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rolled-up note between thumb and forefinger. He held it to his nose as he snorted some of the powder. Leaving an even empty streak down the heap of powder. He sat back, rubbing his nostril. From a packet lying at his feet he extracted a cigarette. And lit it. Staring up at the night sky through the large French doors that lead to the sprawling garden outside.
    It was a night just like tonight, he thought to himself. ‘’Twas a night not unlike tonight,’ he said aloud. Laughing sardonically at his attempt at humour. Yes. It was a night not unlike tonight when his world first fell apart.
    Kyle looked for the TV remote. He flicked on the TV and watched without interest at the flashing images on the large plasma screen TV.
    When was it exactly? Almost two months ago? Had it been that long?
    Even in his drunken stupor Kyle could remember the night as if it had happened yesterday. He had been sitting in almost exactly the same position, watching CNN. When the phone had rung. It was a private number. Identity withheld. Usually he never answered calls like that. But on that specific night something had prompted him to take the call. It was a man on the other end. His voice unknown to Kyle. And yet, the sound of it had sent a cold chill down his spine. He had found something about the voice to be deeply disturbing. But these thoughts soon vanished from his mind when he listened to what the caller had to say.
    ‘Good evening, Kyle,’ the voice had said. ‘Where is your wife tonight?’
    Just like that. A simple greeting. And then an even simpler question. ‘Who is this?’ Kyle had asked. But there had been no response. And the caller disconnected the call. Kyle had thrown the phone down in irritation. Who the hell was trying to mess with him? And what kind of sad person derived pleasure from such a call. He tried to dismiss the call and forget about it. He tried to watch TV. And yet. The call kept nagging at him. Bugging him.
    ‘Who was that?’ He said aloud. And then ... not because of the call ... he tried to convince himself ... not because of the call ... he phoned his wife. She was working late. Again. Her agency had been involved in more than one pitch over the last few weeks. And she was working late again. He had dialled her cell phone. But it was on voicemail. He decided to leave it. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t focus on the bland report on global warming on the TV screen. So then ... not because of that call ... he decided to phone his wife’s work number. Clare – her personal assistant – had answered. After the customary greetings and social enquiries he had asked Clare if he could speak to Angelique. There was a moment of silence.
    ‘Kyle, are you alright?’
    ‘Yes, Clare,’ he said with slight irritation. ‘I just want to speak to Angelique.’
    Another moment of silence.
    ‘Kyle, she’s meeting you at Le Jardin .’ Le Jardin was the premier French restaurant in Sandton.
    Kyle felt his stomach sink. He had made no such arrangement with Angelique. He quickly recovered. ‘Oh shit. Of course. Damn, thanks for reminding me, Clare.’
    ‘Really, Kyle,’ Clare said laughing, ‘How could you forget?’
    Kyle made perfunctory apologies then hung up. His heart was beating hard. A nausea was welling up in his throat. Without a second’s hesitation, he grabbed his car keys and headed for the garage. After a mad dash through the busy streets of Bryanston and Sandton, he pulled up in front of the restaurant. Ignoring the entreaties of the maitre d’ , he charged into the restaurant. Just in time to find his wife of three years – the absolute love of his life – exchanging a tender kiss with James Burton, co-founder of the Magic Carpet Factory. And one of the industry’s most powerful players.
    Kyle stood before their table. While a shocked Angelique Devlin stared dumbfounded at her husband. ‘Angelique? What are you doing?’
    Angelique opened her mouth, about to speak. But it was too late. Kyle