time, if I cocked it up there might not be another chance.

I pulled out the throttle and let down two stages of flap. The aircraft began to slow and lose height. I flew towards the hill and at the last minute turned to face the runway. In the Cessna the perspective was totally different from what I was used to and everything was happening very quickly. I was too high and too fast. Desperately I pulled the throttle all the way out, pushed the nose down and lowered the last stage of flap. Still too high, still too fast. The runway seemed to rush up at us, and before I had time to raise the nose, we had hit the ground hard. The aircraft reared back into the air in an enormous bounce. I hung on, and two bounces later we were on firm ground, speeding towards a hedge at the far end of the runway. I braked as hard as I could and waited. We shot past the runway threshold into long grass. That slowed us down more effectively than my braking and we came to rest a couple of yards from the hedge.

I killed the engine and the four of us sat there in the silence, unable to believe that we were actually on the ground.

21

August 1999, Clerkenwell, London

‘So, how are we doing, Guy?’

‘We’re live, we’re on the web and we’re getting forty thousand hits a week.’ Guy grinned at his father, brimming with the excitement of the previous few days.

It was ninetyminutes.com’s first formal board meeting, although of the four directors only Patrick Hoyle was wearing a suit, a huge baggy thing that flapped around his enormous body. Our new chairman was dressed all in black, the same as his son. He was in a great mood: he clearly liked the internet lifestyle.

Tony had invested two million pounds of capital for eighty per cent of Ninetyminutes, leaving the rest of us to split the remaining twenty per cent amongst us, with Guy rightly receiving the lion’s share. It was a bad deal for us, but we had had no choice. Mel had helped us in the negotiations, behaving totally professionally towards Tony throughout. But it made little difference. Tony had us by the balls and he squeezed. The worst thing was, he seemed to enjoy it. All in all a very different experience from my own father’s investment.

‘No problems at all?’ he asked.

‘Oh, there were problems. But we fixed them. The site hasn’t fallen over once since we launched ten days ago. Which is more than I can say for some of the staff. We pushed them pretty hard.’

‘So, if I type www.ninetyminutes.com into my computer, what happens?’

‘I didn’t know you could type, Dad.’

‘Of course I can bloody type!’ But Tony allowed himself a quick smile, caught up in Guy’s enthusiasm.

‘Sorry. Try it,’ said Guy, pushing his own laptop towards his father. Tony laboriously pecked out the letters and the by-now familiar Ninetyminutes logo floated to the surface. Guy guided Tony around the site, while Hoyle watched over their shoulders.

‘You know, this is really good,’ Tony said.

‘I know,’ said Guy. ‘And it’s going to get better.’

‘Has anyone out there noticed us?’ he asked, still clicking away at the laptop.

‘There’s been some excellent press coverage.’ Guy handed round a sheaf of articles for everyone to look at. ‘And we’ve had some outstanding reviews of our site on-line. We expect more of those over the next few weeks.’

Tony scanned the reviews. ‘ “The best soccer site on the web by miles.” That’s not bad for your first week.’

‘There’s still a lot to do,’ Guy said. ‘We’re talking to one of the offshore bookmakers for on-line betting. That should be a money-spinner. And we’re recruiting. New writers, a couple of programmers to help Owen and Sanjay, and some admin people. We’ve also had interest from our advertising agency about selling space on the site. Remember, that’s something we wanted to hold off doing until we could show people what we’ve got.’

‘It would be nice to see some revenues,’ said Tony.

‘Absolutely. And we’re making progress on the retailing side.’

Tony pushed the reviews and Guy’s laptop away and picked up the financial attachments to the board papers. He frowned.

‘Amy has a team of designers working on a range of sports-casual clothing,’ Guy went on. ‘She’s lined up suppliers in the UK and Portugal.’

‘Wouldn’t the Far East be cheaper?’

‘We need the flexibility of rapid turnaround times for orders and new designs. Whatever happens when we start selling our own-label stuff, it’s going to happen quickly, and we’ll need to respond quickly. She’s also negotiating deals with the suppliers of club and national strips and memorabilia.’

‘It’s a bit early for that, isn’t it?’

‘There are long lead-times. We need to be ready.’

‘It all sounds exciting,’ Tony said. ‘Tell us how we’re going to pay for it, David.’

I ran through the numbers, which were set out amongst the board papers. I’d worked hard on them, and I was pleased with the result.

When I finished, there was silence. Tony was staring at me, absentmindedly tapping a pen against his chin. I tried to catch his eye and smile. His expression remained stony. Hoyle was watching his client closely. He knew him better than me, and he knew something was up.

I tried to remain calm, but inside alarm bells were ringing. What had I said wrong? What had I missed? Why was Tony so warm to his son and so cold to me? Did this still have something to do with Dominique?

Eventually Guy cut in. ‘Thank you, David. As you can see, we are being prudent with our cash, and we’re keeping within budget.’

‘We might be within budget, but we’re not making any money. Are we, David?’ There was an edge to Tony’s voice.

‘Not yet, no,’ I admitted. ‘But at this stage in Ninetyminutes’ life we should be investing in the business.’

‘We’re making losses, with no prospect of that changing. I don’t call that “investing in the business”. I call that spending more than we earn.’

Anger flashed inside me. My professional pride was hurt. I was the accountant, what did he mean by lecturing me? ‘This is a start-up,’ I snapped. ‘What do you expect?’

Tony raised his eyebrows. He slowly moved his gaze to Guy and then back to me.

‘Very well, then,’ he said. ‘Till next month. I’m glad the site is going so well. Congratulations.’ This was aimed more towards Guy than me. ‘Perhaps at our next meeting we can go a little bit further into our financial strategy.’

That sounded ominous, but I wasn’t as concerned as perhaps I should have been. It had been an uncomfortable meeting, and I had let Tony get to me for a brief moment, but I had survived. I had received a cooling rather than a roasting. That I could learn to handle, I thought. It was just a question of attitude.

We soon forgot about our chairman. Ninetyminutes was buzzing, and the loudest buzzing came from Guy. He was everywhere. If he didn’t have the ideas himself he encouraged the other people in the team to have them. He truly was inspirational. Decisions were made in a matter of seconds, all by Guy. His yardstick was, would a certain idea get us closer to being the number-one site in Europe? If it did, we went ahead with it. If it didn’t, we forgot it and moved on to the next thing.

Despite the site’s initial success, Guy was unhappy with it. Gaz’s ideas were good, his stories were brilliant and Mandrill’s design was better than anything else out there. But in Guy’s view the site lacked something, although it was difficult to get him to pin down exactly what. After long discussions into the night we decided that what we needed was someone to pull all these elements together and organize them. But what kind of person? And where could we find them?

We didn’t have the time to advertise and we didn’t have the money for a headhunter. Then I thought of Ingrid. Neither of us had seen her for seven years, but she had been working in magazine publishing then. If she didn’t know anyone herself, she might at least help us identify the kind of person we should be looking for and suggest where we might find them. If she’d talk to us.

I dug out her number from an old address book and called her up. She was surprised to hear from me, but she agreed to have lunch with us the next day.

We met at a small pizza place near her office on the South Bank. She was cool, composed and confident. She looked a little older, lines were beginning to show around her mouth and pale-blue eyes, smile lines. Her chestnut-brown hair was cut shorter, and she wore an elegant but informal trouser suit. Jade earrings dangled from her ears. She looked poised and in control. And amused.

‘I can’t believe it,’ she said. ‘You two joining up to become dot-commers. A dissolute actor and a buttoned-up chartered accountant.’

‘Killer combination,’ said Guy with a smile. ‘And unique.’

I wasn’t sure I quite liked the description of myself as a ‘buttoned-up accountant’, but I didn’t quibble. Suave merchant banker, perhaps? But of course one of the reasons I was doing this was to lose the accountant label.

‘I almost didn’t recognize you. Guy has no signs of a hangover and you seem to have lost your suit, David. And your hair.’

‘Well, we recognized you,’ said Guy.

‘It’s lucky you had the same phone number,’ I said. ‘Seven years on.’

‘Same number. Same flat. Same job, I’m afraid.’

‘That dull, huh?’ said Guy. And then, in response to Ingrid’s sharp look, ‘Just getting my own back.’

She smiled.

We ordered our pizzas, and caught up on what we each had been doing. Then Guy asked the question. ‘What do you think?’

‘Of your site?’

‘Yes.’

Ingrid put down her knife and fork, pondering the question for a few moments. ‘It’s good. I’m impressed. The design is excellent. I know nothing about football, but you’ve got some very good writers. Easy to load. No bugs that I could find. Not bad at all.’

Guy looked disappointed. ‘Nothing wrong with it, then?’

‘No. For an amateur site, it’s really first class.’

‘But it’s not an amateur site!’ Guy said, with too much vehemence.

‘Oops,’ Ingrid said. ‘I didn’t mean amateur. But you can tell it hasn’t been done by a professional media company.’

‘Why? The design’s OK, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. As I said, it’s very good. But the whole thing doesn’t quite hang together properly. It lacks coherence. It’s inconsistent in places, some things are a little difficult to find, everything is given equal weight.’

‘What do you mean, equal weight?’

‘Well, in a magazine it’s up to the editor to tell the reader what the really interesting stories are and make them easy to see. You can do that on the web, too, although most people don’t. But if you look at some of the good newspaper sites, they are carefully edited. If you know what you want, you can find it. If you just want to browse, the interesting stuff will be there for you.’

‘That’s it!’ said Guy, glancing at me in triumph. ‘That’s exactly what I was saying! So what can we do about it?’

‘You need someone to coordinate everything. Editor, publisher, call it what you like.’

‘Well? Is there anyone you know who might be able to help us? Or who would want to help us?’

Ingrid paused, as though flicking through a Rolodex in her head. ‘Maybe.’

‘Oh, yes?’

But Ingrid didn’t give us a name. At least not yet. ‘I still can’t get over you two teaming up. Despite my crack about chartered accountants, I’m not really surprised about David. But you, Guy? What about the late nights? The women? The drink?’

Guy took a sip of the sparkling water in front of him. ‘All in the past,’ he said with a grin. ‘Just ask Davo.’

Ingrid glanced at me. I nodded.

‘Seriously,’ Guy said. ‘I’ve changed since the last time you saw me. I’ve come to that point in my life where I want to prove that I’m not a loser, that I can create something worthwhile. I’ve worked hard at this. Fourteen-hour days, weekends, I haven’t had a holiday since I started this thing. And this is just the beginning. But I’m prepared to do whatever it takes. I really badly want this to work, Ingrid. And when I want something, I generally get it.’

Ingrid raised her eyebrows.

‘So who are you thinking of?’ I asked. ‘And do you think they’d do it?’

‘I think I do know the right person,’ said Ingrid. ‘But I’m not sure whether they’d do it or not.’

‘Tell them to spend a day with us,’ said Guy. ‘If they can’t get away from their job, there’s always Saturday. We’ll be in the office all day: Chelsea are playing away.’

‘All right.’

‘So who is it?’ Guy asked.

Ingrid smiled. ‘Me.’

Guy returned her smile. ‘In that case we’ll see you on Saturday.’

Ingrid came in that weekend. She clicked. Gaz liked her. Neil liked her. Even Owen liked her. At midday, Guy and I talked it over. After our lunch with her we’d both taken a look at the on-line magazine she had developed. It was aimed at professional women in their thirties, not exactly our target market. But it was smooth, sophisticated, interesting, seamless. It worked.

We offered her a job that Saturday lunch-time. She accepted it on Sunday. She took Monday to go into work to resign and she was in our office on Tuesday morning.

She turned out to be the final ingredient that made ninetyminutes.com really come alive. She listened to Gaz, encouraged him, and coaxed him into getting his ideas into some kind of priority. She talked to Owen about streamlining links and upload times, agreeing with all his concerns about scalability. And she told Mandrill what to do. It turned out that you can tell enigmatic men with goatees what to do, if you do it in the right way.

Under Ingrid’s guidance, our site was looking better and better. It was certainly an improvement on the other glitzy but clunky sites which inhabited the soccer space on the web. It looked professional. It looked a winner.

22

‘We need to move faster.’

I choked in my pint. Guy’s eyes were shining in that messianic way I was beginning to recognize whenever he was talking about Ninetyminutes’ future. ‘Move faster? You’re crazy. We can hardly keep up with things as they are now.’

We were in the Jerusalem Tavern, the pub just across the road from the office. It was half past nine, the end of another long day. But Guy had plenty of energy left.

‘Doesn’t matter. We’ve got forward momentum. Ninetyminutes will go as far as we push it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know all that stuff we were going to do in our second year? Open European offices, the on-line retailing, our own-brand merchandising?’

‘Yes.’

‘We should start on it now.’

‘But we’ve only just got the site going!’

‘I know. But it’s like this. There’s a land grab going on at the moment. It’s like the Californian gold rush. Amazon have got books in the US and in Europe. Tesco are going for grocery sales. Egg for on-line banking. We have to get soccer. We’re going to overtake the others in the UK, and we’ve got to overtake them in Europe too.’

‘But how can we manage all that?’

‘We’ll manage it. All we have to do is think big and think fast.’

He was mad. But probably right. It had to be worth going for. ‘We’re going to need more money. Now.’

Guy nodded.

‘I think it’s still a bit early to go to the venture capitalists.’

‘We have to do it.’

‘Your father won’t like it.’

‘I know,’ said Guy. ‘But I’m not going to worry about that now. Look. Think through how much we need and then let’s work out how to get it.’

It was stupid. The whole thing was stupid. I smiled. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll work on it.’

I had only just started to get down to the numbers when the phone rang. It was Henry Broughton-Jones.

‘I took a look at your site the other day,’ he said. ‘Very impressive.’

‘I’m glad you like it. Although I never had you down as much of a football fan, Henry.’

‘I prefer the horses. Just to watch, you understand. Look, do you fancy a spot of lunch?’

If you are the finance director of a start-up and a venture capitalist asks you out to lunch, then you say yes. Especially when he seems pleased that you can fit it in the next day.

He chose a smart restaurant just off Berkeley Square, the like of which I hadn’t lunched in since my Gurney Kroheim days. I noticed he wasn’t wearing a suit, but green cords, checked shirt and a blazer, with ox-blood brogues. Sort of Wall Street dress-down casual meets Cirencester Agricultural College. It didn’t quite work.

‘So what’s this, Henry?’ I said. ‘Dress-down Friday on a Wednesday?’

‘It’s subtly chosen to impress thrusting entrepreneurs, David. You are impressed?’

‘Definitely.’

‘Actually, it’s a bloody nightmare,’ he said, running his hand through his thinning hair. ‘I much preferred pinstriped suit, blue shirt and a blue tie. This way my wife laughs at me every morning. She says blue and green don’t go together. Is that true?’

‘Couldn’t tell you, I’m afraid. It’s not the kind of thing we have to worry about on our side of the fence.’

‘No, I suppose it isn’t.’ He examined the menu. ‘Shall we get a bottle of wine? I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.’

‘Sure.’

Henry ordered an expensive Montrachet to go with our fish.

‘OK, Henry, what’s going on?’ I asked.

Henry laughed. ‘I’m being proactive. I want you to humour me.’

‘Proactive?’

‘Yes. We had a big strategy conference at Gleneagles a couple of weeks ago. We talked about the Internet. As you can’t help but have noticed, things are hotting up. In the States websites are going public at astronomical valuations. The VCs over there are making bucket loads of dosh. It’s going to happen here and we don’t want to be left behind.’

‘Of course not.’

‘As we see it we have two choices. We can either give the next twenty-five-year-old management consultant who comes through the door with a plan to sell bagels on-line a couple of million quid, or we can work out the sectors that look interesting, find the promising firms that operate in those spaces and see if they want our money. Make sure we get to them before someone else does. I thought you were a good place to start.’

‘You’re not serious?’

‘I certainly am.’

‘So you’re going to give us money just like that?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Henry. ‘We’ll beg you to let us consider your business, string you along and then turn you down. We are venture capitalists after all.’

‘Henry?’ I said.

‘Yes?’

‘You aren’t doing a very good job of marketing me.’

‘Aren’t I?’ He had a sly smile on his face. Henry was no fool. He knew he was hooking me with candour where bullshit would fail.

‘What about the management issues?’ I asked.

‘The rules are changing. You’ve started up. The site looks great. And you’ve got Tony Jourdan on board. Now he has made money before. Also, I know you: you’re a safe pair of hands.’

I winced. It might be true, but I didn’t want to be known as ‘a safe pair of hands’ any more. I wanted to be a successful, imaginative moneymaker. Give it time and I’d show Henry.

‘By the way,’ he said. ‘I never realized that Guy was Jourdan’s son.’

‘Sorry. We discussed telling you earlier, but Guy was dead against the idea. He wanted to raise money as his own man.’

‘Admirable, I’m sure.’ Henry sipped his wine appreciatively. ‘So. How’s Ninetyminutes getting on?’

I told him. I incorporated all Guy’s ideas for an accelerated roll-out into Europe and an early start on merchandising. I told him the visitor numbers and extrapolated them wildly.

‘Golly, David,’ he said eventually. ‘I’ve never seen you that excited about anything before.’

I smiled. ‘Really?’ I thought about it. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

‘How much do you need?’

‘To do all that we need ten million pounds now, and maybe another twenty in six months.’

‘So Orchestra does this round and then we float the company in the spring?’

‘That will work. We should have a great story by then.’

‘Sounds good. Will you give us an exclusive to look at the deal?’

I couldn’t help laughing. Here was a venture capitalist asking me for the business.

‘Hey, that’s not fair!’ Henry protested.

‘No, you’re right,’ I said. ‘I’ll have to discuss it with Guy.’

‘You’ll let me know?’

‘I’ll let you know, Henry.’

Guy went for it. The following Monday, Henry arrived in our offices with his associate, Clare Douglas, a small, slim, no-nonsense Scottish woman with wispy blonde hair and enquiring grey eyes. They crawled all over us, asking everyone about everything. I was impressed by Henry’s thoroughness, but Clare was particularly well prepared. She must have spent the weekend scouring the web for everything she could find on football. She was a tenacious interrogator, picking up on any hesitation or waffle from any of us and pinning us down until she had the details right.

Henry asked Guy, myself, Ingrid, Gaz and Owen for references, several each. We were all happy to oblige, apart from Guy. I overheard his conversation on the subject with Henry. He refused, saying that since his previous career was acting there was no one who would have anything relevant to say about him. Henry didn’t back down: in fact he became more persistent. In the end Guy got away with giving him the phone numbers of his agents in London and Hollywood. Henry left him alone, but he didn’t look satisfied.

Neither was I.

After Henry had gone, leaving Clare to her interrogation of Sanjay, I voiced my fears to Guy. ‘Henry thinks you’re hiding something.’

Guy nodded.

‘Are you?’

Guy looked me in the eye. ‘Fancy a walk?’

We strolled out into the small street, bathed in the gentle sunlight of an Indian summer, and made our way north towards Clerkenwell Green.

‘Well?’ I said.

‘I had a bad time in LA,’ Guy said.

‘So I can imagine.’

‘No, it was worse than London. I totally lost it. Not just drink. Drugs. Lots of them. Very little work. I became low, very low. Clinical depression, they called it. I went to see a shrink.’

‘What did he say?’

‘She had lots to say. I have issues, Davo. Issues with my father. Issues with my mother. Issues with Dominique. She almost wet herself when I told her what had happened in France. To hear her talk about it, I’m lucky I’m not a psychopath.’

‘I can’t imagine you depressed,’ I said.

‘Can’t you?’ Guy replied quickly, his eyes searching mine.

He was asking me to think about it, so I did. Guy the charmer, Guy with the capability to make everyone around him smile, Guy the centre of attention, the natural leader. But I did remember those moments of inexplicable melancholy at school, when he brooded over the failure of a particular girl to fall for him, or just brooded over nothing at all. I had dismissed them at the time as just silly. Guy had the perfect life, everybody knew that.

But perhaps he didn’t.

‘One day I woke up fully clothed on the floor of some guy’s apartment in Westwood feeling like shit. Worse than shit. It took me twenty minutes to realize it was Monday morning and another ten to figure out I was supposed to be at an audition for a part in a TV pilot. It could have been my big break. There was no way I was going to make it.

‘The guy whose apartment it was came in. He was only a few years older than me, but he looked closer to forty. “What’s up, John,” he said. He didn’t even know my name! I’d gone there on Saturday night. Sunday had just disappeared.

‘I had an appointment to see the therapist that afternoon. She wanted me to talk about my mother and my feelings about her. Which I did. My brain felt like mush.

‘Then she began talking. About how I was angry with my father, how my mother hadn’t met my expectations, I don’t know, some psychobabble. I was sitting there, and suddenly my brain cleared. She was talking bullshit. It was all bullshit. I was the one who had got myself on to that floor. I was the one who was screwing up my life. And I was the one who could stop it.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘I walked out of her office there and then. Drove up into the hills. Thought about it. Came back to England. Started Ninetyminutes.’

We walked on in silence until we came to Clerkenwell Green, where we sat on one of the benches. Of course it wasn’t green any more, but it was a relatively quiet oasis away from the traffic of Farringdon and Clerkenwell Roads. ‘You never told me this,’ I said.

‘No.’

‘You should have done.’

‘I didn’t think it was relevant.’

‘Guy!’

‘I still don’t. The point is, I couldn’t admit to myself that it was relevant, let alone to you. All that stuff is in the past. Really. You’ve seen me every day for the last five months. You can see I’ve changed.’ He turned to me, begging for my agreement.

‘Yes, you have,’ I said. ‘Do you think Henry will find out?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Guy said. ‘The only number in LA I would give him was Lew, my agent. He knows the story, or most of it, but I know Lew. His first instinct will be to lie. He’ll cover for me without really knowing why.’

‘You hope.’

‘I hope.’

He probably would. People did that kind of thing for Guy, as I knew very well.

We sat looking up at the dour façade of the Old Sessions House, the Masonic Centre for London, which seemed to frown down on the trendy bars and restaurants springing up around it. A latex-clad cyclist chained his bike to the pale-green railings of the public lavatories that decorated the centre of the green and sauntered into the one remaining caff in the area.

‘Should I tell Henry?’ Guy asked.

I thought about it. My strategy with Orchestra was to tell them everything. We would be working together through tough times and we needed to trust each other. But Henry thought Guy was flaky already: this would just make it worse. Also, I was inclined to accept Guy’s point of view. He had changed, I knew that. The past just wasn’t relevant.

‘No,’ I said. ‘We’ll leave it to him to find out, if he can.’

Henry still harboured doubts about Guy, but he definitely liked the business. Guy, Ingrid, Gaz and I made a presentation to Henry’s partners later on that week that seemed to go well. Guy and I went back to Orchestra’s offices the following day to thrash out a deal.

It took time. Essentially, we were arguing about what proportion of Ninetyminutes Orchestra’s ten million pounds would buy. After several hours we were still some way apart when Henry raised the question of Tony’s stake.

‘I’m not happy with how little of the company management will have after this round,’ he said. ‘Whatever price we agree, it’s going to be less than ten per cent. I don’t like that. Not enough incentive.’

‘I wouldn’t argue with that,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you should pay more?’

‘That’s not what I mean, and you know it,’ said Henry. ‘It’s Guy’s father. He must be diluted.’

‘That’s going to be difficult,’ said Guy.

‘How did he end up with so much of the company in the first place?’ asked Henry.

‘We were desperate,’ I replied.

‘Well, I don’t mind giving him some uplift on the value of his shares, but we need to figure out a way of getting you chaps a bigger stake.’

‘I’m not sure he’ll agree to that,’ said Guy.

‘I’ll make it easier for him,’ said Henry. ‘He’d better agree to it, or there will be no deal.’

‘We have our board meeting on Monday. We’ll discuss it then,’ said Guy.

So Guy and I went away to plan our approach to Tony. Guy had told Henry it would be a difficult discussion. Neither he nor I had any idea just how difficult.

23

July 1992, Mull

The airfield was nothing but a strip of mown grass with an unmanned caravan beside it, which contained a cash box for landing fees. But only a few yards away was a hotel with a Scandinavian-style conservatory giving an excellent view of my landing. None of us had any desire to fly any further that day, so we checked in. Half an hour later we were in the bar. A couple of hours after that we were all well on the way to getting plastered.

You couldn’t blame us. Guy’s nerve had been seriously shaken and alcohol was his natural refuge. I had kept mine, but had a felt a surge of relief when we had finally landed. Mel had been terrified. Even Ingrid, who had seemed to stay cool, was knocking them back. For all of us at that age and in those circumstances drink was the natural response.

None of us mentioned what had happened. Far from admitting his error, Guy indulged in alcoholic bravado. I let him. Deep down I knew that I had trusted Guy for too long and that as a result of that trust he had almost killed us. It was a truth that I was unwilling to face, or at least not yet. I was unsure whether the girls had realized exactly what had happened. I wasn’t about to tell them. I was quite happy to share in the excitement of being alive.

The nearest we got to touching on the subject was when Mel put down her rum and Coke and said: ‘Tomorrow.’

‘What about tomorrow?’ said Ingrid.

‘Sod tomorrow,’ said Guy.

‘Tomorrow I’m going to take the train home.’

‘Won’t work,’ said Guy. ‘We’re on an island.’

‘Good point. I’ll take a ferry and then a train.’

Guy looked at her for a moment, as though considering argument. There was no point. ‘OK,’ he said.

‘I’ll go with you,’ said Ingrid.

‘Davo?’ After all the bravado, Guy suddenly looked small, deflated. He needed my support.

‘We’ll make sure the girls get away OK and then I’ll come with you,’ I said. ‘But I think we should fly straight back to Elstree. Provided the weather’s OK.’

‘That makes sense,’ said Guy, relieved. He stood up and reached for our glasses. ‘My round.’

We drank on into the evening, nourishing ourselves on crisps and peanuts. Ingrid’s eyes began to close. ‘I’m sleepy,’ she said, with a small smile on her face, and slipped over against Guy’s shoulder. He moved her upright. She slipped over again. He lifted her up. She waited a few seconds and then fell back. This time he let her head rest there.

It was innocent drunken fun, but there was something about it that sparked a surge of irritation in me. The purpose of this trip had been for me to get closer to Ingrid. How was I supposed to do that when she was slumped against Guy? In fact, how was I supposed to do that when she was so drunk? A little tipsy was fine, but I didn’t want the start of a relationship to be a drunken bonk that she wouldn’t remember and couldn’t prevent.

I felt Mel tense next to me. ‘Guy?’ she said.

‘Yes?’

‘Where were you on Tuesday?’

‘Tuesday? I don’t know. Why?’

‘Because you said you’d come round to my place on Tuesday.’

‘Did I? I don’t remember that.’ Guy was the picture of innocence. Hammy, unconvincing innocence. You would never have known he was an actor.

‘So where were you?’

‘I was with Davo. Wasn’t I, Davo?’

I remembered Tuesday. We had gone to a bar in Chelsea. Guy had picked up an American redhead. I had left early. Guy knew he could rely on me to cover for him in these situations.

But not this time.

‘Only at the beginning of the evening. I left at half past eight.’

Guy looked at me askance. ‘That’s not right. That can’t be right.’

‘I got home for the nine o’clock news. I can remember it.’

Mel was watching this. She wasn’t dumb. She could see that there was a little wedge between me and Guy. She hammered at it.

‘So what did you do when David left you?’

Guy shrugged. ‘Went home, I suppose. Watched the nine o’clock news myself.’

Tears sprang into Mel’s eyes. ‘You were with a girl, weren’t you?’

‘Of course not,’ said Guy. ‘I wasn’t with a girl, Mel.’ He spoke slowly and steadily and looked her straight in the eye. I watched him. He was convincing. Totally convincing. I found myself wondering whether I had really seen him with the redhead that night. Maybe he was an actor after all.

Mel hesitated, her certainty shaken for a moment. Then she renewed her attack. ‘I called you. You weren’t in. You were with a girl.’ She turned to me. ‘Wasn’t he, David?’

I shrugged.

Guy shot me a look of the ‘Cheers, mate’ variety. But he wasn’t too worried. He knew Mel knew. She must have known for a while. But she still stayed with him. He was toying with her.

‘And what about the Friday before?’

‘Let me see...’ said Guy.

‘Was it the same girl?’

It had been a different girl. It was always a different girl. But I couldn’t tell Mel that.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Guy.

‘Do you think I’m stupid? Do you? Do you!’

Mel stared at Guy. Ingrid was upright now, watching her.

Guy was just a little too drunk. The corner of his mouth twitched up. Just a smidgeon. Just enough to send Mel over the edge.

She slammed her glass down on the table. ‘You sit there laughing at me! Treat me like some stupid tart who’ll keep a bed warm for you when you can’t find anything better. Do you ever wonder how I feel? Do you know what it’s like to sit at home, waiting for you to come, never knowing whether you will or whether you’ll have picked up some schoolgirl at the local Burger King?’

‘Schoolgirl?’ said Guy, as though insulted that he had been accused of underage sex.

‘You’re just as bad as your father!’ said Mel. ‘Worse!’

‘I guess you’d know,’ said Guy, quietly. Dangerously.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You’d know how I compared to my father.’

‘How can you say that?’

‘How can I say that?’ Guy said, his anger finally rising. ‘You say you don’t like the way I treat you. I didn’t seduce your mother. You want respect, but how do you expect me to respect you after what you did with my father?’

‘That’s unfair,’ Mel said. ‘I’ve told you how much I regretted that.’

Guy shrugged and reached for his glass.

‘And anyway, what about what you did in France? Your little secret deals? Your cover-ups.’

Guy looked at her sharply, his glass an inch from his lips.

‘Don’t act all innocent, Guy. I know.’

Guy didn’t look at all innocent. He looked shaken. And worried. He put his glass down without taking a drink.

‘Like I said. You’re worse than your father.’ There was a note of cruel triumph in Mel’s voice. She knew she had hit home.

‘Mel,’ said Ingrid, reaching a hand unsteadily towards her.

‘You keep out of this. I saw you falling all over him!’

‘We were only mucking around,’ said Ingrid.

‘You’ve had your eyes on him the whole time, you slut!’ Mel sneered.

Ingrid withdrew her hand. She looked genuinely hurt.

‘That wasn’t fair,’ I said to Mel.

‘I don’t give a shit.’ She stood up. ‘I’m getting my stuff and I’m going to stay somewhere else tonight. And I’ll make my own way back to London tomorrow.’

She stormed out of the bar and up the stairs to her room.

We exchanged glances, stunned. Ingrid swayed unsteadily and looked as if she was going to cry. Guy grinned weakly. I got up to follow Mel.

Guy and Mel were sharing a room. I found the door open and Mel zipping up her bag.

‘Where are you going to go?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know. Anywhere.’

‘But we’re in the middle of nowhere!’

‘I don’t care. I’ll walk all night if I have to. I just have to get away from those two.’

‘You’re imagining things,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing between Guy and Ingrid.’

‘You show me a woman that isn’t after Guy and I’ll show you a lesbian,’ muttered Mel.

‘That’s not true.’

She stood upright, a tear trickling unrestrained down her cheek. ‘I was right about him though, wasn’t I? About last Friday?’

Her eyes were burning, looking straight into mine. I couldn’t lie to her. I nodded.

‘And other times?’

I shrugged. There was no need to nod.

She grabbed her bag and pushed past me down the stairs. She was marching past the front desk when I called after her. ‘Hang on a minute, Mel.’

She paused.

‘They’ll need your key.’

She handed it to me. I asked the manager behind the desk whether there was a bed and breakfast nearby that Mel could go to. I told him she had had an argument with her boyfriend and her room at the hotel would still be paid for. He understood, reached for his telephone, and had a brief conversation with a Mrs Campbell. He directed me to a place half a mile down the road.

‘I’ll walk with you,’ I said to Mel.

I handed the key to the manager, picked up her bag and walked out with her into the dusk. Although it was late, it wasn’t dark yet at this latitude. The birds were noisily preparing for their brief sleep. There was no traffic on the road. On one side was the sea, with the Scottish mainland clearly visible over the sound, on the other a mountain. We trudged along in silence, silence apart from intermittent sniffs from Mel.

She mumbled something.

‘What?’

‘I said, I probably deserve it.’

‘No you don’t,’ I said.

‘After France. And his bloody father. I probably deserve it.’

I put my arm around her and squeezed. She needed comfort. She deserved comfort. ‘Not because of that,’ I said. ‘Never because of that. That’s best forgotten.’

‘I try to push it out of my mind. And I can for a while. But only for a while.’

‘I know,’ I said. Remembering Dominique. Her body. Making love to her. The ridiculous euphoria afterwards. And then learning about her death. And the guilt. The guilt.

That week had left its scars on all of us: Mel, me. And Guy.

‘Back there you said something about Guy,’ I said. ‘About his secret deals. His cover-ups.’

‘That was nothing.’

‘It must have been something,’ I said. ‘It seemed to worry the hell out of him.’

‘You’re right, it was something.’ We walked on as Mel gathered her thoughts. Then she spoke. ‘You know why the gardener ran away?’

‘Yeah. He’d killed Dominique. He didn’t want to hang around and get caught.’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘No. He was paid to run away. By Hoyle and Guy.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I overheard them talking. They were in the dining room and I was just outside.’

‘I remember,’ I said. ‘I found you there.’

‘Did you? I don’t remember that. But I do remember what they were saying.’

‘What?’

‘They were talking about how they would pay the gardener five hundred thousand francs to disappear. Apparently Owen had spied on him having sex with Dominique, and the idea — Guy’s idea — was to tell the police this. Then once he had gone they would be bound to suspect him of killing her. Especially since the jewellery was missing.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘Sure enough, that afternoon the gardener disappeared. And the police never found him.’

‘Until this year.’

‘What?’

‘Yeah. Didn’t you know? Actually, I’m not surprised Guy didn’t tell you. They found him a few weeks ago in a dustbin in Marseilles.’

‘How tidy.’

‘So the gardener was the fall-guy to deflect suspicion from the real killer?’

‘To deflect suspicion from someone, certainly.’

‘What about the jewellery case that was found in his room?’

‘Must have been planted.’

‘By Hoyle?’

‘Presumably. Or maybe he arranged for somebody else to plant it.’

‘Jesus.’

The road was empty. It was getting dark now, the gloom was pressing down on the water a few yards away from us. I thought through what Mel had just told me. It all hung together. I had heard Hoyle repeating the gardener’s name; it was quite possible that Mel could have overheard the rest. I remembered Ingrid’s comment as we were leaving Les Sarrasins: the disappearance was too convenient. According to Mel it was Guy’s idea and Hoyle fixed it. Very possible.

‘So they were trying to cover for Tony? Divert the police’s attention away from him and on to the gardener?’

‘That’s what I’ve assumed,’ said Mel. ‘Most of the time.’

‘Most of the time?’

‘Sometimes, just occasionally, at times like now, I wonder.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Sometimes I wonder if Tony didn’t kill his wife. If Guy was trying to cover for someone else.’

‘Himself?’

‘As I said. Sometimes I wonder.’

‘That can’t be right,’ I said. I could believe Tony had killed Dominique. But not Guy. Surely not Guy. ‘You’re just angry with him.’

‘I’m certainly that,’ said Mel.

‘You didn’t tell the police any of this?’

‘No. If Guy was covering for his father, I didn’t want to spoil it.’

‘What about Guy? Have you ever told him?’

‘He doesn’t know I know. Bastard.’

We approached a row of cottages, one of which bore a discreet B&B sign. Mrs Campbell must have been briefed by the manager because she was very welcoming to Mel, even though it was so late. I left her at the door and wandered back to the hotel in the gathering dark, thinking about what Mel had said.

Could Guy really have killed Dominique?

I was confident that Mel was telling the truth about what she had overheard. But not about her conclusions. She was just being vindictive, surely. It was ridiculous to think that Guy had killed his stepmother. Wasn’t it?

I thought about Guy. I had known him for many years. I counted him as a friend. He wasn’t a cold-hearted murderer.

Or had I just fallen under his spell like Mel and so many other women before her? Like Torsten, for that matter. Like all his other friends.

I thought about the flight that afternoon. About the blind determination with which he had flown the aeroplane up that glen, ignoring me, leading us on to a certain collision with the mountain.

Did I really know Guy?

Then I remembered something. The footprint outside Dominique’s window. Guy’s footprint. Unlike Mel, unlike the French police, probably unlike Patrick Hoyle, I knew it hadn’t been put there by Guy on his way to bed. So how the hell had it got there?

The police had had a theory. That’s why they had arrested Guy. What if their theory was correct?

I stopped and looked out over the sound. It was dark now. I could hear the wavelets lapping against the shore a few yards in front of me. A solitary car drove past, its headlights briefly illuminating the ruffled surface of the sea before plunging it into an even greater darkness. I could hear the engine for a full minute after it had passed me.

I had fallen under Guy’s spell. I had known it was happening: more than that, I’d been happy to let it happen. I had had more fun in the last couple of months than any time since I started work. The drinking, the late nights, the chasing women. We were only young once, so we may as well enjoy it: that was Guy’s motto, and I was embracing it. His life seemed so much more colourful than mine. I coveted it.

Or did I? I remembered the bus journey back from France when I had realized that the lives of people like Guy weren’t all they were cracked up to be. I had forgotten that lesson. Guy’s father was a bastard, I knew that. Was Guy turning into a bastard as well? He might ignore the way he was treating Mel, or claim that she deserved it, but that didn’t mean I should too. His acting career was going nowhere. His life was going nowhere. Did I really want to join him on that journey?

When I reached the hotel I looked into the bar, but it was empty, apart from the manager. I thanked him for finding Mel somewhere to stay and went up to bed.

I checked my key. Room 210. Deep in thought, I walked down the landing, put the key in the door and opened it.

Three things hit me.

First, room 210 wasn’t my room.

Second, Guy was lying on the bed in room 210 locked in a deep embrace with a girl.

Third, the girl was Ingrid.

I stood there stupidly. For some reason the question that most puzzled me was why wasn’t I in my own room. I looked at the key in my hand. I must somehow have mixed up the keys: passed my own to the manager when I had left the hotel with Mel and kept hers.

Then I looked at the two figures on the bed. They were both still mostly clothed. Ingrid sat up, dishevelled, bleary eyed. Guy looked stricken.

‘Davo. It was just a bit of fun. We weren’t doing anything.’

I looked at Ingrid.

‘Why?’ I said.

Without waiting for an answer I turned and left the room, shutting the door behind me. I ran downstairs and grabbed my own key from behind the desk in the hallway. I remembered the number clearly now: room 214. I climbed the stairs two at a time and opened the door, although my hands were shaking so much with anger I could barely hold the key steady enough to insert it into the lock.

‘Davo! Davo, wait!’

I turned to see Guy approaching me down the landing.

‘Davo. I’m sorry, OK?’ he said, following me into my room.

‘Piss off, Guy.’

‘It was nothing. It means nothing.’

‘I’m quite sure it meant nothing to you.’

‘Or to Ingrid,’ Guy said.

‘Yeah. Well, it means something to me.’

‘Oh, come on. It’s not like you were going out with her or anything. You told me you weren’t even sure you wanted to try.’

‘So that makes it OK, does it?’

‘No, no it doesn’t. I’m sorry. I said I’m sorry.’

He smiled that Guy smile. Just for a second I felt like saying everything was all right. He could forget it. But only for a second. Then the anger returned. I wasn’t going to let him charm his way out of trouble again. Suddenly I wanted to pin him down.

‘What happened in France, Guy?’

Guy scowled. ‘Not again. It really would be best to forget all about France, Davo.’

‘I can’t. Mel told me about the cover-up. She says she overheard you and Patrick Hoyle talking about paying the gardener Abdulatif to disappear.’

‘That woman has a serious problem with her imagination,’ Guy said dismissively.

‘I know she overheard you two talking about him because I caught her at it. Until tonight I didn’t know what you said. Now I do.’

Guy closed his eyes and sighed. ‘You’re not going to let this go, are you?’

‘No,’ I said firmly.

‘OK. You’re right. We did discuss it. Owen told me he had seen Dominique with the gardener and we talked about telling the police. It seemed a good idea because it would put the gardener under suspicion. Then I thought it would be an even better idea if he scarpered. So Hoyle paid him off. And he did an excellent disappearing job.’

‘Until last month.’

‘Until last month.’

‘Do you know how he was killed?’

‘You heard Owen. He was found in some slum in Marseilles in a garbage can. That’s all I know about it. I don’t want to know any more.’

‘Why did you do it?’

‘To help Dad,’ Guy said. ‘He was under a lot of pressure from the police. It was clear they were about to pin the murder on him. Hoyle and I thought this idea would take the pressure off. It worked.’

‘Did you think he had killed Dominique?’

‘No.’ Guy shook his head emphatically. ‘Of course not.’

‘Why not?’

‘He’s my dad. He’s not a murderer. Do you think your father’s a murderer?’

‘No. But then my stepmother hasn’t been murdered.’

Guy glared at me. ‘I knew Dad didn’t do it,’ he said with contempt. ‘He was with a hooker at the time. The police established that.’

‘All right. But if your father didn’t kill Dominique, and Abdulatif didn’t, who did?’

‘I have absolutely no idea. Perhaps it was a thief who came in off the street. Or perhaps it really was Abdulatif after all.’

‘Hm.’ I considered Guy’s response. It sounded honest, but could I trust him? ‘What about the jewellery case found in Abdulatif’s room?’

‘We grabbed the case from Dominique’s bedroom and gave it to Abdulatif. He left it in his room.’

‘What happened to the jewellery?’

‘He kept it.’

It all made sense. But I had one more question. An important question. ‘And the footprint they found outside Dominique’s window?’

‘My footprint? I told you before, I was having a pee in the bushes.’

‘That’s a lie, Guy. I know it’s a lie. I was there, remember?’

Guy tried his smile on me again. This time a bit more sheepish. ‘Come on, Davo. We’re both too strung out for all these questions. Let’s find the manager and get him to rustle up a couple of whiskies.’

‘It just washes over you, doesn’t it?’ I said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean France. I mean being so cruel to Mel. I mean trying to sleep with Ingrid when you know I like her.’

‘Look, I said I was sorry about that.’

‘You don’t get it, do you? You nearly killed us all today. You would have done if I hadn’t pulled the control column away from you.’

‘Yeah, thanks for that. You reacted quickly. But we were unlucky to be hit by such a big storm. I’ve never seen one like that before.’

‘We weren’t unlucky! You flew into it, Guy. You were deliberately flying us to our deaths and then you expect everyone to just forget about it afterwards. As usual.’

As I thought about that flight, the anger boiled over. The tension and fear of those minutes had been bottled up inside me, the pressure rising, and now it all came out.

‘Face it, Guy. You’re a loser. A rich loser. You say you’re an actor, but you never actually get off your arse and get a job. You don’t have to. Daddy will bail you out, again. He’ll buy you a plane. A car. A flat. And you’ll get pissed again and whine that you might have to do a job like everyone else.’

‘So you want me to be like everyone else,’ Guy sneered, no trace of charm left now. ‘The thing is, I’m not like everyone else. You might lead a sad little life, but there’s no need to expect me to.’

‘There’s nothing sad about getting a job.’

‘Give me a break! You’ll become a chartered accountant and then you’ll get a wife and two point two kiddies and a mortgage and a nice family saloon, just like your parents did.’ Guy’s words were laden with contempt. ‘It’s your destiny, Davo. Sure you can come out for a few beers with me now and again but you can’t escape it. I’m not going to live like that. I don’t want any of that.’

Something inside me clicked. I was angry, I was drunk and I had nearly died only a few hours before. And Guy was pressing on a very sensitive spot. Hard.

I swung. Fast. My fist connected with Guy’s nose with a light crunching sound. Guy swore. Suddenly there was blood everywhere.

Guy bent down and held his nose. Blood poured out on to the carpet. He straightened. I prepared to hit him again.

‘What the hell’s going on here!’ bellowed a strong Scottish voice. It was the manager, closely followed by Ingrid.

I pushed Guy out of my room, shut and locked the door, and ignored the banging and angry shouts from outside.

I got up early the next morning, paid for my room and walked the half-mile to Mrs Campbell’s. I woke Mel up, organized a taxi and began the long journey with her back to London. We stopped off in Glasgow for an hour so that I could buy a couple of accountancy books for the rest of the trip. The last two months had taken its toll on my work. I did want to qualify as a chartered accountant. I did want to get a decent job in a bank.

Above all, I didn’t want to piss away my twenties in a pub with Guy.