Free To Trade

CHAPTER 4

I was approaching home. The road became wilder as it made its way up the dale where I was born. Gently sloping banks grew into towering hillsides, a tartan of close-cropped grass, bracken and heather. It had rained earlier in the day, but the clouds had disbanded leaving a pale blue sky. The bright green of the grass and the bracken glistened in the sunlight; even the usually dour dry-stone walls shone like streaks of silver along the hillside. This drive up the dale never failed to invigorate me, no matter how long I had been cooped up in the car.

Eventually I came to a T-junction with a sign pointing straight up the hillside, announcing 'Barthwaite 3'. I turned up an impossibly steep road. In five minutes I topped the crest of a hill and looked down into the small valley in which the village of Barthwaite nestled. I drove down past the hard grey stone cottages, brightened up here and there by geraniums or lobelia sprouting from window boxes. I slowed down as I passed a narrow lane which led down to a large farm. The words 'Appletree Farm' were clearly painted on the white gate. It looked just as well kept as it had when I had lived there as a child. A new cattleshed, some modern machinery, but otherwise the same.

I drove on through the village, crossing the small river and up the hill on the other side. I stopped outside the last cottage, where village turned to moorland. I walked through the small front garden, brimming with hollyhocks, lavender, roses, gladioli and a host of colourful flowers whose names I did not know, and rapped the iron knocker of the front door, which was guarded by half a dozen tall foxgloves.

The small, bustling form of my mother was in the doorway in a moment.

'Come in, come in,' she said. 'Sit yourself down. Did you have a good journey? Can I get you a cup of tea? You must be tired.'

I was ushered in to the living room. 'Why don't you sit in Dad's chair,' she said, as she always did. 'It's nice and comfortable.' I sank into the old leather armchair and within a moment I was plied with scones and strawberry jam, both home-made. I commented on the garden and we spent a few minutes chatting about my mother's plans for it. Next came the village gossip, where I caught up on the latest scandalous activities of Mrs Kirby, Barthwaite's answer to Pamella Bordes. Then there was a long story about the problems my sister Linda was having getting the right covering for her settee, and the usual mild nagging that I hadn't dropped in to see her.

My mother didn't keep still for a moment during this conversation. She illustrated every point with elaborate hand movements and every minute or so got up to refill my cup, straighten up something in the room, or rush out to the kitchen to get some more cakes. Her face was slightly flushed as she talked rapidly on. She was a very energetic woman, throwing herself into everything that went on in the village. Everyone liked her. Despite her tendency to be a busybody, most of what she did or said was motivated by kindness or a genuine desire to help. And people still felt sorry for her. Seventeen years is not a long time in a Dales village.

The afternoon passed pleasantly. Then, after she had come back from the kitchen with some more tea, she said, 'I do wish your father would write. He has been in Australia a while now. You would have thought he could write. I'm sure he has found a lovely sheep farm. I saw one on telly last week which I am sure would do for us.'

'I am sure he will write soon. Let's go out and see the garden,' I said, trying to change the subject. But it was no use.

'It really is inconsiderate of him, you know. All I need is a quick letter. I know it's expensive to phone from that distance. Have you heard from him?'

'No, Mum, I'm afraid I haven't,' I said.

Nor was I likely to. My father hadn't gone to Australia. Or Argentina, or Canada, as my mother had suggested over the years. He had died.

It had happened when I was eleven, and although I hadn't actually seen it, what I had seen would always remain with me. Something had caught in the combine harvester on our farm, and he had tried to free it. But he had left the engine on. I was kicking a football against the wall on the other side of the barn. I had heard a shout over the noise of the engine, which cut off abruptly. I ran round the barn to find what was left of my father.

Eventually I had come to terms with the shock. My mother never did. She had been devoted to my father and could not accept his death. She had created another world for herself, one in which he was still alive, and one in which she could be comfortable.

My father was the tenant of one of the largest farms on an estate, and was respected by everyone in the village. This had made the lives of my mother, my older sister and me easier. Lord Mablethorpe, the owner of the estate, had spent a lot of time on my father's farm, discussing with him ever more efficient ways to get the maximum yield from it. They had become firm friends. When my father died, Lord Mablethorpe had given us a tied cottage to live in, promising it to my mother for as long as she lived. My father had taken out a generous life-insurance policy which gave us enough to live on, and the neighbours were all kind and helpful.

My father was a good man. I knew that because everyone always said so. I remembered him as a big, fierce man with a strong sense of right and wrong. I had always done my best to please him and I had usually succeeded. On the occasions when I failed to meet his expectations, there was all hell to pay. At the end of one term I had come home from school with a report criticising me for playing the fool in class. He had given me a lecture on the importance of learning at school. I was top of the class the next term.

His death, and the effect it had on my mother, seemed so unfair, unjust. I was stricken by my inability to do anything about it. It made me angry.

It was then that I had started running. I ran for miles over the hills, pushing myself to the limit that my small lungs could bear. I would battle my way through the cold wind and gloom of a Yorkshire winter, seeking some solace in the lonely struggle against the moors.

I also worked hard at school, determined to live up to what I imagined my father would have expected of me. I had struggled into Cambridge. Despite spending so much time on athletics, I had managed a respectable degree. By the time I started my Olympic campaign, determination and the desire to win had become a habit. It would be wrong to say that I had driven myself to an Olympic medal just for him. But I secretly hoped he had seen me crossing the line for my bronze.

My mother had never come to terms with my ambitions. Whilst my father was 'away', she had wanted my sister to marry a local farmer, and me to go to agricultural college so that I could look after the farm. My sister had obliged her, but I had not. After the accident, I could not face farming. But, in order to make her world habitable, my mother had decided that I was studying at an agricultural college in London. At first I had tried to contradict her, but she hadn't listened, so I gave up. She had been proud of my achievements on the track, but worried in case they were interfering with my studies.

'It's a lovely afternoon,' I said, to try to change the subject. 'Let's go for a walk.'

We left the cottage and struck up the hillside. My mother was a regular walker and we soon made it to the saddle between our valley and the next. We looked down on to Helmby Hall, an austere mansion built at the beginning of the twentieth century by an earlier Lord Mablethorpe with the profits from his textile milling interests.

My mother paused for breath. 'Oh, I didn't tell you, did I? Lord Mablethorpe died last month. A stroke. Your father will be sad when he finds out.'

'Oh, I'm sorry to hear that,' I said.

'So am I,' she said. 'He was always very good to me. And to lots of people in the village.'

'Does that mean his moronic son has taken over Helmby Hall?'

'Paul, really. He's not daft. He's a charming young gentleman. He's clever too. He works in a merchant bank in London, I believe. I hear he is still going to spend most of his time down there. He'll just come up here at weekends, like.'

'Well, the less he has to do with Barthwaite, the better,' I said. 'Has Mrs Kirby met him yet? I wonder what she thinks of him,' I asked my mother innocently.

My mother laughed. 'I wouldn't put even that past her,' she said.

We got back to the cottage at about seven, tired but contented with each other's company.

Then, just as I was getting in the car for the drive home, she said, 'Now then, make sure you study hard, dear. Your father told me before he left that he was sure you would make a good farmer, and I am sure you can prove him right.'

I drove home as I often drove home after visits to my mother, sad and angry at the unfairness of life and death.

I was sitting at my desk early on Monday morning when Rob arrived, a huge grin on his face. I knew that grin of old. He was in love again, and things were going well.

'OK, what happened?'

He was bursting to tell me. 'Well, I rang Cathy yesterday and persuaded her to come out with me. She made all sorts of excuses, but I wasn't going to let her get away with any of them. She finally gave in and we went to a film she said she had wanted to see for years. It was some French rubbish by Truffaut. I thought it was extremely boring and lost all track of what was going on, but she was glued to the screen. Afterwards we had dinner. We talked for hours. She really seems to understand me in a way no other girl ever has.'

Or at least not since Claire last month and Sophie three months ago, I thought a little cruelly. Rob could get quite carried away when he poured his heart out to girls. The funny thing was, often they would get carried away too. But I wouldn't have put Cathy down as a push-over for Rob's technique.

'So what happened?' I asked.

'Nothing,' Rob smiled. 'She's a nice girl. She doesn't go in for that sort of thing on a first date. But I'm seeing her on Saturday. I'm going to take her sailing.'

'Good luck,' I said. This was shaping up to be like Rob's other affairs. He was at the pedestal-building stage, I thought. You had to hand it to him, though. He seemed capable of cracking even the toughest nut.

The light flashed on my phone board. It was Cash.

'I got a couple of things,' he began. 'First, are you coming to our conference?'

'Yes, I'd love to come. Thank you very much,' I said.

'Good,' Cash said. 'And I promise I will set up a meeting with Irwin Piper when he is over. Now, I have another suggestion. Would you like to come to Henley as a guest of Bloomfield Weiss? The firm has a tent every year, and I hear it's a blast. Cathy and I will be there. Bring someone from the office if you like.'

My heart sank. I had no interest in rowing. And I had no interest in this kind of corporate entertainment. It would involve lots of drinking with a crowd of people I didn't know, and didn't want to know. The only good thing was no one would be paying any attention to the rowing. I wanted to say no, but it was always difficult to say no to Cash.

'Thank you very much, I'll have to check whether I am doing anything that weekend. I'll let you know.'

'OK. Give me a call.'

I hung up. Effusive American meets polite Englishman, and neither is comfortable with the result, I thought, feeling slightly guilty.

'What's up?' asked Rob.

'I've been invited to Henley by Bloomfield Weiss, and I feel bad about saying no.'

Rob perked up. 'Bloomfield Weiss, eh? Will Cathy be there?'

'Yes,' I said.

'Well, I think you should go. And I think you should take me with you.'

I protested, but it was useless. The persuasive powers of Rob and Cash combined were too much for me. I rang Cash back to say I would be delighted to come, and I would bring Rob. Cash sounded pleased.

I was sitting at my desk watching the market struggle through the summer doldrums, ably assisted by Debbie. I was bored and irritated. Debbie seemed quite happy with the situation. I watched her work her way through the Financial Times crossword. I was struggling to keep myself busy. I scanned our portfolio, hoping for some ideas.

There were one or two bonds with NV after their name. That reminded me.

'Debbie.'

'Not now, can't you see I'm busy,' she said.

'Did you check the Netherlands Antilles issues? Do we have to worry about those changes to the tax treaty?'

Debbie put down her paper. 'Amazingly enough, I did.' She pointed to a pile of prospectuses. 'I've checked over all our portfolios, and we are all right. None of our bonds is affected. The only Netherlands Antilles bonds we hold are trading below a hundred, so we will make money if the issuer calls them at par.'

'That's a relief. Well done. Thanks very much for doing all that,' I said.

'Hang on a moment. We may be OK on the tax legislation, but I have stumbled across one bond that smells fishy, very fishy indeed.'

'Go on.'

'It's this one.'

She put a bond prospectus down on to the desk in front of me. I picked it up and looked at it. Written on the cover in bold was 'Tremont Capital NV secured 8 per cent notes maturing 15 June 2001', and underneath in slightly smaller type 'guaranteed by Honshu Bank Ltd'. Beneath that was 'Lead Manager Bloomfield Weiss'.

'Well, what's wrong with this?' I asked.

'It's difficult to say exactly,' Debbie began. Then she sat up bolt upright in her chair. 'Christ! Did you see that?'

'What?' I said.

'On Reuters.' She read from the screen in front of her,' "Gypsum Company of America announces agreed offer from DGB…" Who the hell are DGB?'

'It's a German cement company, I think,' I said. 'We were right. There was something going on.'

The lines began to flash. I picked one up. It was David Barratt.

'Did you see DGB has bid for Gypsum?'

'Yes,' I said. 'Reuters suggests it's a friendly. Any reason why the bid shouldn't go through?'

'I don't think so,' said David. 'DGB doesn't have any US operations, so there won't be any anti-trust problems.'

'What's DGB's credit like?' I asked. If DGB was a strong credit, then the risk on our Gypsum bonds would be much less. The bond price would soar.

'Double A minus,' said David. He was like a computer when it came to the details of even the most obscure companies. 'Hold on, my trader is shouting something.' I could hear a fair amount of noise in the background. 'He says DGB is paying for the acquisition with cash and a share placing. That shouldn't harm the credit.'

'Where are the bonds trading?' I asked.

'Hang on.' He was back a moment later. 'He's bidding 95. Do you want to sell your two million?'

I thought for a moment. Ninety-five was too low. 'No thanks. They should be higher than that. Let me know if they move up.'

I put the phone down and shouted across to Debbie. 'What are you hearing?'

'Everyone is looking for these Gypsums. Bloomfield Weiss are bidding 97. I have got Claire on the line here. She is bidding 97½.

Shall I sell?'

I tapped the buttons of my calculator. By my reckoning we should be able to get 98¼. 'No hold on.'

'Let's just take the profit,' said Debbie.

'No, these things are worth three-quarters of a point more.'

'You are so greedy,' she said.

We spoke to three more salesmen, but none was bidding more than 97½. I was close to giving up when Karen shouted, 'Debbie, Leipziger Bank on four!'

'Who the hell are Leipziger Bank?' said Debbie. 'Tell them to go away, we're busy.'

Leipziger Bank? Now why would an obscure German bank want to talk to us, I wondered. 'I'll talk to them, Karen,' I shouted.

'Good-morning. This is Gunter here. How is it with you? It is a fine day here.'

'Good-morning,' I said. Come on, Gunter, get to the point.

After a little more polite conversation Gunter asked me if I had heard of an issue for the Gypsum Company of America.

'As a matter of fact, I happen to own two and a half million dollars of that issue.'

'Ah good. My trader is bidding 95. This is a very good bid, I believe.'

An appalling bid – at least two points below the market! 'Listen very closely, Gunter,' I said. 'My colleague is on the other line and is just about to sell these bonds to an old friend of ours at 99. If you bid 99½ right now, then I will sell them to you. Otherwise you will never see these bonds again.'

'Can I have an hour to work on that?' asked Gunter, shaken.

'You can have fifteen seconds to work on it.'

Silence. I looked at my watch. After thirteen seconds, Gunter was back on the line. 'OK, OK we will buy two and a half million Gypsum of America 9 per cents of 1995 at 99½.''

'Done,' I said.

'Thank you,' said Gunter. 'I look forward to doing a lot more business with you in the future.'

Fat chance, I thought, as I put down the phone.

'How on earth did you get him to pay 99½? asked Debbie.

'The only reason I could think that an outfit like Leipziger Bank should be buying these bonds is if they are DGB's local bank. If DGB are desperate to buy the Gypsum bonds, then they can afford to pay up for them. Can you believe that guy only bid 95 when he was prepared to pay 99½? Remind me not to deal with them again.'

'So how much are we up?' asked Debbie.

'We bought those two million at 82 and sold them for a 17i point profit,' I said. 'That's three hundred and fifty thousand dollars we've made! Not bad. And we got rid of our original half-million position. I wonder where our shares will be when New York comes in?'

Debbie looked thoughtful.

'What's up?' I said.

'Someone must have known about the takeover,' she said.

'Of course they did,' I said. 'They always do. That's the way the world works.'

'Maybe we shouldn't have bought those shares,' she said.

'Why shouldn't we? We had no knowledge there was going to be a takeover. We just guessed. We haven't broken any rules.'

'Somebody knew. Why else would the stock shoot up?'

'Look,' I said, 'You are the compliance officer. You know the rules. Have we broken any of them?'

Debbie thought a little. 'Technically, I suppose not,' she said.

'Good. Now pass me some tickets so I can log this trade.'

The next day, Wednesday, was an infuriating one. I was supposed to produce a report for one of our clients, and I was having severe trouble reconciling the performance figures produced by administration with what I knew we had achieved. I spent two hours in the afternoon staring at the same columns of numbers before I spotted the mistake, which had been staring back at me the whole time. Cursing myself for my stupidity, I went through to administration to point out the error. There was still many hours' work involved to straighten it out, and what with constant interruptions from salesmen, I would be lucky to get out before midnight. Debbie offered to help me, and I accepted with relief. Even so, it was not until eight o'clock that we finished. I put the report on Karen's desk, ready to be sent out first thing the next morning. Debbie and I looked at each other. 'Drink?' she said.

'Somehow I thought you would suggest that,' I said. 'Where shall we go?'

'Have you ever been on that boat on the Thames? You know, the one by Temple tube station?'

'That's fine with me,' I said. 'Just let me get my briefcase.'

'Oh, sod your briefcase!' said Debbie. 'All you are going to do is take it home and bring it back to work unopened, aren't you?'

'Um, well…'

'Come on!'

I looked round the trading room. Rob and Hamilton were still there, Hamilton going through piles of papers, Rob fiddling with his computer. It was no surprise at all to see Hamilton at this time of night, but Rob was a rarer sighting after six o'clock. It was dusk, and the red evening sunlight shot into the trading room, driving a broad band of orange between city and sky, both looming shapes of grey and black.

'It's going to rain…' I said.

'Oh, do come on.'

We got to the boat just before it started to rain. We sat at a table in the main cabin, looking out at the grey Thames rushing up towards Westminster on the floodtide. Powerful eddies whirled around the poles driven into the river-bed just next to the boat. It was strange to see such a wild, untamed force in the middle of a late-twentieth-century city. Man might be able to build river walls and elaborate barriers to contain or channel the flow, but there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Just then it started to rain, lashing down on to the water, so that river, city and sky became blurred in the gathering darkness. The wind had got up and the boat began to rock back and forth gently, creaking as it did so.

'Brrr,' Debbie shivered. 'You would hardly think it was summer. Mind you, it's quite cosy in here.'

I looked round. The varnished wooden interior of the boat was softly lit. There were a few small groups of people at the tables running up both sides of the cabin, and a larger group of drinkers at one end. The swaying and creaking of the boat, the murmur of relaxed conversation, and the damp but warm atmosphere did make it snug.

We ordered a bottle of Sancerre. The waiter returned with it right away and poured us both a glass. I raised mine to Debbie. 'Cheers,' I said. 'Thank you for your help this evening. I would still be there now if you hadn't done your bit.'

'Not at all,' Debbie said, taking a sip of her wine. 'You see, I'm not quite the lazy slob I'm cracked up to be.'

'Well, I'm sure Hamilton noticed.'

'Oh, screw him. I only did it because you looked so miserable all day. The language you used about that accrued interest reconciliation made me blush.'

'Well, thank you anyway,' I said. I thought it highly unlikely that any language I could use would make Debbie blush, although looking at her now, her round cheeks were beginning to glow in the fuggy, alcohol-ridden atmosphere.

'You do seem to have been working abnormally hard recently,' I said. 'Are you sure you are all right?' Debbie had had her head down all day.

'Well, it's you who gave me all those prospectuses to read, thank you very much.' She frowned. 'There are a couple of things that bother me, though. Bother me quite a lot.'

My curiosity was aroused. 'Such as?'

She thought for a moment, then shook her head. 'Oh forget it. I've spent enough time worrying about those bloody prospectuses today, it can wait till tomorrow. We'll have a chance to talk about it soon enough.'

I could tell she was worried about something, and for Debbie to be worried, it must be something interesting. But she clearly didn't want to talk about it now, so I changed the subject. 'You know some of the traders at Bloomfield Weiss, don't you?'

'Yes, why?'

'Do you know which one trades the Gypsums?'

'Yes, Joe Finlay. He trades all Bloomfield Weiss's US corporate book. He is very good. He is supposed to be the best corporate trader on the street, makes money month in and month out. Traders at the other houses try to keep him sweet.'

'Why is that?'

'He is a total bastard.' Debbie said this with such certainty that I assumed she had come to this conclusion from personal experience. Something about the tone in which she said it put me off asking her to explain more.

'Is he honest?'

Debbie laughed. 'A trader from Bloomfield Weiss? I would think that highly unlikely, wouldn't you? Why do you ask?'

'I was just wondering why Bloomfield Weiss showed so much interest in the bonds just before the takeover announcement.'

'You mean you think Joe might have known about it? I wouldn't be at all surprised.'

I refilled both our glasses. 'What are you going to spend your Gypsum profits on?' she asked, mischievously.

'You mean from the shares we bought? I don't know. I suppose I will just save them.'

'What for? A rainy day?' said Debbie, nodding towards the driving rain outside.

I smiled, feeling foolish. 'Well, what am I supposed to spend it on? My flat is perfectly adequate. De Jong give me a car. I don't seem to get time to take any holiday.'

'What you need is a very expensive girlfriend,' said Debbie. 'Someone you can lavish your ill-gotten gains on.'

'None of those about at the moment, I'm afraid.'

'What, an eligible young financier like you? I don't believe it,' said Debbie in mock astonishment. 'Mind you, you are a bit rough around the edges, and that nose could do with improvement. And it is a while since you last had a haircut, isn't it? No, I can quite see your problem.'

'Thank you for the encouragement. I don't know, I just don't seem to get the time.'

'Too busy working?'

'Too busy working, too busy running.'

'Typical. So, what are you? The virgin toiler?'

'It's not quite that bad,' I said smiling.

'Oh yes? Tell me more,' said Debbie, leaning forward, all curiosity.

'It's none of your business,' I said half-heartedly.

'Of course it isn't,' said Debbie. 'Tell me.'

She was leaning across the table, her bright eyes dancing over my face, begging me to talk. Despite some reluctance, I couldn't disappoint her.

'Well, there was a girl at university called Jane,' I said. 'She was very nice. Very patient.'

'Patient?'

'Yes. I was almost always in training. I used to run at least forty miles a week, and that didn't include weights and sprint training. And then I was trying to get a good degree. There wasn't a lot of time for much else.'

'And she put up with that?'

'For a while. She was really very good about it. She would always watch me compete, and sometimes she would even watch me train.'

'She must have been quite taken with you,' said Debbie.

'I suppose she was. In the end she had had enough. It was either my running or her. You can guess which I chose.'

'Poor her.'

'Oh, I don't know. She was better off without me. Two months later she met Martin, one year later and they were married. She probably has two kids now and is very happy.'

'And no one else since then?'

'One or two. But none of them really lasted.' I sighed. Every relationship I had started had soon become a struggle between a girl and my running, and I had never been willing to compromise on my running. Sometimes I regretted it, but it was just part of the price I had had to pay to get to the Olympics. In the end I was always prepared to pay it.

'Well, what's to stop you now?' Debbie asked.

'Stop me what?'

'You know, getting a girlfriend.'

'Well, you can't just go out and get one, just like that,' I protested. 'I mean, it's not that easy. There's no time, what with work and everything.'

Debbie laughed. 'Surely you could fit in some time between nine and nine-thirty on Tuesdays and Thursdays. That should be enough, shouldn't it?'

I shrugged and grinned. 'Yes, you are right. I am just out of practice. I will rectify the problem immediately. By this time next week I will have three women ready for your inspection.'

We polished off the bottle, split the bill, and got up to brave the wind and the rain outside. We walked along the covered gangway, bucking on the choppy water, and stood under the awning on the pavement. Neither of us had coats or umbrellas.

We were standing staring in dismay at the cold wet night, when a man pushed past us. He stopped for a second in front of Debbie, thrust his hand up to her blouse and squeezed. 'Miss me, love?' he said and gave a short dry laugh. He turned to me for just a second, looked at me with strangely limp blue eyes, twitched the corners of his mouth in a fake smile and ducked into the rain.

I stood still for a moment in surprise, my reflexes dulled by the wine. Then, as I lunged out into the rain to catch him, Debbie caught my sleeve. 'Don't Paul! Stop!'

'But you saw what he did,' I said, hesitating, with Debbie pulling on my arm.

'Please, Paul. Don't bother. Please.'

I looked into the gloom, but the man had already disappeared. Debbie's face was pleading, and, for once, dead serious. And she was afraid.

I shrugged my shoulders and got back into the shelter of the awning, soaked from just a few seconds in the rain.

'Who the hell is he?'

'Don't ask.'

'But he can't just do that to you.'

'Look, Paul. Please. Just drop it. Please.'

'OK, OK. Let's get you in a taxi.'

Not surprisingly, given the rain, no taxis appeared, and after five minutes we agreed to depart to our respective tube stations, Debbie hunched under her umbrella to get to the Northern line at Embankment, and me sprinting through the rain to Temple.

As the underground train lurched westwards on its never-ending journey round the Circle line, I wondered about the man I had seen grope Debbie. Who could he have been? A former lover? A former work colleague? A total stranger? A drunk? I had no idea. Nor had I any idea why Debbie refused to tell me anything about him. She had looked scared, rather than shocked or offended. Very odd.

I had caught a good glimpse of him in the moment he had turned to me. He was thin and wiry, about thirty-five, and wearing an unremarkable city suit. I could still see his eyes. Pale blue, dead, the pupils almost invisible pinpricks. I shuddered.

The train stopped at Victoria. A crowd of people barged off, and one or two got on. As the train jolted into motion again, my mind wandered. I tried to read the newspaper of the old man sitting opposite me, but I couldn't quite make it out. The conversation I had had with Debbie about my girlfriends, or rather lack of them, drifted back into my mind. I had just not tried over the last few years as far as women were concerned. It wasn't that I disliked female company, far from it, it was just that so many relationships had started with high hopes and ended in disappointment that it did not seem worth the effort. Well, I should probably change that. Debbie was right; however single-minded I was about succeeding at work, there had to be time for some other things.

The thought of Debbie made me smile. Her good humour was irrepressible. I realised that I looked forward to facing her wide grin and gentle teasing as I came into work every day. I had grown very fond of her over the last few months.

Hold on. Had Debbie anyone in mind when she was encouraging me to find myself a girlfriend? It would be typical of me to miss a come-on like that. No, I was just imagining it, surely. Not Debbie. Not me. Still, in some strange way, the idea appealed.