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dinner, he gave his wife a brief peck on the cheek before heading to his study. It wouldn’t hurt for her to butter up the Yanks. It was part of the reason he’d slipped that three-carat Tiffany rock on her finger.
    Ernie shut the thick mahogany door behind him. Diana’s touch in the office was more old-world subtlety; dark greens, leather, a Persian rug, bookshelves crammed with Victorian tomes that might have been in his family for generations. It was a room his friends’ fathers from Eton might have had; a gentleman’s library, complete with a muted oil of some ancient dame in a riding habit on the far wall. Ernie half loved and half loathed it. If he had dug a little deeper, he might have recognised the screaming sense of insecurity he always had around Di’s good breeding. But Ernie wasn’t into digging deep. He was into instant gratification.
    His bride would be an hour or longer at her toilette. Ernie didn’t want to disturb her. Who needed to see women do their private, slightly revolting, stuff? Shaving legs and armpits and plucking and waxing and filing… it made him nauseous, thinking of women like that. Ernie didn’t think much of the traditional idolatry of the .female
     
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    body. Most of them ran to fat, let themselves go, had moles, hair and dimpled skin. Whatever his reputation as a raider, he didn’t have a matching one as a playboy like so, many of the wide-boys kicking corporate ass in the big city. He could get it up and he certainly got around. Furthermore he realised that having the right woman was important, like having the right car. That was why Ernie had chosen Diana. She was the best, which was what he had to hae. But she didn’t do much for him.
    Ernie slid his thin frame into the ancient leather armchair and flicked on his computer, the only modern touch in the room. His stocks came up, and he cast an eye over his portfolio. How long could the Dow go on this crazy run? Almost indefinitely, maybe. He couldn’t concentrate on trades tonight. His mind was running on Blakely’s:.not the sad, overpaid, underworked old warhorses, company men since their early twenties, who he’d fired today, but the PR girl from Hastings Inc., their new contractors.
    Mira Chen. She was probably twenty-five, but she looked younger, apart from that icy, bitchy curve to her lip. Thin as a rail with small, curved breasts which jutted out at an unnatural angle, definitely fake. Their fakeness aroused him. She was a girl who liked to show it off. Her dresses were tight, dark, low-cut, worn with a jacket so snug it made him wonder if she was wearing a corset. Yeah … a corset cutting off her blood-flow, pinching, pushing the little apple boobs upwards, trying to make something of them. Her long nhils were painted bright red. How the hell she typed with them, he didn’t know. Mira’s thin lips too were always scarlet. Ernie thought about her pale, creamy skin, the eyebrows that she had plucked so thin she had pencil up there in place of them. It was a fake, painted look. He loved it.
    What’s more, as Mira shuffled her papers, and pre. tended to listen to her boss giving the presentation, she
     
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    ad looked over at Ernie. He was good at .reading the faces of his lackeys. Ms Chen was showing neither fear nor agitation. Rather, the look she sent him was slow, assessing and cruel. Ernie had found his throat drying up. He had snuck a look at the skinny, muscular legs protruding from the tight little tube of a skirt, encased in see-through black hose, they tapered down to a pair of high, arched heels, black, with little spiked metal stilettos. It must hurt her feet to be crammed into those, he had thought vaguely through the cloud of lust that enveloped him. When the presentation finished, Ernie told Dick
    Hastings, her boss, that they should meet again.
    ‘I have more questions.’
    ‘Let’s rearrange,’ Dick said, smoothly. ‘Unfortunately I have a three o’clock uptown.’
    ‘No problem.