‘You watch – and listen – to too much television.’

‘Stop it, George! We’re not talking television. We’re talking one great heap of shit you’ve gotten this firm, yourself – us all – into

…’ Carver stopped as the thought came to him. ‘And gotten Jane into, as well. The booking’s for one o’clock, at the club.’

‘I’ve things to do. I’ll see you there.’

Carver gave way to his anger. ‘Don’t be late, George. I don’t want anything to be too late.’

Northcote wasn’t late. The meticulous timekeeper was actually early but Carver was intentionally ahead of him by more than thirty minutes, ensuring their table was beyond overhearing, nursing his mineral water until his father-in-law arrived, trying to rehearse himself for a scene for which there was no script. Too late acknowledging the emptiness of the gesture to be just that, empty, he matched Northcote’s previous day’s refusal to stand. Northcote compounded Carver’s belated embarrassment by pointedly standing beside their table, refusing the chair withheld as an invitation to sit from the frowning maitre d’.

As he finally sat Northcote said to the man: ‘I’ll have Macallan. Large. With a water back.’

Carver said: ‘Gin Martini. Large. Straight up with a twist.’

Father-in-law and son-in-law remained looking at each other, unspeaking, for several minutes before Carver said: ‘So tell me.’

‘There’s a few things that still need sorting out. Not a problem.’

‘I’m getting a little tired of being told there isn’t a problem.’

‘And I’m getting tired of telling you there isn’t one.’

‘What are the few things still needing to be sorted out?’

‘Understandings.’

They pulled back for their drinks to be served.

Carver said: ‘What’s understandings mean?’

‘Agreements.’

‘With whom? About what?’

‘The dissolution.’