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and those on the outer stepped forward to fill the void. I was a social magnet. Many of the people I recognised: they were always at these parties. They represented either Taikon or the myriad of other smaller companies who are allowed a piece of my pie in return for some corporate favours to Taikon. I’m continuously told how I rely on these people, but I know and they know that they actually rely on me.
    I have learnt the art of navigating these parties. It is a kind of charisma autopilot. Push the button and I’m set on a weaving course through the throng, spinning the same old lines, placing the same old pat on the back; an ear to a conversation, a smile and a laugh at the appropriate moment. One eye, though, is on the women. It appraises arses, thighs and the delicious curve of a stocking-covered calf. I know so many of these women are available to me. The mere sight of my entrance places them on heightened alert, ready to meet me. Well, meet may be a distortionof the truth. I never just meet women at parties any more. Any flirtatious movement of an eye or brush of the shoulder is intended to gain an introduction or a favour. Some are here simply to sample sex with the famous, some to advance themselves, some to surreptitiously gain advantage for another—and then there are the girls Bebe has paid to be here, to broaden horizons and ensure choice. Whatever the motive, nothing is left to chance; there’s nothing involuntary or spontaneous at these parties. I miss the innocent times, the genuine and uncertain meetings, the anxiety of wondering if this might be the lucky night. I’ve given up on women with consequences. More often than not I gravitate to Bebe’s dubious girls—definitely no consequences there.
    I saw two women who went straight on the A-list. Both were dark-haired, early thirties, wearing dresses that hugged slender hips and revealed silky black calves—shining paths to hidden treasure. One was a genuine guest, accompanying George Mason, but she has caught my eye twice; the other had been invited by Bebe.
    â€˜George, how are you?’ We shook hands vigorously, but I ensured that my attention was saved for his companion. She was quite gorgeous up close. No heavy make-up needed to cover facial blemishes. Her skin was perfect.
    â€˜Good, Jack, good. Great show tonight, fucking dynamic.’
    â€˜Thank you, George.’ George Mason was one of the important men at the party. Vice-president of Taikon’s European division, he’s the man who signs the cheques and, more importantly, signs my cheques. Shagging his woman would be an insane decision. ‘It means so much to me to hear you say you enjoyed the show, George. You know how much I value your comments.’ I movedcloser to his companion until my thigh touched hers.
    â€˜Likewise, Jack, likewise. We value you very, very highly and you’re doing a wonderful job.’ I wondered what he might think of me when he heard about the impromptu press conference just half an hour before. Or just what was in my mind for his woman. George’s temper was legendary. Bebe said he was a thrower and that whenever George was angry anything on his desk was at risk. ‘Let’s hope this little spat with Driesler can be sorted out before things get into a slanging match. We don’t want him fucking up everything we’ve worked so hard for.’
    Whoops. I smiled bravely—poor George was behind the news. ‘No, we don’t. He’s just a little prick anyway.’
    â€˜Quite. Still, he needs to be put to rest.’ He smiled at me. ‘We wouldn’t want to diminish our investment, would we?’
    â€˜No, George.’
    â€˜Too much money spent on you to find out you might be wrong.’ Despite his nervous laugh the seriousness of the comment wasn’t lost. Clearly there had been discussion on the subject at the highest levels in Taikon. I could just imagine the frenzied