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cup. It was not an observation I would normally have made in my working day. Tina Kennedy’s lingerie was not something I wanted to think about – and especially not now. But as she paused by my boss’s shoulder to hand him the file of documents he had requested, she bent low and looked straight at me in a manner I could only describe afterwards as challenging.
    That violet brassière was sending me a message. That, and the moisturised, lightly tanned flesh it contained, was a souvenir of my promotion night two and a half weeks previously.
    I do not scare easy, but it was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen.
    In an involuntary gesture, I felt in my pocket for my phone. Vanessa, my girlfriend, had texted me three times in the past half-hour, even though I had told her that this meeting was of vital importance and not to be interrupted. I had read the first message, and tried to ignore the insistent vibration of those that followed:
    ‘Don’t forget to get Men’s Vogue re suit on page 46. You would look great in the dark one XXX’
    ‘Swtie pls call me we need 2 talk about seat plans’
    ‘Imp U call b4 2pm as I hv to give Gav answer about shoes. AM WAITING XXX’
    I sighed, feeling the peculiar mix of nagging anxiety and stasis that two hours spent in a stuffy boardroom surrounded by other men in suits can bring.
    ‘The bottom line, as with all such ventures, is unit capacity. We think we have put together a development plan that will give us the growth potential of the longer-term luxury-stay market, with the benefits of a more fluid short-term market, both designed to maximise revenue streams not just throughout the summer months but the whole year.’
    The phone buzzed against my thigh, and I wondered absently if it was audible over the sound of Dennis Beaker’s voice. I had to hand it to Nessa. She wouldn’t give in. She’d seemed barely to hear me this morning when I explained that leaving work mid-afternoon or, for that matter, calling her would be difficult. But, then, she didn’t seem to hear much these days, except ‘wedding’. Or, perhaps, ‘baby’.
    Below, the grey, lead-tarnished length of Liverpool Street stretched away towards the City. I could just see, if I tilted my head, the figures on the pavement: men and women dressed in blue, black or grey, marching smartly along below the sooty masonry to get plastic-boxed lunches that they would gobble at their desks. Some people thought of it as a rat-race, but I had never felt like that: I had always felt comforted by the uniformity, the shared sense of purpose. Even if that purpose was money. On quiet days, Dennis would point out of the window and demand, ‘What do you think he earns, eh, or her?’ And we would value them, depending on such variables as cut of jacket, type of shoes and how straight they stood as they walked. Twice, he had sent the office junior running downstairs to see if he had guessed right, and both times, to my surprise, he had.
    Dennis Beaker says that nothing and nobody on God’s earth is without a monetary value. After four years’ working with him, I’m inclined to agree.
    On the slickly polished table in front of me sat the bound proposal, its glossy pages testament to the weeks Dennis, the other partners and I had spent clawing this deal back from the brink. Nessa had complained last night, as I checked it yet again for errors, that I was devoting far more energy to that one document than to what she considered our more pressing concerns. I protested, but mildly. I knew where I was with those pages. I was far more comfortable with revenue streams and income projections than with her amorphous, ever-shifting desires for this flower arrangement or that colour-coordinated outfit. I couldn’t tell her I preferred to leave the wedding to her – on the few occasions I’d got properly involved, as she had requested, I’d reduced her to hysterics with things I’d apparently got wrong. I couldn’t help it – it was