‘Yes sir, I’ve got that,’ said Brinkman, knowing he had to. He didn’t intend taking any chances: not stupid ones, anyway. But if one came that wasn’t stupid he was going to grab it like a drowning man snatching at passing driftwood and show everyone – Maxwell and his father and everyone – just how good he was.

‘Ingram’s staying over, to ease you in.’

‘That’s kind,’ said Brinkman. He didn’t want to be eased in by anyone, picking up cast-off contacts like second-hand clothes but it wouldn’t have been politic to say so.

‘He’s done a good job there,’ said Maxwell. ‘He won’t be an easy act to follow.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ said Brinkman. Modesty, like apparent honesty, was another thing he practised.

‘Do more than that,’ said Maxwell, in his hearty voice. Brinkman wondered if he took the part of Santa Claus at the department Christmas party. ‘This could make or break a career, you know.’

‘I know,’ said Brinkman. Just as he knew it was going to be the former, not the latter.

Maxwell stood, ending the meeting. The man offered his hand and said, ‘Good luck.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Brinkman, modest still. Luck wasn’t going to have anything to do with it.

The love-making was good, like it always was, because he was more experienced and unselfish, knowing how to bring her up and then keep her there, so that she had orgasm after orgasm and even then didn’t want to stop but kept pulling at him, urgently demanding. When they finished Ann still clung to him, wanting his nakedness next to hers. After a long time she said, ‘Eddie?’

‘What?’

‘Why not?’

‘You know why not,’ he sighed, confronting the familiar demand.

‘I don’t think it’s a reason.’