

### Not 'til The Fat Lady Sings

An Amorality Tale

FCJ Lloyd

Copyright 2018 FCJ Lloyd

Published by FCJ Lloyd at Smashwords

1st Edition

This is a work of fiction. Moreover, it is a farrago of utter nonsense, so any resemblance to reality in any way, shape, or form, now or in the future, would be a) surprising and b) quite flattering.

All the chapter sub-heading poems are by the poet-painter, William Blake. The one that isn't is a palpable forgery.

With thanks to

RL Adams, Patrick Clark, Jeremy Hullah, Kath Pyke, Anna Gawley, Daphne Fallieros Potter, Amber Johnston, Richard Rogerson, Geoff Parkinson, Chris Tacy, and Alxe Noden for reading early drafts and giving me invaluable feedback.

Dedicated To Robert James 'Jim' Lloyd

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support!

### Table of Contents

Chapter 1 – A Party

Chapter 2 - The Office

Chapter 3 – Colorado

Chapter 4 – Derbyshire

Chapter 5 – Asia

Chapter 6 – Aspen

Chapter 7 – Douglas

Chapter 8 – Wales

Chapter 9 – At Home

Chapter 10 – Hospital

Chapter 11 – Another Party

Chapter 12 – Beijing

### Prologue

What is it, daddy?

It's a brooch. A sort of good luck charm. It's made of jade

It looks like grandma's necklace

Very well spotted, my lovely

Can I have it?

I'm afraid not, my little princess. It doesn't belong to me

Is it grandpa's?

It is, yes

The little girl absorbed this information for a long moment

So do we have to hide it?

We do, yes

Will grandpa ever come back to see us? Will he want his things? Suppose we aren't here and he can't find them?

Then he'll have to find you and ask you where you hid them, won't he?

### A Party

The selfish, smiling fool, and the sullen, frowning fool

shall be both thought wise, that they may be a rod.

What is now proved was once only imagin'd.

The rat, the mouse, the fox, the rabbit watch the roots;

the lion, the tyger, the horse, the elephant watch the fruits.

**Y** ou find me at a 'works do', the annual J&J Christmas party held by Our Illustrious Chairman at his "little place in the country". Throckmorten Hall, far from being little, is a vast ancestral pile from the Gothic Horror school of architecture, complete with gargoyles modeled on close family relatives, tepid hot water central heating and, one suspects, a first wife in the attic. Attendance is optional unless you want your job. All staff and their significant others are present and correct in best bib and tucker and acres of gooseflesh undulates in all directions.

In Dickensian glamour, the halls are decked with boughs of holly, tra la la la la, and the senior lechers are strategically placed under the mistletoe. A massive fireplace dominates the far end of the main hall, but by some architectural miracle the fireplace defies the laws of physics and doesn't emit any warmth but instead sucks the heat from the room. At the first Christmas party I attended at Throckmorten Hall, I became convinced that the fire was a hologram and to prove it, I went and stood in the fireplace (it's large enough to spit-roast a couple of sturdy peasants) discreetly looking for evidence of a hidden projector. Patrick, Lord Throckmorten, saw me peering closely at the mantel and mistaking my interest to be architectural, treated me to a fifteen minute discourse on 19th Century wood carving (feel free to ask me about linenfold strapwork. Go on, I know you want to). As this isn't my first rodeo, I'm wearing a low cut gown of heavy velvet in bottle green. It's supposed to be fairly snug: form-fitting as my dressmaker puts it, but I'm wearing cashmere underwear to keep the chill at bay and now it is very snug indeed. I look like a blow up Morticia Addams doll. A warm one.

There are probably eighty or so of us mingling with enforced gaiety, swilling down the Christmas Punch. J&J is a both a private insurance company and Fine Art public auctioneer. It's not a big firm, not like Christies or Sotheby's, who, by the way, are only auctioneers, not insurers, but J&J has satellite offices in New York, Zurich, and Buenos Aires, and employs some fifty or so people here in London. I'm one of their insurance agents. I love telling people I'm an insurance agent and watch their eyes glaze over. In truth, I'm an insurance actuary and Asian art specialist on the Fine Art side of the business.

There are four senior staff in the Fine Art department and we are all here tonight. It's our chance to make a good impression on the next levels up of management i.e. The Board. The head of our department, Bernard, is becoming increasingly unwell (by which I mean that no one can any longer cover up the fact that his drinking is causing J&J severe problems and the limit is fast being reached) and we, the sharks, smell his blood in the water.

Like a tanker pulling a reluctant tug boat, Out Illustrious etc. Lord Throckmorten, "call me Patrick" (subtext: If you dare), is doing the rounds closely followed by a young man who must be a grandson that I'd missed somewhere along the line. I'm keeping my eye on Patrick's progress as I want to be discreetly in his way so that he has to notice me. Tracking him isn't a difficult task, for a start he's preternaturally tall and sports a monumental quiff up top, much like a Mr. Whippy on the move. The crowd parts around him like waves around ship, the Brownian ripples telling me where he is at any given moment. I circle discreetly, moving both Patrick-wards and bar-wards. Along my circuitous voyage, I find myself washing up next to a small Chinese woman.

"Great dress, Lin."

Linda Wang was wearing a floor length Cheung-sam in jade green with embroidered silver dragons and a slit up the side. Real silver thread, I noted. "You don't think it might be a tad clichéd?" I continued.

Lin gazed at me. "See this? This is my inscrutable smile. Later I shall stab you with a chopstick pulled from my hairdo." Lin's parents escaped from China with Lin's grandmother just before the Cultural Revolution kicked off and somehow wound up in Britain. They militantly adopted British customs and are bewildered by their daughter's obvious delight in her heritage. Lin made a decision fairly early on in life that she was going to be Chinese, stereotypically Chinese, and 'though she doesn't actually speak in pidgin English, you know she's itching to. It wouldn't surprise me if she binds her feet on weekends, which would go a long way to explaining why she is reluctant to nip out and get me the espresso coffees I so desperately need to keep going during the day.

Lin is my personal assistant and has been since I started at the firm some <cough> years ago. She's been at J&J forever and is fiercely loyal and frighteningly smart. I have no idea how old she is, in fact there's a distinct whiff of the Dorian Grey about her, but her experience is ancient. If she wasn't so utterly invaluable I dare say I might rebuke her for her cheek. As if. She's terrifying.

"Who's the puppy following our Dear Leader around?" I ask her.

"That's Jonas. He's going to be our new boy."

"Really? I didn't know we were getting more staff."

Lin sighs. "Don't you ever read your emails?"

"Is that rhetorical? Because you know I don't. I expect you to read them and tell me what's going on."

"Yes, I do. But that system only works if you read MY emails."

"How terribly ingenious. Did I come up with that plan or did you? I must make a note. Remind me, will you?" Lin closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, but before she can launch into A Speech, I quickly ask "who will he be working under, do you know?"

"Bernard, I expect. His thesis was on some dreary iconography of color in 18th Century Portuguese watercolors."

"Ah". My knowledge of Portuguese watercolors is limited, to put it mildly.

Knowing me as she does, and always keen to display her superior knowledge, Lin launches into a lecture tour of what the colors represent. Red for the establishment, blue for reformist elements, etc. etc.; the colors of religious subversion. Before she can get completely carried away, I hold up my hand and say

"Stop. Everything is on a need to know basis, and I really don't need to know. What I really need to know is when The Board is going to suggest Bernard spends more time with his hepatologist. Can't you find out?"

Before she can answer, Lord Throckmorten hoves into harbor and drops anchor next to her.

"Louise, Lin, I'd like you to meet Jonas." Patrick maneuvers the terrifyingly young man in front of us. "Jonas will be joining us in the New Year, and I thought this would be a terrific opportunity for him to meet his future colleagues under more relaxed circumstances." Jonas seems to be exactly the sort of hire you would expect a three hundred-year-old private insurance company to make. One Of Us. I greet Patrick and Jonas with a full wattage smile and say

"Welcome, Jonas! Forgive me for not being around for your initial interviews, but I read your resume and was impressed. Your thesis was on Portuguese watercolors I seem to remember. I was just telling Lin about the importance of the color blue in Catholic schism theory. She was fascinated and I'm sure you can tell her more."

I can almost hear Lin's teeth gritting as I continue smoothly, "we're so looking forward to having you on board. Do let me know if you need any help settling in, questions I can answer and so forth." An insouciant spray of acne lingers on Jonas' cheeks, denoting his status as Still A Virgin. I touch his arm and allow him a view of my cleavage, ensuring that he'd die of embarrassment rather than come near me again. Jonas blushes an unbecoming shade of puce and stutters incoherently. The social ineptitude of the youth of today is quite staggering. I blame the growing temperance movement.

"Absolutely," I say, "I recommend the punch, you can't go wrong."

Jonas can, of course, go horribly wrong with the punch. It's made with industrial strength Everclear, because J&J through long experience, knows that in a social setting, tipsy sociopathic employees are easier to deal with than sober ambitious ones.

Having impressed upon Patrick my grasp of employee care and management skills, I'm rather pleased with myself. Annoying Lin was just icing on the cake. I'd pay for it later, of course. I always do. As Patrick and Jonas move off into the crowd, I turn to Lin

"He really is very young. Bernard will eat him alive. I give him two months, tops."

"Less, if tries to explain his thesis to me," says Lin dryly, "and, as I see Charles advancing upon us, I'm going to leave you to it."

My voyage towards the bar thwarted, I turned and watched as Charles oozed his way through the well-heeled mass like butter on a hot crumpet, the gel in his white blonde hair glinting festively. We'd worked together, or rather in the same department, for some ten years and I trusted him about as far as I could throw him. I didn't dislike Charles and in some ways quite admired his abilities with overly exacting clients, but had never really warmed to him. His flamboyantly gay persona seemed to me to be a mask for what I suspected was a really vicious little thug. Reggie Kray with an Eton education. Charles is Oils, specialist subject Religious Painting of the 15th Century. He is definitely joint favorite in the running for Head of Department.

"I see you've been introduced to the new blood. As if Jonas wouldn't give his left nut to be working for J&J. And he'll be smitten until someone tells him you're gay."

"No doubt that'll be you, Charles."

Charles craned sideways past my shoulder "that happy experience is to be denied me I'm afraid. Pretty sure Bea has beaten me to it judging by the expression on laddie-boy's face."

"What a witch that woman is. Ah well, probably just make him keener. Most men seem to be under the impression I haven't met the right man yet, and that man is himself."

"I tell myself that all the time," said Charles earnestly "and do you know, I'm almost always right?"

Escaping Charles, I make beeline for the bar schmoozing my way among the guests, all the time being careful to keep a woman in a blue dress in my peripheral vision. She has dark hair sleekly cropped to her lovely head. Single diamonds suspended on thin chains hang from her perfect ears, matching the single diamond nestling at the base of her throat. The illusion of poise is belied by the tension in her fingers. I idly wonder if the stem of the flute she's holding will snap and if it did, would she?

I promised myself I'd resist but as always, I find myself helpless in the face of temptation. Such a lovely face too. Emma is channeling Sophia Loren in a strapless midnight blue gown that magnifies and underpins her plump little breasts. Like a baby's bum under her chin.

"Emma! How are you? How's Duncan?"

"I'm coping. Barely. Duncan's *this* close to being sued for workplace harassment."

I lean in and whisper, "dump him and come back to me."

Emma is Duncan's wife. Duncan is the Chairman's nephew, de facto heir apparent, and a relentless sexual predator. Despicable Duncan is the sort of man who sniffs cocaine off toilet seats and fingers women in crowds, whilst Emma is adorable, clever and funny. Our affair had been perfect. A ripe plum in an icebox on a hot summer morning.

"Do you really mean that?"

I watched a flush rise across her chest and up her neck. A flush of desire. The diamond at her throat bobbed along with her pulse.

"Yup."

Her sigh flutters across my cheek and I inhale it. It almost stops my heart.

I move back into the throng buoyed by that flush. It occurs to me that I might be in love with Emma. But there again, the road to hell is paved with broken hearts and maybe mine shouldn't be one of them. Fortunately, another vision of loveliness floats across my path and puts Emma quite out of my thoughts.

"Saphira. As radiant as ever."

I, like everyone else, had a massive crush on Saphira. She was magnificently arrayed tonight in a coppery sequined off the shoulder number with a burnt orange under slip that matched her flame hair and the lipstick on her bee-stung lips. The dress was a slightly unfortunate choice as it was eye-poppingly apparent she was cold. Bronzes and military artifacts were her specialty. She had arrived in the department almost a year ago in a perfumed cloud trailing a husband in her wake. That hadn't stopped me before, but we quickly established that she wasn't interested in playing for the other side. However, I live in hope.

"I feel terrible, I should have warned you about the temperature at these things. How many passes have you had to fend off?"

"Including the Despicable Duncan?"

"Ugh. How mortifyingly repellent. Is it you who is reporting him for workplace harassment?" I joked.

"No, but I should." She was clearly angry.

"Seriously? That bad?" I'd heard some fairly appalling stories, but Duncan usually confined himself to secretaries so I was surprised.

"No. Well, yes actually. He grabbed my...." she gestured downward, "but I want my career, so I'm not rocking the boat."

Sensing an opportunity I said, "no one should have to put up with that. Leave it to me. It won't happen again."

Nominally I am Duncan's equal, apart from the whole nephew of the Chairman thing, so I could have a word with him without it being out of turn. I wouldn't describe myself as a _leading_ member of the Sisterhood, but enough was enough, #metoo and all that. Handling staff grievances isn't in my job description, but it couldn't hurt to start marshaling allies. I felt the mantle of battle settle across my shoulders. I knew something about Duncan, and it was time to remind him of it. I'd be a shining star to Saphira, Duncan would drown himself, and with any luck Emma would be thrust back into my arms. The drowning was highly unlikely, but a girl can dream.

Slightly lost in my reverie of Being A Heroine, I jump as a voice mutters in my ear.

"Do you ever think you'll burn in Hell, Louise?"

Flicking the slopped gin from my fingers, I say "good grief Bea, what sort of party chit-chat is that?"

"I saw you whispering in Emma's ear and from her expression, guessed what you might be saying to her. Your guilty start confirms my suspicions. Take my advice and don't. These intra-corporate affairs never end well."

"You should have been a careers counselor, Bea," I say lightly to cover my annoyance. I had to quell a sudden urge to add "and anyway you're too late" just to see her flinch in the face of reality.

To reflect the party mood Bea was wearing a long cotton skirt, no doubt made by a tragically poor but picturesque peasant, which looked as though it needed a damn good wash and iron. Draped over her left shoulder and tied on her right hip was what can only be described as a loosely woven burlap sack, although, mercifully, this covered her lurching bosom. Bea reminds me of a relentlessly hippy art teacher I had at school. All basket weaving, tie dye, knitting one's own jam, and a mistrust of supportive undergarments. She flows in all directions. I suspect she douses herself in patchouli to cover up the stench of brimstone.

Beatrice smiled and clippety-clopped away, satisfied she'd needled me. Bea also considers herself in the running for HoD and she is not one of my fans. The fact that I'm younger, prettier, smarter, and wildly more charismatic than her rankles for some reason. Ostensibly, Bea wouldn't dream of stooping to wrestle in the mire of office politics but her almost offensive levels of inanity disguise her ambition very effectively; Candice-Marie shellacked over Lady Macbeth. Quite rightly she sees me as a rival for the Head of Department post, and although she isn't, in my opinion, a serious candidate, I don't underestimate the damage the passive aggressive comments she lets fall can do.

Bea is Textiles. Hand forged artworks from the finest of laces, silks, and bejeweled gowns of Kings and Queens to the primitive indigenous weavings of the New World. Increasingly, the fashion collections of the 20th and 21st centuries. Specialist subject: The Emperor's New Clothes. No one in their right mind would promote Bea to Head of Department.

Watching her go I gloomily survey my still empty glass. Was I doomed to never get to the bar?

"Is she wearing _clogs_?" asks an incredulous voice at my elbow.

I grinned and turned to exchange air kisses with a tall bearded man. "That's the sound of cloven hooves, James. She can try to disguise them all she likes, but they had to pop out sooner or later. You're back from New York early! Goodness, did you come alone?"

"Yes, Louise, as did you. Perhaps we could have come together?" His eyebrows twitched suggestively.

"Really James, I haven't had enough to drink to exchange innuendoes with you."

James is Ceramics and his specialist subject is 16th Century Italian porcelain. He and Charles are locked in a never-ending battle for position and importance within J&J. Bernard's incipient indisposition is the moment they've been waiting for. They are more or less equally senior, but while James has the higher public profile, Charles has the more prestigious clients. Oil paintings say so much more about you than vases ever can.

James is very much the public face of J&J. He takes great pride in attending all art functions with a younger, _much_ younger, female companion on his arm. Private Eye refers to him as 'noted pogonophile JJJames'. I like him and would vastly prefer James as my boss over Charles. Truthfully, the possibility that I could make Head of Department is remote; I am honest enough to know that only the necessity to not promote either Charles or James above the other would be the reason. Still, the possibility is there, and I remain optimistic. Maybe they'll both get run over by a Bentley.

"Then let's exchange information instead. You tell me what's been happening while I've been away and I'll tell you how I've been pimping you out to New York for a new client of theirs with an interesting Asian collection. They need you there as soon as possible."

"How lovely. A sale or a valuation?"

"Initially an insurance valuation, but you know how these things go. As soon as you tell them how much all their baubles are worth they can't help but want to flog them off and buy something else. And if that's the way it goes, then J&J need to handle the sale. I don't want the older boys taking our lunch money."

"So you've seen the collection?"

"Only photos on the chap's phone! Can you believe it? I don't think he has any idea at all of what he's got. I told him that we had the top expert in the field for his collection. That's you, Louise," he added helpfully.

"Excellent. I haven't been to the New York office for ages. Send all the details to Lin and she'll organize me."

"That woman has the organizational skills of a Manila madam when the Fleet's in; I've never understood why she's still at J&J and not running a small country. You're bloody lucky to have her, Louise."

"I know. Although sometimes I wonder what I've done to deserve her."

Leaving James, at last I make it to the bar where I find my boss, Bernard, embedded. As he always is.

"Ah, Louise. Come to feast on the corpse, eh?"

It's unfortunate, but unsurprising, that Bernard's almost legendary drinking has finally caught up with him. He must have been quite the man about town back in the 60's, hanging out with film stars and rock musicians, and if the gossip is to be believed, was one of Francis Bacon's lovers. His ruined face, like the watercolors in which he is an expert, is smudged, faint, foxed, and terribly terribly English.

"Is the buffet that bad?"

"You know what I mean. I'm done for. I'm only hanging on to piss you lot off and watch you jump through hoops to get my job." He laughed without mirth and leaned in towards me, his truly astonishing halitosis lifting and peeling my carefully applied foundation.

"Not that you've got a chance."

I'm not a watercolor fan, finding them spineless and passive aggressive though perhaps I'm anthropomorphizing. I've never put myself on the wrong side of Bernard but have never been an enthusiastic supporter either. Bernard doesn't just dislike me, he actively hates me, or maybe all women, and it annoys him that he hasn't been able to find a stick with which to beat me. Not that he needs one with the acetylene torch of his breath. If Bernard has anything to do with choosing his successor I might as well give up now.

Bernard is standing with Lawrence, our Modern and Contemporary expert. Lawrence is in his mid-thirties and is good looking in a rather pale, dissipated way. The pallor is heightened by the contrasting dark circles under his eyes, suggestive of secret debaucheries. Not to put too fine a point on it, he looks as though he's been 'rode hard and put away wet'. His lack of social skill is more than made up for by his highly developed ability to arse lick. I mean, no one else would possibly stand that close to Bernard by choice. Lawrence is bracingly pretentious and actually refers to himself as "Moi".

"Louise, you look...... warm. How sensible! So unlike Moi!"

"Well next time perhaps you'll wear a jacket" I glance down "and socks, and we'll all be more comfortable."

Lawrence has many faults but an inferiority complex isn't one of them.

"But then I wouldn't look so boyishly charming, Louise."

Unlike the rest of us, Lawrence is not dressed in black tie, but in a Modern and Contemporary style. He is wearing a t shirt with dress pants, and loafers with no socks. This sartorial faux pas, combined with his pony tail (!), earring, and overweening ambition, are just a few of the reasons that he would never be considered for H of D. Ever.

Moving away from Bernard and starting to unobtrusively circle my way back into Emma's orbit, I'm not paying attention and stupidly walk under a doorway festooned with mistletoe, where I get accosted by Poor Johnny.

"Louise! How about a Christmas kiss?"

"Johnny! What in the world are you doing here? I didn't know you had anything to do with J&J." I adroitly whisk myself out of Poor Johnny's reach and stiff arm my glass out in front of me like a pikestaff to keep him at bay. Poor Johnny has a tendency to presume which is why he's hanging out, ever hopeful, under the mistletoe.

"Poor Johnny" is how my mother has always referred to the 4th Earl of Barryglen ever since she left him, if not exactly at the altar, certainly at the prenuptial signing desk when she found out he wasn't even remotely as well-heeled as he had led her to believe. I recoil further as it crosses my mind that Poor Johnny could have been one of my stepfathers but for the grace of my mother's avarice.

"Oh, I don't. I'm staying at the Hall for Christmas. I'm an old friend of Patrick and Caroline's. Actually I'm one of Patrick's cousins."

"Ah yes, I can see the resemblance now you mention it." I don't add that the resemblance is to the gargoyle to the left of the portico as you enter the Hall.

"I'm glad to see you so well, Louise. Patrick always speaks very highly of you."

"He does? I mean, how flattering of you to say so."

"And how is your mother?" says Poor Johnny.

"Oh, the same as ever. She doesn't change."

"Yes, she will always be beautiful," he says sadly.

I'd actually meant that she was still a self obsessed egoist who could give Narcissus a run for his money, but I don't argue the point. Seeing an opportunity to annoy my mother, I answer

"Quite. She and Stavely are home for Christmas, you should drop by for a drink, I'm sure she'd love to catch up."

Poor Johnny's face lights up "oh, I'd love to do that. What a super idea, Louise. Yes, yes. I'll do just that."

I'm almost looking forward to being there just to see her face when he turns up. The thought fills me with happiness so when Lin materializes beside me, I am buoyant

"What Ho, Jeeves!"

A flat malevolent glare was the response to my gay little sally.

"You might want to go steady on the gin. The Chairman is wanting to corner you for a little chat."

I'm surprised, but I can't help a feeling of elation. "Really? Is it about Bernard's job?"

Lin shook her head slightly "I honestly don't know."

"Seeing as you know everything that happens around here before it happens, I find it hard to believe you can't find out. That's two things tonight. You're slipping."

"Well, I probably can find out, but probably not before he corners you," and as punishment for the Jeeves quip she added, "but I do know it's not about Emma."

I blenched. "Christ, does everyone know?"

Lin savored her triumph for a bit before sighing "no, no one does. I know, and Bea probably guesses, but you're skating on thin ice Louise. We have a saying in China....."

I roll my eyes. Here we go. Lin's is forever peppering her conversation with "Chinese Sayings". She makes most of them up, I swear.

"...... _Qí hǔ nán xià_. Which means you're riding a tiger. Your private affairs won't bear scrutiny as well you know."

That last brought me up short. She was right, but she couldn't possibly know how right. My private affairs, both of the heart and of the treacherous soul, most certainly needed to remain 'well hid', as the Bard so often says.

I find Despicable Duncan emerging from the toilets, no doubt having indulged himself with a little Bolivian marching powder. Duncan has come to J&J temporarily from his high-flying, high-powered job in the City, allegedly on sabbatical, but actually because he was caught with his hand in the till. No one knows that, although on reflection, Patrick must. Oh, and me. I know because Emma told me. Pillow secrets and all that. The official reason given for his J&J sabbatical is that he needs to get some broader experience before he goes into Political Office.

"Duncan, could I have a word?"

"Hello, Louise. What's up?"

Sidestepping the line that's been handed to me on a plate, I say, "I was wondering if I could ask you a favor? I need a little advice."

Duncan is too well bred to display the obvious surprise that he must feel at my request but not well bred enough to stop a lascivious look from creeping across his dissolute features. My skin prickles despite the moral warmth of my militant feminism as his gaze rakes me. I initially thought that I'd take immense pleasure in slowly revealing my intention under the guise of asking for advice, letting the knowledge creep over him that I had the upper hand and playing him like a cat with a mouse (because that's me, Louise Benning; aka master manipulator and psychological torturer). But it turns out my stomach isn't strong enough to keep my revulsion at bay, I don't want to spend a moment longer with him than I have to, so I blurt out

"If you don't stop sexually harassing Saphira, and for that matter anyone else, I will let it be publicly known that you were caught stealing from your clients at Morgan Stanley."

Duncan goes very still. "That's a lie."

"No, it isn't."

"I can make your life very uncomfortable, Louise."

"Not as uncomfortable as I can make yours. Your call, Duncan."

Blackmail is such an ugly word. But when you compare it to "I fingered her pussy knowing she dare not complain" or "I grabbed her hand and rubbed it over my cock", it loses some of its sting, no?

We glared at each other. Duncan blinked first.

"Go fuck yourself, Louise."

"Rather me than you," I mutter as he stalked off.

I slipped away into one of the lesser drawing rooms to take a moment to compose myself after confronting Duncan and rehearse some gracious off the cuff comments of acceptance and gratitude. Admiration of Bernard. Sad it has come to this. Future of J&J most important. Thrilled with trust placed in me, etc etc etc. I stood under the watchful eyes of innumerable ancestral portraits lining the walls. Whilst many of them had served their country with distinction, rumor has it the original peerage was bestowed for lending obscene amounts of money to Personages who really should have known better.

"Drink, Louise?" boomed a voice. Our Illustrious Chairman, Patrick Leonard Fernley-Lemoy, Earl of Throckmorten and the owner of the voice, heaved himself from the depths of one of the armchairs. Patrick was the great great grandson of the founder of the firm.

"Lord Throckmorten. I'm so sorry, I didn't realize this room was occupied."

"Not at all m'dear. Glad to have a chance to talk to you in private actually. Have a seat and I'll pour you a drink."

Instantly on my guard, I started to say 'thank you' and sat down on the sofa, which strained by the centuries of Throckmorten behinds, swallowed me whole. Abandoning dignity and professional demeanor, I fought my way upright and managed to say "Oh. Ah."

Patrick handed me my drink. He seemed to be casting about for the right words. He finally pulled himself together and gestured with his glass.

"That's my great great grandfather over the fireplace. Founded the firm in 1830. One of the great China traders. Tea, silk, ceramics, artwork and whatnot," he trailed off. I gazed at the portrait for several minutes. Josiah Fernley-Lemoy, a middle aged man wearing a beribboned and powdered wig and incongruously dressed in Chinese robes, sat in an ornate dragon chair. One hand held a scroll while the other, sporting a large carved jade ring, rested on the arm of the chair. It was clearly of excellent quality but the emphasis on all things Chinese threw me a bit.

"Copeley?"

"Yes."

"Unusual composition," I ventured.

"Indeed. Showing that one's fortune accumulated from opium was a bold statement back then. Probably still is actually" he reflected. "J&J have always been partners with the Chinese." He fell silent.

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed. The faux rococo gilt and ormolu timepiece depicted a terrified nude astride a horse which had been driven to madness, judging by the foam dripping from its teeth, by having a clock wedged between its legs. It gave a new meaning to the phrase 'having the time of your life'. The chimes stirred Patrick into animation.

"Well. There we are. I'm glad we had this little chat, Louise. Remember my door is always open if you need help with anything."

He held out his hand and hauled me out of the sofa "really must get that seen to" he muttered. I started to walk back towards the revelry somewhat confused and slightly peeved that the promised chat hadn't lived up to my expectations of a promotion.

"Asian art's your specialty, isn't it?"

I'd like to say that was when the first prickle of unease tiptoed across the back of my neck. He knew damn well it was. On the other hand, I never attribute to foresight that which can be explained by mere stupidity. And I can be remarkably stupid indeed.

### The Office

He who the Ox to wrath has mov'd

Shall never be by Woman lov'd.

The wanton Boy that kills the Fly

Shall feel the Spider's enmity.

He who torments the Chafer's sprite

Weaves a Bower in endless Night.

**J** &J's offices are ostensibly housed in a Georgian mansion north of the river and a little west of the City, nestled in an expensive, but not vulgarly garish enclave. The entrance is a discreet black door, a bit like 10 Downing Street, but larger, with an even more discreet security guard playing doorman. Sitting uneasily behind the magnificent Regency building, like a carbuncle on the backside of humanity, is a modernist cube where our real offices are, the ones where the work is done. Front of house is Portland stone, sash windows, and marble flooring; where we dwell is smoked glass, inoperable windows, and sensible nylon carpet.

Linking the two buildings is the original ballroom, now J&J's auction room, with multiple double doors leading out onto a stone terrace. The two staircases at either end of the terrace frame an immaculate garden with a perfect reflecting pool at its center. My office does not look down on this serene vision; I merit a window in my office, but not a view. Instead, I can gaze wistfully on the service pipes running down next door's brickwork. If my window opened I could probably touch them.

Fine Art is on the third floor, just high up enough to make one feel guilty if one takes the lift, but too low to get out of the Stygian gloom of the built environment. My office is towards the rear, and the whole of the back wall as you enter is smoked glass held in place with bronze metalwork, a bit like Tom Cruise's Rayban Aviators in Top Gun. <Shudder>

As befits my specialist subject, my office is a mélange of Asian artwork. Some of it I'm appraising, some of it is awaiting sale, and some of it I own. The two ink on bamboo paintings on the wall are mine, as is the Kilim on the floor. Opposite my desk is a Chinese red lacquer credenza atop which sits a bonsai tree in a deceptively simple earthenware pot. The pot is worth more than my flat and doesn't belong to me. The wall opposite the glass, where the door is, is all bookshelves, packed to overflowing with auction catalogues, reference books, museum guides, pamphlets, files, odd bits of pottery, postcards, and anything else that has appeared on my desk for the past fifteen years. My tidy desk is a source of pride, but as Lin points out, quite often actually, the bookcase is merely a vertical desk and perhaps my pride is misplaced.

Coming back in to work after the long festive holiday is always a relief. I find immense serenity in the columns of numbers in front of me as they always make sense. Unlike my family. Being forced to imbibe at the teat of human kindness, combined with battleship floating quantities of alcohol, plays havoc with my liver; and playing happy families with those with whom I have nothing in common except the right to trial by jury leaves me exhausted and fragile.

"Morning, Lin. Had a good Christmas? How was dinner?"

Lin's tales of Christmas dinner never fail to entertain me. Lin's mother embraced British cooking with a vengeance when the family settled in the UK. Unfortunately, it was back the '60's when 'exotic' recipes for dinner parties were all the rage. Lin's mum is still producing things like Apricot Chicken and Prawn Cocktails under the mistaken notion that they are traditional British fare. It wasn't until Lin was a teen and fomented a revolution that she managed to get jello banned from the house.

"Considering that my mum still hasn't got the hang of mince pies or Brussels sprouts after thirty years, I'm surprised you have to ask. She stuffed the turkey with mashed potato, pineapple chunks and maraschino cherries. So my brother and I made deep fried chicken feet and she nearly died."

"How did you learn to cook Chinese food if your mum won't even have a fortune cookie in the house?"

"My Grandma. She was totally old school. And you do know fortune cookies aren't Chinese, don't you? They were Japanese originally. Chinese bakers starting making them after the Japanese internment during World War Two. There is so much ignorance about Chinese food in the West."

"You're going to tell me General Tso wasn't a real person and break my heart, aren't you?"

"Weirdly, he was. He's like the Chinese equivalent of Colonel Sanders. Not an actual military man but good with selling chicken."

Lin's breadth and depth of information never ceases to amaze me. However, she lies with such readiness and conviction that it's possible she's completely clueless and doing a good job of covering it up. Though only very remotely possible.

"How was yours?" she asked. "Did you have to go to Castle Doom?"

Castle Doom is the Family Seat of my mother's latest husband and is a vast rambling Tudor pile that sprawls across several acres of Kentish countryside. It has no central heating and a moat. The moat encourages endless conversation revolving around Damp, and induces panic about the location of small children because the eels that live therein are the size of nuclear submarines. My mother has lost three Pekinese over the past eight months. Let me just say that the eels were not entirely unprovoked. Nasty little beasts. The Pekes that is, not the eels.

"Only for two days. They were leaving for the Seychelles on the 27th. It was bloody awful, thank you for asking. Do you know what my mother gave me for Christmas? A consultation with a plastic surgeon."

"Wow. That's...." Lin struggled for the right words and failed.

"Exactly. Anyway, moving swiftly on, James mentioned something about a project in the States that New York needs help with. Can you find out what it's all about? What I need to do and all that? He said he had some photos too, so can you find them and send them to me?"

"But. Louise. What did you say?"

"What?"

"To your mother. When she gave you your present."

"I threw it back in her face and suggested she needed it more than I did."

Lin gasped. "You didn't!"

"No, of course I didn't. It was an appointment with a plastic surgeon not a spine transplant," I said a little bitterly. "So. James? New York?"

"There's a file on your desk with all the information we have, and a stick with the photos. You leave on Wednesday, back the following Thursday. The flight details and ticket are in the folder. You'll be staying at The Gerrard in Aspen. There's also another stick for Mr. Smith with all J&J's contractual details."

"Aspen? I thought I was going to New York."

"No. The collection is in Aspen and the client will meet you there."

I grinned. Aspen in January. Score!

"Lift tickets?" I asked hopefully.

"You have a Four Mountain lift pass for four days."

Because I was sent to one of those ludicrous girl's schools in Switzerland where they teach you to get in and out of sports cars without showing your knickers and how to address the Queen (Your Majesty the first time and thereafter Ma'am, in case you're interested), I've been skiing since I was sixteen. I've never skied Aspen and I've been dying to do so for a long time.

Lin's ruthless efficiency has ceased to surprise me. She used to be Patrick's assistant before I started here. I don't quite know why she was assigned to me, a junior member of staff, which no matter how you look at it was a demotion for her. She must have blotted her copybook in some way. But I know good fortune when I see it. Lin is the reason I've risen so high in the ranks at J&J in such a relatively short time. In the early days I made many many mistakes that she either covered up, made go away, or put right before Bernard, or anyone else discovered them.

Ruthless efficiency is one thing but it is only 9 am.

"It's only 9 am, Lin. How did you get all this organized so quickly? You're my assistant, not a magician."

"Oh, I arranged it all last week. I had to come in and finish off some stuff I didn't manage before Christmas so I did everything at once."

See what I mean about readiness and conviction?

This is why I'll be going to the US: You can't insure fine artworks for what you paid for them because beauty is subjective and the market value fluctuates. This means you have two choices: you can agree with your insurance company a set value to be paid out in the event of something happening, or you can insure for fair market value. Fair market value requires frequent appraisals, and, in the event of accidental damage or total loss, you can spend years arguing that value with lots of different appraisers and lawyers hired by the insurance company.

J&J offers these traditional coverages but also offers coverage that specifically insures against theft. My job is to assess an artwork's likelihood of being stolen and how much money it would take to get it back. Though not by offering rewards because that would be illegal, as we are piously reminded by our underwriters. In addition to theft, we insure title, so I do provenance research on title, which is very important where there's a possibility of the work being a spoil of war and ownership is looking murky.

Then I research where and how the artwork is kept (damp! The enemy of the upper class! I blame the moats), analyze security and what have you in the field, which of course requires visiting the artwork. Ultimately I write long winded assessment forms which use historical precedent, statistics, probability, theory based formal analysis, actuarial data, and problem modeling (lots of complicated algorithms), conflict management, game theory and anything else suitably densely mathematical.

That's all combined with my specific expertise and experience with the Asian Art Market, which is ever shifting, moved by the dictates of fashion and international money markets. China has become wealthy, fabulously wealthy, in the past decade; Chinese billionaires are starting to both reclaim their heritage and wanting to make a splash, and thus prices for almost everything are being pushed up. All of this information and data gets fed into a computer program that comes up with the cost of insurance.

It's a highly specialized skill. I am, as near as makes no odds, a mathematical genius and I have a Master's in Fine Art. I can't imagine there being any other profession that matches my skill set. Unless it's lap dancing.

"There's also another little matter we need to talk about," said Lin coming into my office.

I look up expectantly.

"Duncan wants your head on a spike."

"Oh, crappity crap crap," I say, falling back on my urbane professional persona. "What has he done?"

"What do you think? After your little "chat" at the party, he went to Patrick and accused Patrick of telling you about Morgan Stanley, and then demanded your head on a spike. We have a saying in China _Jiǎo tù sān kū_ , which means a crafty rabbit has more than three burrows," she paused while I failed to acknowledge this piece of wisdom before continuing with a touch of irritation, "there were other ways of handling this, Louise. You didn't have to go all Germaine Greer."

The familiar sinking sensation of having my Career On The Line washes over me.

"What did Patrick say?"

"He told Duncan the truth. That he hadn't told you and furthermore, that a sexual scandal was the last thing J&J needed given the current climate, or that he, Patrick, would stand for. He told Duncan to quit whining. There was quite a bit more, but that was the gist of it anyway."

"Patrick's not pissed at me?" I could hardly believe my luck. And then I thought about what Lin had said. "Wait. If Duncan knows Patrick didn't tell me then he has to know Emma did. That's not...... good. Duncan will be incandescent."

It came as a shock to me that though I thought I had wanted Emma to leave Duncan, when it came down to it, having her actually leave Duncan wasn't quite as fulfilling as I had imagined it might be. Duncan has a mean streak and if he knows that Emma has revealed all (!) to me, there's a more than evens chance that he'll lash out. Emma has always said that she'll leave him the next time. I wonder if I've always relied on the fact that I believed she probably never would.

"Crappity crappity crap crap."

Lin waited to give me time to work through my moral and emotional failings. "Duncan doesn't know Emma told you. I told Duncan it was me who did."

"Oh thank god." I looked up at Lin as relief rapidly gave way to confusion. "What?"

"I told Duncan it was me" she repeated. "Don't overthink it, Louise, just be grateful and accept the fact that for a little while it will be necessary for you to be traveling out of the office, say for a month or two, while this blows over. Here's your itinerary."

Putting aside Lin's revelations to meditate upon later, I looked at the itinerary and jolly sobering it was too. After returning from America I would fly to Tokyo, then to Hong Kong for the Sotheby's Asia week (Sotheby's have requested me as a consultant as well as an actuary), Jakarta, Mumbai (as J&J's representative at Christie's Indian and South-East Asian auction), Karachi, back to Tokyo, then Pyongyang of all places, San Francisco to have a look at Bonhams upcoming Pan-Pacific auction where J&J has consigned some pieces for a client, and thence back home via Beijing. It's certainly not a demotion as I'll be representing J&J at the highest level. I may not be wanted but I'm certainly in demand.

Somewhat chastened, my Joan of Arc complex now looking like insane gin fueled bravada, I start work on clearing my desk before I leave for the States. Not for the first time, Lin has pulled me out of a bonfire of my own vanities.

I'm just about to tackle the file Lin has prepared on Mr. Smith (the American client. His name isn't Smith just in case you were wondering. Client anonymity is our number one priority, or at any rate that's what it says in the literature. Truth be told, how much money our clients have is our number one priority), when my desk phone rings.

"Louise? It's Bernard. Did you get my message? I left it on your mobile so I'm calling to see if you got it."

Scrabbling in my bag for my iPhone, I eventually find it and press the home button. The screen is blank. No missed calls, no messages. I tap the screen hopefully. Nothing. It's dead.

"Sorry Bernard, I didn't. My phone... well, you know."

"Oh _really_ Louise, this was supposed to be sorted. This Can't Go On."

"I know, I know. Lin's just upgraded me to a new phone, let me check with her. I'm sorry Bernard, truly I am. Honestly, the best way to reach me is by email. I always get my email. Unless I'm checking it on my phone," I hastily amended. "Um, what was the message?"

"I need to talk to you before you go to America about that collection. I'm leaving tomorrow for the Buenos Aires office. Can you come into my office today? Say three o'clock?"

It's obviously not a request. "Yes, of course, no problem. See you then."

It's a standing joke, or would be if it was funny, that I don't "do" technology. My iPhone drops calls, fails to record messages, and loses texts on a regular basis before dying. I've had three new phones in the past two years and people are starting to lose their sense of humor over it. It's not a surprise to me; I can't wear a watch because it stops after a day or two. Perfume disappears within minutes on my skin. Starting cars is always a challenge and I can crash a Mac at three paces. This leads to a lot of frustration all round and Lin has banned me from approaching her desktop computer. I also have to carry a burner phone just in case of emergencies and a pencil with an eraser at one end to make phone calls to save me touching the screen. It goes without saying that I'm not allowed a social media account, or to play Angry Birds, or in fact do anything interesting with my iPhone. I'm the living proof that some people are Unfit for the Modern World.

The upside of this is that if someone wants to find me and can't, it's not odd or surprising, just irritating. I can drop off the grid perfectly legitimately, which is very handy because there are times I most certainly don't want to be found.

Plugging Mr Smith's stick into my Mac and opening the file of photos, I click through them. I'm gazing at half a dozen or so shots of what may be a long, dimly lit gallery but just as equally could be a morgue. There are shapes, possibly stacks of paintings, possibly statuary or furniture, or for that matter possibly coffins, all draped with sheets and piled up in the background. In the foreground of each photo is a single piece of good quality Chinese art.

I call Lin in. "Are these all the photos? Did New York take them?"

"No, these are what the owner had on his phone and sent to James. They came through pretty low res, unfortunately."

Gesturing towards the screen, showing the first photo of a Ming moon flask glowing with quiet grace, I say, "if that's what it appears to be, no wonder James has his panties in a wad. I'm guessing they're not catalogued?"

"Not as far as I'm aware."

"Oh joy. This could take months, Lin, even with a catalogue. Look at this here in the corner, that's a... " leaning forward, I touch the photo on the screen. It instantly goes blank. "Oops."

Lin sighs as she restarts the computer. "Well you're only going there to assess the rough insured value and give him an estimate of how long it would take to prepare a full valuation, you're not prepping for a sale. You won't be there that long."

"That's probably what Bernard wants to see me about this afternoon, pushing a sale. That and he's clutching his pearls over my Inability to get along with Modern Technology. He left a message on my phone, allegedly, and I didn't get it. Has my new one arrived?"

Lin produced the new phone from her pocket.

"Yes, I meant to give it to you earlier. It's all ready to go and I've added a few apps I thought might come in handy. There's a level, a GPS, and one that uses the camera as a magnifying glass and a light. Try and keep it away from your body. Always carry it in your bag, not in your pocket. And don't touch it. Maybe that will help." Lin doesn't sound hopeful.

"Oooo let's see." I love technology but it's a love hate relationship. It hates me. "My name'sh Benning. Loueesh Benning. Yesh, thank you, Mish Moneypenny, that will be all," I drawled at Lin as I started to play with my new toy.

"I'm Q in this scenario."

"Oh. Yes, of course. Sorry, Q. Which one's the self-destruct button then?"

"It's probably the one labeled Emma," said Lin, _sotto voce_ , as she walked towards the door.

"I heard that."

"Hello, Bernard."

"Louise. Come in. Sit down."

Bernard merits two glass walls in his office and long views along both cross streets. The constantly changing sets of traffic lights in all directions tend to trigger epileptic fits in his staff, or at any rate that's what we all pretend so we can drag the chair as far away from the desk as politeness will allow despite being fairly sure Bernard can strip the varnish off anyone's fingernails at four feet. His desktop is pitted and stained by the spray of a thousand venomous comments so it's not an unreasonable assumption. He steeples his fingers. I feel as though I'm about to receive a Character Building lecture from the headmistress. Sure enough, Bernard doesn't disappoint.

"I hear you'll be going on an extended tour of duty."

"Yes Bernard, I will. Quite a high profile tour, actually. My services are much in demand. I hope you won't miss me too much."

"You cherish unfounded hopes, Louise." He licked his flaking debauched lips, "of course, some might say that you are being punished."

"But not you, Bernard. You wouldn't make such a baseless accusation. You're much too wise to question Patrick's decisions." I accompany this with a winning smile, for which Bernard awards me last place.

Bernard is glaring. Up against the ropes with nowhere to go but down.

"Do you know anything about your American client, Mr. Smith?" he snaps.

I shrug. "Nothing really, apart from he lives in America and has what appears to be an interesting collection of Chinese pieces."

"He's an American Abstract Impressionist art collector. He was the high bidder for an O'Keefe in Sotheby's last auction and as far as we can know has a Rothko and a Pollock in his collection. I don't know what he's doing with Asian artwork and frankly, don't care. I'm hoping he wants us to sell whatever it is you're going to look at and thereafter provide him with something more in tune with his tastes. No doubt we can rely on you to secure any future sales for J&J." Bernard lifts his upper lip in what he assumes is a wintery smile. He looks like a vampire with constipation. "That is," he continues, "not balls it up by saying something "witty"." He air quotes the last word.

"Moi?"

"Get out."

It's the little victories that make life bearable I find.

On the way back from Bernard's office, I pop my head around the door to Saphira's office.

"Hey Saphira, got a moment?"

Saphira doesn't merit any windows, but she does get four glass walls in her internal office. With her red hair and plump lips, surrounded by twisted bits of iron and bronze weaponry, she looks like a fancy goldfish in a medieval war zone themed bowl.

"Hey yourself Louise, yes, come on in. Sit down."

"No, I won't sit down, I don't really have time to chat. I just wanted to tell you that I'm off to the States on Wednesday, and then a whistle stop tour of the Far East for a month or two. So, you won't see me around much. But before I go, I wanted to say that if you have any more trouble with Duncan, and you shouldn't, tell Lin. Tell her immediately. Promise?"

Saphira looked stricken, "did I get you in trouble?"

"God, no. I'm perfectly cable of fucking things up on my own." I grinned, "no really, it's fine, but discretion is the better part of valor so Lin tells me. Admittedly she used blunter language than that, but I can read between the lines."

"But you're coming back?" She sounded anxious, concerned even. How heart warming the dear child was.

"Oh yes, yes. I haven't been sacked or anything. I'm just very much in demand overseas it would seem."

Leaving Saphira, I decided to go down to the garden and get some fresh air. After being reprimanded by Patrick, it wouldn't surprise me if Duncan was primed to take out his inadequate penis problems on Emma. Should I call her?

The formal garden at J&J is an exquisite masterpiece of the school of English Formal Garden Design. It is almost Zen in it's restrained palette of greens, raked gravel, and severe pool design. There are no flashy flowers or tinkling fountains, just ruthlessly clipped shrubs and trees. In fact there is only one flowering plant in the whole garden; a salmon pink, scented pond lily, which blooms in May. It's the perfect place to sit and meditate on problems. In my case, The Problem of Emma.

J&J holds two big parties a year at Throckmorten Hall. I had met Emma at the previous year's Summer Party. Obviously, Duncan was known to the staff of J&J, but we hadn't met his wife although they'd been married for about two years. Emma had been wearing a beautiful Dior red silk sheath with a button bustle and matching shoes. Duncan had abandoned her at some point and I went over to make small talk and compliment her on her dress. She was beautiful, interesting, and easy to talk to, but married to the boss' nephew and thus quite out of bounds.

"Do you need a top up?" I asked as I flagged down a passing waiter.

"Not for me, thank you."

"How admirably abstemious of you."

Emma explained she had to get up early the following day, she was going to a horse show. What sort of horse show I wondered, expecting her to say Dressage, but she startled me by saying Vaquero Equitation.

I stared at her amazed. "Garrocha? Can I come and watch?"

Emma stared back at me, just as amazed. "You know what I'm talking about?"

Emma turned out to be an exponent of Garrocha. It's form of horse riding developed by the vaquero cowboys of the Argentinian pampas. They work cattle with long poles and, rather than developing jousting as a way to show off their horsemanship (as you might expect young men with twenty foot long poles to do), they would write their girlfriends and wives names in the sand in perfect flowing script with the pole while riding their horses at a canter. With the reins tied to their belts. It's not the sort of riding your average British housewife might be expected to take up as a hobby. Emma was riding in an exhibition at the South of England Show. Finding a fellow enthusiast kept us chatting for well over an hour and we agreed to meet up after she had ridden.

"By the way, lovely dress."

"Thank you. It's itchy as buggery. I need one of those monkey paw back scratchers. Actually, I'm wondering if I didn't cut the tag out properly. Would you mind having a look for me?"

"Of course not," I said, a little intrigued by my rapid promotion to BFFF.

Emma led the way upstairs to the bedroom she and Duncan were using. She turned her back to me.

"Would you unzip me? The tag's just underneath my left shoulder blade somewhere."

The dress puddled to the floor and Emma stood naked in her heels. She turned to face me and smiled,

"Scratch my itch?"

And that was how it started. In the beginning, Duncan was still the golden boy in the city and although Emma knew he was a philandering swine, he wasn't bad to live with. Once he'd been caught stealing, he started hitting her, and my lovely confident Emma slowly turned into a nerve racked, indecisive mess. In the end, I'd told her that if she didn't leave him I didn't want to see her anymore because clearly she wasn't enjoying herself, and I certainly wasn't.

I'd managed to break it off reasonably successfully but I'm not made of wood, and seeing her at the party undid all my resolve. It doesn't help knowing that something or someone is bad for you, it just makes you more disgusted with yourself when you give in. Did I love Emma? Or did I just have a masochistic need for her?

I left the garden no wiser, but feeling infinitely older, and went back up to my office. I stared at the two Wendy Yeo paintings on the wall; wrestling with my demons. Feeling something is better than feeling nothing. Even if the feeling is self loathing. The Yeo's were exquisite; pale washes of ink on bamboo. The plum blossom, like the lily in the garden pool, a reminder that life, beauty, is fleeting, and one must appreciate the moment, because a moment is all we have. Eventually, I picked up the phone.

"Meet me."

"I can't. I just can't."

"I leave on Wednesday. I've been banished."

"Banished?!"

"Well let me put it like this: My travel agenda for J&J sees me back in the UK for six days over the next two months. It's been made clear to me that I am persona non grata for the short term. I assume that means until Duncan either leaves or gets jailed. I want to see you before I go. Please."

Emma was silent for a bit and then said, "if it makes you feel any better, Patrick made it pretty clear to Duncan that he's also persona non grata, only in his case it's for the long term."

"You're joking. Duncan is out? As in no longer the heir apparent?" I'm stunned.

"Yes. Patrick was quite clear. Duncan is being encouraged, well forced, to run as an MEP in the June elections. Apparently, he's a shoo in." She paused, "we'll be living in Paris."

"I'm sure you'll both be very happy," I said savagely.

"Louise, don't. Please. Please. If I could leave him, I would, you know I would."

I tried to think of something witty to say. Insouciant. Casual. Cosmopolitan. But the words turned to dust in my mouth.

### Colorado

When the stars threw down their spears

And water'd heaven with their tears:

Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

**A** merica! I love America. I know it's fashionable to sneer at Americans and American Culture in a Godless European Liberal way, but not me. Despite the absence of any serious cheeses, I love the people and the noise and the cars and the breakfasts. Americans really know how to do breakfast. Dinner not so much, and tea is a mystery to them, but we should forgive them because they know not what they do.

Once packed, there was the vexed question of what to wear on the flight. I was flying into Denver and although Lin had booked me to change flights and hop to Aspen, I had decided I wanted to see something of Colorado, a State that I'd never visited. Driving some two hundred and fifty miles on the vast open roads of the American West appealed to me; there would be tumbleweeds and diners with sultry, small town waitresses. I decided that the only possibly outfit was Levi's and cowboy boots. A crisp white shirt. Would a bolo be too much? Waistcoat? Perhaps I could buy a cowboy hat somewhere along the way.

I have to confess that I dislike flying. Really really dislike it, because I start throwing up pretty much as soon as I buckle myself in. Some sort of motion or travel sickness I suppose. It's part of my job so I do it with bad grace and make everyone's life a misery, because why make friends when you can get everyone to hate you with just a bit more effort? As the only way I can cope is either by being heavily sedated or by squeezing my eyes shut the whole way, Lin makes sure I fly business class in one of those sleeper pods. I pretend I've been cryogenically frozen for the whole flight so I don't have to interact with anyone and upset them. All this to say, that the flight to the US was uneventful until we hit the runway at Denver and I use the word precisely.

Remember the film The Dam Busters? That was us landing. I staggered into the terminal, my eyeballs bleeding from the impact. The walk to Immigration Control took approximately four hours and the queue snaked into the dim recesses of the hall. I tried hard not to look smug, well not that hard actually, as I headed towards the Residents line. I hold an American passport for reasons with which I won't bore you. I always get a thrill when the Immigration Officer hands me back my passport and says, "Welcome home, Ms. Benning."

Lin had booked me a four wheel drive at the airport, so key in hand I emerged out of the terminal into the parking garage. I immediately turned on my heel and marched straight back in. It was bloody freezing out there. I dragged my suitcase into a restroom and fished out my down ski jacket and my sunglasses.

Emerging once again, I started to make my way across the parking lot which was covered in patches of black ice. My cowboy boots proved to be the single worse choice of footwear in the snow since Captain Oates ate the soles of his boots and had to strap bibles to his feet.

My car turned out to be the same size and shape as a small military vehicle, the sort of thing more normally seen in convoys crossing barren hostile lands. A Ford Excessive I think it was called. Fabulous. I turned on the GPS and said my destination. The bossy voiced gadget promptly told me there was no such place and did I mean Arnhem? After not much more than five minutes of screaming "Aspen" at it, I worked out what was wrong and said Aaahspern, and off I headed West: straight into the Denver traffic. I could see the snow capped mountains in the distance and all I could do was sit and watch for a couple of hours while they slowly turned black as the sun sank behind them. So much for seeing Colorado, all I'd seen so far were roadworks and concrete retaining walls. To amuse myself I tried calling Lin along the way to tell her I had arrived and to moan about the traffic but forgot that it was midnight back in Blighty and had to settle for a text.

Tired by now, I decided to clear the traffic and find somewhere to stay overnight before heading out again in the morning. There was a town called Golden at the base of the mountains that would be perfect.

The following morning dawned crisp and clear, the sunlight caroming off the snow. I threw open the windows to breathe in lungfuls of fresh mountain air. The temperature poleaxed me and I reeled back, slamming the window shut, and forcing my lungs to cooperate again. Mindful of the temperature I dressed with care, consigning the cowboy boots to the bottom of my suitcase. Layers of thermal underwear and fleece, sensible boots, all topped off with a fetching Peruvian cap with earflaps lined with alpaca fur. By the time I walked down to the restaurant for breakfast I was sweating and had to virtually strip at the breakfast table.

Breakfast was simply marvelous. To my delight, it was a fusion of Mexican and American cuisines and so I ordered crispy bacon, refried beans, a searingly hot salsa, and hash browns all rolled up in a burrito smothered with pork green chili. A two pig breakfast! When it arrived I felt a moment of disquiet about my abilities to consume something the rough size and shape of a pine log, but I didn't let myself down and breasted the tape in good style fueled by gallons of coffee black as a witch's tit.

The drive to Aspen took me along I70 across two high mountain passes. It was incredibly beautiful but the traffic was insane. Everyone drove at top speed, and where the snow had been cleared along the sides of the road, the icy walls made it feel like being on a terrifyingly large bob sled run. Once Vail had been left behind, the traffic calmed down somewhat and the mountains receded behind me. The road then dropped down into an impressive canyon lined with rock walls formed by the Colorado river. It was so cold that the river was no more than waves of snow-covered blocks of ice all piled and jumbled along the bottom. The thermometer in the car said -20 which couldn't possibly be correct, could it? This was the approach to Glenwood Springs where I had to turn south from I70 towards Aspen.

My impression of the wide open spaces of The American West took another beating in Glenwood where I decided that the good old A W was still Under Construction. As I headed towards Aspen, more snow covered mountains came into view. I got to study them in some detail as the traffic got steadily heavier and slower until I finally crawled into Aspen.

The hotel turned out to be a Historic Landmark on the main drag. Usually, the Historic designation means terrible plumbing and inadequate heat, but this was Aspen, and the Gerrard wasn't like that at all. It was all very plush and a log fire burned cozily in the lobby. There were three messages from Lin behind the desk. The concierge handed them to me one by one.

"Where are you? I've been trying to call you. Is your phone working?"

The concierge tried not to comment on the next one as he handed it to me, but his eyebrow shifted about a bit, so I know he was wondering exactly what sort of moron he was going to be dealing with. "Is your phone turned on?!"

Rather hurt by Lin's baseless accusations, I _had_ texted her, I felt my temper fray just the teensiest bit. He handed me the last message.

"Did you remember the stick for Mr. Smith?"

The concierge's eyebrow had another conniption fit

"He's a client." The eyebrow went into orbit. "Not that sort of a client" I snapped.

Once ensconced in my room I plugged in my Mac and checked my email. There were quite a few from Lin, which I ignored in a fit of pique, and one from Mr. Smith telling me a car would call for me at 10 am tomorrow morning. This was excellent news as it meant I could spend the rest of the day taking advantage of The Gerrard's no doubt commendable decadence. Picking up the welcome literature, I read that there was an in-hotel spa with a juice bar and drop-in yoga classes. To my enormous relief it also had a proper bar (almost inevitably one feels, called 'The G Spot'), and a bartender dedicated to the welfare of the serious drinker, where I set to relaxing with a vengeance.

The next morning a light, thin snow fell relentlessly from the uniformly gray sky which matched my mood. I must have had a bad peanut the previous night and wasn't feeling exactly up to par. To be completely honest, I felt as though someone had been dancing on my eyeballs in crampons.

My driver turned up on the dot of 10 am and off we set to meet Mr. Smith. I wasn't too sure in which direction we headed out of Aspen, but it was upwards. After fifteen minutes or so, we stopped to wait for a pair of gates to part to allow us access under the crossbeam of a stone pillared arch. The drive ran between rail fences buried almost to their tops in snow and ended in a sweep in front of a log mansion.

The driver opened the car door and said, "Welcome to Bar HL Ranch, Ms. Benning." He picked up my computer case and walked with me towards the front door. I scanned the outside of the building but saw only one camera located under the high arched portico. A dead Christmas tree stood outside the door. At second glance it turned out to be a Christmas tree made of elk antlers that managed to be, by no mean feat, both rustic and spiteful. My driver pushed open the main door into the entrance lobby and putting my case on a chair said, "I'll just go and inform Mr. Smith you're here."

I slowly turned around and took in the massive entrance hall, which stretched up three or so stories. It must be a bitch to dust. In my mind, I had described Mr. Smith as a small Chinese or maybe Malay gentleman. Older. Old, even. He lived in a Frank Lloyd Wright/Japanese fusion house that would compliment his Asian collection, so the logs and relentlessly Western decor (Cowboy Western I mean, with spurs and bits, bullwhips and Stetsons, rugs made of cow skins, and the odd stuffed elk mount), was a bit disconcerting. On the other hand, the almost kitsch decor made the quite remarkable 20th Century American art on the walls glow with a fierce and solemn beauty. The Rothko in the entrance hall actually made my head spin, though to be fair it might have been my hangover. By craning my head through a half open door that led into the main room, I could see the O'Keefe, and what I'm almost certain was a Clyfford Still on the far side of the main room. Wait 'til Lawrence got wind of that. He'd crawl over broken glass.

I was peering closely at a pair of Wyeths of longhorn cattle when a skittering of little paws made me turn. A tiny dog, apparently the result of crossing a chihuahua with a scouring pad, stood looking at me expectantly with an absurdly large grin. I bent down to say "Well, hello there cute stuff! What's your name?"

"That's Olive. Thank you for coming out to see us, Ms. Benning." Mr. Smith held out his hand. Shaking mine, he gestured with the other at the painting, "one of my favorite artists. I'm Davis Smith."

"Call me Louise, please."

Davis Smith was a tall man probably in his 40s or 50s and most definitely not Asian. I'm hopeless at guessing age, but he didn't seem absurdly young or vilely decrepit. He was clean shaven, tall and lean, with a bald head, and was dressed in expensive but informal clothes. He had blue eyes and his teeth were breathtakingly crooked, giving his gap-toothed smile a rare charm.

"Wyeth is quite my favorite watercolorist," I said, lying. I don't have a favorite, I'm an equal opportunity hater when it comes to watercolors. "You have quite a collection here," I paused, trying to find a balance between naked lust and professional cool. Naked lust won out, "I would give my eye teeth to look more closely at it."

"Yes, of course, I'd love to show you. Perhaps when you've finished having a look at the pieces downstairs? Your assistant mentioned that you have some paperwork for me, and also that any documentation I have would be helpful?"

"Absolutely." I hand him the stick. "All the paperwork is there. Copies of everything you've already signed, details of our services, including our sales and auction paperwork, and indemnifications and so on and so forth. If you do have any paperwork on the pieces, sales receipts, for example, that would be very useful, but let's start with how you came to own what you have."

"Well, I inherited it I suppose. It was in my parent's house when my mother passed last year. My father passed some years ago. I have no idea where they got it from, I've never given it any thought actually. I assume they must have bought it during their travels. My father did a lot of traveling for his business."

"What business was that?"

"Oh, you know, import export type stuff." He shrugged and noticed my brows draw together. "We weren't close. I had no desire to follow in his footsteps. My tastes are very different to those of my parents. This," he gestured around him, "is the result of Silicon Valley."

We walk down the stairs to the basement. There is a central corridor with doors leading off on the left-hand side. Plaques on the doors told me they were the mechanical, media, wine cellar, and games rooms. We stop at the only door on the right at the far end. One camera monitors the entire corridor.

"I've got it all ready for you," said Davis, turning on the lights.

The room from the photographs stretched the length of the house, making up the other half of the basement. It wasn't a gallery but a storeroom, with a camera in the far ceiling corner. The stacks of paintings and/or furniture hinted at in the photos turned out to be exactly that, furniture, shrouded in drop cloths. There was a _lot_ of furniture. As we wove our way through the maze, he continued

"My first wife's furniture. Or rather the furniture my first wife demanded as part of her divorce settlement and never picked up. My second wife deemed it too awful to live with so she consigned it down here. Her furniture's down here too because my third wife refuses to live with anything that might remind her of either of my previous wives. Including me," he half muttered to himself. "I sometimes wonder if I should invest in a furniture store."

Personally, I think he should invest in relationship counseling, but mindful of Bernard's admonishments I keep my mouth shut.

"I laid it all out on a couple of the tables over there."

I wince at the thought of the precious pieces being manhandled by an amateur.

"Do you need me for anything?"

"No, no thank you. I'm going to be photographing and making notes. I'll be a couple of hours at least."

"Ok, great. I'll get Jorge to call you for lunch about one-ish then."

Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, I go to work.

There's a method to my appraisal. I like to look at a piece from a distance and gradually move closer, bringing it into sharper focus with each step. I'm looking-but-not-looking at it, or perhaps I should say, I'm looking with soft eyes. Noting any hitches, any interruptions in the flow... the Zen of the piece. Then I run my hands over it (if it is that sort of piece) and finally pick it up. I'm no Lovejoy, but I'm good. Mistakes? I've made a few, but in the end, too few to mention. That is, as far as art goes. The rest of my life is a positive colander of gaping disasters.

Then the technical side. Photographing all round, top and bottom, and making notes on my computer. In my mind, I scroll through museum collections, books on art, and most importantly, sales catalogues. My memory is almost photographic where numbers are concerned but I need research materials on hand to be truly accurate; I'm pretty close usually.

In a nutshell, this is what there is:

A Tang horse, red glazed, recumbent. Good quality and unusual.

Two Ming blue and white moon flasks. Matching pair. Very good quality.

Eight wallhanging scrolls comprising: Three calligraphy poems (two with seals, early Qing, all good quality), two portraits (matching, average quality, mid-late Qing), Poet Contemplating Bamboo (average quality, Yuan), a vertical landscape (Song, very average quality), and songbirds with cherry blossom (mid-late Qing, good quality).

Eight jade pieces: A small magnolia vase surrounded by birds (early Qing, very very good quality), a dragon handled cup (Ming, average quality), two boys, one with a hobby horse, a brooch, a belt buckle shield (all Ming), a carved duck (Song), and a recumbent ram (Yuan). The small figures have been handled extensively, obviously carried in the pocket. The ears and features are blurred by love. Something stirs in my memory as I photograph the pieces, but nothing I can grasp.

Seven statues: Two Bronze incense burners; one shaped like a duck, the other a lotus dish on a tripod (both Ming, good to average quality), a goddess of compassion (Late Ming, very average), a group of three seated divinities (early Qing, good quality), a bamboo longevity plaque (Jen, average quality).

Four scroll paintings, two of which are in painted cases. The finial on one of the scroll cases is carved in the same shape as the jade brooch so presumably they must have belonged to the same family.

The first is a landscape of mist and water and islands. Fishermen in boats etc. It's quite nice quality and is some three feet long.

The other three are family scroll paintings and vary in length. These scrolls are meant to be read as a family history and you unfold the story and read it right to left. One is very interesting as it has been painted in several different hands and the end is unfinished. The clothes change over the course of the story and the family house grows larger. As far as I can tell, it breaks off round about the turn of the 20th Century, it is only of average quality but of great interest to scholars. The other two are of even lesser quality but of reasonable length, probably late Qing.

Then I twiddle the finials on the two scroll cases. The end pieces of scroll cases are often elaborately carved; they look like little pointy hats. Sometimes they conceal a catch to a hidden compartment. I've only come across two of these hidden compartments (both empty) so they are pretty rare. Back in my early days at J&J, we had half a dozen of these scroll cases in for evaluation and whilst I was looking at them, Lin asked me if I had checked the cases for hidden compartments. I said yes, none of the caps had compartments.

"But did you check the cases?"

I was confused. The cases are just bamboo tubes, you can't conceal a compartment in them, and I said as much. Then Lin explained that, very rarely, the finial on top of a case could be manipulated a different way. Then when you pulled the cap off, a cleverly constructed inner compartment in the wall of the case could be seen. I had never heard or read anything to corroborate her story and over the years I've asked a few of my peers about it, and they've all been very dubious about the existence of such hidden compartments. Part of me wonders if Lin just has a weird sense of humor and gets a kick out of thinking of me meticulously wiggling every knob I find. So to speak.

After fifteen years it's a reflex action on my part. So when one of the finials does twist and click I almost stop breathing. Between the inner and outer walls of the bamboo case is another scroll. I gently unroll it to reveal the pen and ink painting and then I actually do stop breathing. With a gasp, I hurriedly re-roll it and put it back. Thank goodness my back is to the camera.

I don't photograph the hidden scroll.

By the time Jorge comes down and asks if I would like some lunch, I have finished my cataloguing and photography and have just tidied up. I follow him up to the kitchen where a large farmhouse table is set for three, groaning under a cold collation of cheeses, bread, pickles, and fruit.

Davis pulls out my chair for me. "I hope you don't mind eating in the kitchen. We're rather informal during the day. My wife will be down shortly."

"Not at all. It all looks wonderful."

A woman comes into the kitchen dressed in tight jeans, cowboy boots (presumably she doesn't go outside much), a denim shirt straining slightly at the chest, and a wealth of turquoise and silver jewelry. Jewelry isn't my field, but I know enough to know that what she is wearing is antique Native American. Her dark hair is piled up on her head. She's wearing makeup, but only enough to emphasize her huge hazel eyes. She's not conventionally beautiful but I certainly wouldn't kick her out of bed on a cold night.

"My wife, Missy."

Missy clasps my proffered hand in both of hers and applies just a little too much pressure. My inner vampire stirs and sniffs the air. Missy runs the tip of her tongue over her lower lip. I return the pressure of her hand, letting my gaze fall to the necklace nestling in the Vee of her shirt.

"Exquisite," I say, raising my eyes to hers.

We make small talk over lunch. There is definite tension between Davis and Missy, a brittle politeness that hints at marital discord they are trying to hide, either from each other or from me, I can't say. Whilst one can never know the truth of the state of marital relations, I should think on the whole probably not.

"So what do you think, Louise?" asks Davis, "what's the bottom line? What is all worth?"

"For insurance purposes?" He nods. "About $10 million, maybe a little more. The pair of Ming flasks alone could be worth $3-5 million."

"Jesus."

"Some of what you have is very fine indeed. I need to do a lot more research to get you an absolute figure, but based on recent auctions, that's a pretty fair estimate. Of course, there are lots of factors that will change your premiums. I would need to review your security, for example. Unless you feel that Olive is security enough?" I looked down at the little face peering hopefully up at me. I continued, "seriously though, I assume it's pretty comprehensive already because of your modern works but I only noticed two cameras in the basement and a single camera outside. Is that it?"

"No, there's another camera in the main room, and one on the upper staircase, and there are various motion sensors around the place too. But I've been thinking of upgrading recently. Now I guess I really need to."

We talk through his security measures in greater detail and I make some notes. Then I ask if I can see his modern collection. Davis is enthusiastic and clearly loves his paintings. It's not about investment for him, although if it was, he jokes, the Clyfford Still would be a triumph.

When I leave there is an envelope on the back seat of the car with my name on it. The note inside reads

" _I hope we can meet soon. Missy_ "

Well well well. What a thrilling trip this is turning out to be.

The next day is Saturday and I am On Holiday! I have a four-day pass for the four mountains that make up the Aspen Ski complex: Ajax, Buttermilk, Highlands and Aspen. I decide to ski one mountain a day and pick Aspen first. The skiing is amazing as 19" of fresh powder has fallen overnight and I rather overdo it. I leave the slopes with screaming legs looking forward to a long relaxing soak in the hot tubs at the Gerrard.

The hot tubs lurk in secluded plant fringed grottoes on the patio behind the hotel so I change into one of the luxurious dressing gowns in my room and make my way there. My thighs burn with such intensity I can barely walk down the steps to the patio and have to hobble sideways like a spinster with piles. I slip into the deliciously hot water, lean back, and look up at the stars.

I close my eyes and let my mind drift over the Smith collection and that hidden scroll. Some years ago now, it had been indicated to me by a very reputable dealer that should I ever come across a particular type of Imperial scroll, I could be assured that my children would want for nothing. The scroll in Mr. Smith's collection was precisely that type of scroll. A feeling of deep well being steals upon me and I can't be bothered to open my eyes when I hear someone else get in the tub, only opening them when I hear her (for a her it is) order a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

A woman leans against the side of the tub. She's wearing a tiny black bikini with a gold clasp between her breasts. I move over to her and flip the clasp, letting the balls of my thumbs pass slowly over her taut nipples.

"Hello, Missy."

Poor Missy, so lonely, so unappreciated, so damn sexy. For the next three days, I comfort her to the best of my ability, Davis having left on a business trip which apparently he does eight weeks out of ten. Each day we ski, go back to the hotel, fuck, go out to dinner, fuck, have breakfast, fuck, and then ski again.

Of course, I was heart broken over Emma. Naturally that goes without saying, I told myself, Missy is merely helping me get over her. Very successfully actually. There was something about Missy, something possibly worth more than a diversionary dalliance. Along with being ludicrously sexy, she was smart and made me laugh. Idly I consider if she might leave Davis, and if she did, how I really ought to persuade her to keep the furniture to make it easier for Davis to bear the pain. However, the truth is that she lives in the US and successful long distance relationships are as common as phoenix tears and so I am determined to live in the moment and not get attached. You know, just being casual and cosmopolitan. It's not easy; thank goodness I've had a lot of practice.

On our last night, Missy is maudlin and wants to order room service and not go out to eat. We drink champagne and I take my time pleasing her. I sit beside her afterward as she cries a little.

"When will you be coming back?'

Remembering to be casual and cosmopolitan, I say, "it depends on what your husband wants. If he decides he wants to sell, I'll definitely be back for that." Then I forget myself and add, "I might be able to grab some time on my way back from Asia in a couple of months. I can't promise, but I'll try."

"I'll look forward to it." Missy takes my hand and pulls me down to nestle deep in the pillows with her. She whispers in my ear, "I'd love you to come again."

What with the skiing and Missy, I am physically the most exhausted I've ever been. I'm actually looking forward to getting on the flight back and sleeping unaroused for twelve hours. I use the word precisely.

"The pleasure is all mine," I say politely remembering my manners, just as Bernard instructed.

The following morning, Wednesday morning, I have a Skype call arranged with James and Lin to go over the collection before driving back to Denver where I will stay overnight ready to catch my flight on the Thursday morning. I use the hotel's conference facilities to avoid technical challenges involving my lap top, which is showing alarming signs of imminent demise.

"How did it go, Louise? Enjoy your holiday? Anything earth shattering?"

"Lovely, thanks, James. Not sure about earth shattering but there's a particularly fine pair, matching pair in fact, of Ming moon flasks that I'd like you to look at. I believe they're equal in quality to the one sold at Sotheby's Asian Auction in March." This gets James' attention as that piece was the high point of the sale and sold for a record breaking 12.6 million HKD. A matching pair would obliterate the record.

I do a power point presentation of the pieces along with my best guess at current market value.

"The total is somewhere around $10-11 million."

Lin chimed in. "I think you may have undervalued the family scrolls, despite their quality, or lack of. The prices were good at that Sotheby's auction and not just because of auction fever. Family scrolls are being bought and passed off as being the buyer's own family. J&J have had several inquiries from buyers looking for them."

I file Lin's comment away for future contemplation.

"Hmmm. Very much a mixed bag, although those flasks are just outstanding. How about provenance?" asks James.

"Private collection. Acquired in China between 1894 and 1922 and thence in the family by descent," I deadpan.

James absorbs my auctioneer's shorthand. "Stolen, then."

I pause to parse the thoughts that have been swilling about in my mind. "Ooouf. This collection isn't a collection so much as an _omnium gatherum_. The only common thread is that all of the objects are Chinese. I'm inclined to think that they might have been smuggled out of China before or during the Cultural Revolution. The pieces are too disparate in age and quality, and whilst you might buy a family scroll for interest, you wouldn't buy three of them, they just aren't good enough to be collectible.

"Mr. Smith Sr. ran some sort of import/export business. Maybe it involved smuggling people, or things. Maybe some desperate families tried to get their most treasured possessions out to safety and along the way some of them got appropriated, either directly or indirectly, by the current owner's father. Of course, that's all conjecture and ultimately, it's not our concern."

"Does Smith want them insured or does he want to sell them?"

"His wife would certainly prefer him to sell," I say truthfully, remembering Missy in the pillows. "I think he's undecided. He definitely wants to insure, but some of the pieces have gained added luster now he knows how much they are worth. He's not an Asian art collector, if you didn't know, so a sale is probably on the cards eventually."

"No, I didn't know," says James. "What does he collect?"

"Wives and American Abstract Impressionists. About equally expensive I gather."

"What's he got, anything interesting?"

I give James a quick run down of Davis' Modern Art collection ending with a description of the Clyfford Still. James whistles appreciatively.

"What's his insurance going to look like?"

"Well I have no idea who is covering him now but his security definitely isn't good enough. Nothing he has is safe." I smirk, thinking of Missy, "nothing at all."

After finishing with James and Lin I return to my room and pack. The porter comes and picks up my cases and I make my way back down to the lobby to settle my bill.

"Ah, Ms. Benning. I do hope you have enjoyed your stay with us?"

"Absolutely. Very enjoyable indeed. Memorable, in fact."

"And did your guest also enjoy their stay?"

Now I have a very generous expense account from J&J, but I can absolutely guarantee that the nosey bitch in accounting will go over my expenses with the nit comb she keeps in her wig. Missy was a very expensive little holiday treat. "Because I deserve it" wouldn't be an acceptable expense.

"Indeed they did. Now that you mention it, perhaps you could prepare two bills for me?"

"I already have Ms. Benning."

You get what you pay for and that's why the Gerrard is a five-star hotel. One doesn't have to explain anything.

I get into my civilian tank and leave Aspen on a glorious day. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, and the temperature breaks into the double digits. It feels positively balmy and my spirits buoy. As I am driving along the Colorado river corridor a Bald Eagle flies alongside my car for a minute. He, or she, is magnificent. I feel exalted. Blessed, even. Then I remind myself that being thought of as Specially Chosen is one of the more serious forms of pottiness that inexorably leads to hurt feelings and atrocities and I pull myself together.

I could bore on about the landscape, but mountains and snow can only be described so many times before they become tedious. Take it from me, it was all very pretty indeed.

I decided to stay in Golden again because the memory of my last breakfast there lingered long. Having a good breakfast would set me up for the flight home, I reasoned. Mummy always told me that breakfast was the most important meal of the day. To be strictly accurate what she actually said was, "breakfast kick starts your metabolism. You'll never lose that weight if you carry on like you are," but you get my drift.

As it's a bit warmer on my return, I realize that Golden smells. It turns out that Coors have their headquarters here and the smell is from their beer making. I make a mental note never to drink Coors again because I know what hops smell like and this isn't it.

That night, tucked up in bed doing my favorite thing (yes, channel surfing), I text my friend and sometime climbing partner, Paul.

The skiing in Colorado is awesome, but I'd rather be climbing. Back this weekend. Portland?

And because I'm all casual and cosmopolitan etc. I text Missy.

Miss you. Back soonest. L.

### Derbyshire

From the hand of the lamb

In fires forg'd bright

On the back of a rabbit

Now becomes bitter habit

And bathes me in tears

**A** t this point, I feel I must make a confession. It may distress, but not entirely surprise, you to learn that that I have not been wholly honest about myself. I have thus far portrayed myself as a suave, sophisticated, smart, sexy, Asian art expert with 007 delusions, and I am, of course, all of those things. But I have another persona, an (only slightly) less delusional one: I am also Louise "A.J" Raffles. Not because I was Captain of the First XI Cricket Team or because I am a wicked spin bowler, but because I steal things. And not in a vaguely kleptomaniac, embarrassing aunt way, but in a sort of oh-my-god-the-Rembrandt's-missing way.

Bear with me, for I can explain. It started a while ago, probably nine or ten years ago. I don't do it very often and although I'm not exactly proud of myself, I have my reasons; some noble, some base, and some that are, frankly, risible. I don't think upon the morality of it very often. Certainly not enough to keep me awake at night. Morality is for those who have the luxury of choice.

So. As Raffles has his 'Bunny', I have my best friend, Paul, whom I met when I was eight.

My father's closest friend was a chap called John Corley, and, like my father, a former RAF pilot. After John had left the RAF he had become a captain for British Airways. He and his wife, Sue were our nearest neighbors. Their children, Maria and Paul, were much the same age as me and a friendship forged by proximity was cemented by all of us going to the same school as new pupils together, Maria and I in the same class, Paul a year ahead of us.

It was a Christian Science school and literally down the road from our homes. You didn't have to be a Christian Scientist (not to be confused with Scientologist) to go to the school unless you were a boarder and presumably our parents chose it because of its academic excellence and not its religious leanings. What bonded Paul and I together forever was Death in the Pet Corner.

Someone, I can't remember who, said 'show me a man who enjoyed his school days and I'll show you a bully and a bore'. I think I don't exaggerate when I say that for the boarders, the endurance of their schooldays will show them to have become vindictive psychopaths. The boarders were allowed to have small pets to no doubt ease the loneliness of being sent away from home at a young age (Brits, eh? Exile our children to boarding schools and allow dogs on the beds. No wonder we're emotional bonsai). When an epidemic swept the pet corner, those in charge felt this would be a perfect opportunity to display quite unnecessarily nauseating piety and ram home the basic tenet of Mary Eddy's faith: All disease is a manifestation of sin. Instead of calling a vet, the children were told to pray for their rabbits, hamsters and guinea pigs, which of course all died. Sinners the lot of them obviously (the pets, not the children).

Paul and I were outraged. We loved animals with a desperate passion, and being denied our own pets (not sure why Paul and Maria weren't allowed a dog, but I wasn't allowed one because as my father said "your mother doesn't care to have fur in the house. Or at least not fur that isn't lined with silk"), we protested loudly and vociferously. We got together a petition to demand a vet attend any future illnesses and wrote to our local RSPCA. This was not appreciated by the school, who Spoke to our parents. The takeaway lessons for me from the whole affair were a) an embracing of atheism as a response to the casual sadism of religion, and b) that it's best not to love anything too much because the result is pain. Cemented in my case a few months later when my father was killed.

After my father died, Paul's family became my second home. My mother, a society beauty, was busy perfecting her image as a fragile widowed society beauty, the pressures of which meant I was left to my own devices for much of the time. (As an aside, Nigel Dumpster once described my mother as an 'ineffable beauty'. My mother rather took this to heart until a friend pointed out that it referred to the F-word. Thereafter my mother referred to him as 'that common little man'). I would walk home from school with Maria and Paul, have tea with them, and settle down to homework. In summer we would go off for long bicycle rides to picnic along distant streams. In my memories, it's always summer and all very Enid Blyton. The only thing we lacked was a faithful hound. In winter we would sit in the library playing cards and board games, vying for the title of most egregious cheat. We were voracious readers and books occupied a large place in our lives. We annoyed everyone for weeks when we discovered James Clavell and Shogun, and insisted on addressing everyone in Japanese. _Konichi-wa?_

John and Sue, I now realize, were raging alcoholics, often downing a half bottle of whisky (John) or gin (Sue) every night. They were jolly drunks, laughing and telling jokes, John's pipe turning the air blue. Sometimes he would treat us to his special supper, a late night treat of cheese on toast dotted with ketchup, brown sauce, and mustard, toasted until thermonuclear bubbles burst brown on top.

My memories are of a happy family around the table; so joyously different to the chilly atmosphere attendant during the dinners at fashionable restaurants with my mother. I wasn't aware at the time of the growing tension between Paul and his father. Paul wanted to join the RAF and be a pilot, it was all he'd ever wanted. John, having been there, done that, and now a commercial pilot, knew the stress and demands of the job and was vehement in his opposition, with the result that on his 18th birthday, Paul signed up for the Army. In a single stroke, he'd destroyed his parents' ambition for him to go to University and given his father a massive middle finger by spurning the RAF.

University and the Army should have divided we three completely, both academically and physically. Maria went up to Scotland to St Andrews to study Political Science and Journalism and me to Sheffield to study Mathematics. However, we were all kept united by a common interest in rock climbing. Unwittingly, Maria and I had joined our respective University climbing clubs the first week we arrived during orientation. Most weekends we would drive to the Lakes or the Yorkshire Moors to meet up and go climbing, arriving exhausted at midnight to put up our tents in a muddy field. We'd spend our days climbing and our nights in the pub drinking.

Every now and then we'd go to the Wye Valley to climb. The climbing was horrendous, but it was in Herefordshire, Paul's home base. Paul had joined the Parachute Regiment and had later been "invited" to try out for the SAS. Somewhere along the line, the Herefordshire Hooligans taught him to climb. Whenever possible when he was back home or on leave in between tours, we would meet up to go climbing.

Maria and I both settled in London. Me at J&J and Maria working her way up through the ranks in the media, finally moving to the US and ending up as the editor of a large online news and opinion website renowned for its investigative journalism. We drifted apart and really only kept in touch through Paul.

After Paul left active service, climbing dominated his life, presumably replacing the adrenaline rush of parading round in uniform and killing people. He started his own security firm but spent most of his time on and around the sea cliffs in North and South Wales establishing new routes, climbing with whomsoever he could persuade to hold his ropes. As I worked up through the ranks of J&J, my time became more limited and only I managed to join him two or three weekends a year.

Time, inevitably, works upon us all. Paul in his youth had been very good-looking in a Celtic dark haired and blue eyed way. The Army hardened and sculpted him into something close to a demi-god, but after he left, he started to put on weight. Nothing too dramatic but he started to look a little puffy, soft around the edges. My only way of staying fit whilst I was working was by running, and unsurprisingly, my climbing ability suffered because I couldn't find enough time. Rock climbing was for me, the ultimate sport. It tested me physically, emotionally, and mentally. The adrenaline was addictive, helping me to push aside all the pressures of my career and my family, and without it... well, the devil makes work for idle hands. Don't they say that all the world's troubles are caused by man's inability to sit quietly in a room by himself?

Despite not being climbing-fit, I still I looked forward to my weekends away with Paul. We would seek out remote campsites and stay up late into the night, laughing and drinking and telling tall tales around the campfire. Paul could build quite remarkable fires even in the pouring rain. A legacy of all that SAS training, I teased him.

It was during one of those weekends in South Wales, climbing on the sea cliffs, that our friendship became more than a best-fried-and-rock-climbing partnership.

Huntsman's Leap is a deep zawn that cuts into the coast some seven or eight hundred feet. It's narrow at the seaward end, though certainly not narrow enough to jump a horse across unless one was suicidal. It widens to maybe one hundred or so feet at the inland end and is a sheer two hundred foot drop down to the boulder strewn base.

It's a committing place to climb because once you have rappelled in, you have to climb out or be drowned by the incoming tide. The Huntsman's Ball, E6 6b (not to be confused with The Huntsman's Other Ball E6 6c) was the climb Paul had set his sights on this trip. I was surprised by the choice because although Paul had climbed E6, he wasn't solid at the grade and 'The Ball' is very hard indeed. However, etiquette dictates that one does not say to one's climbing partner that they are not qualified to climb what they've chosen to climb.

The crux comes about fifty or sixty feet up. I think Paul must have been up there for a good twenty minutes. I knew if he fell I would have to run towards the sea to stop him hitting the ground. I just hoped that given the inequalities in our weights I wouldn't end up extruded through the first carabiner.

When Paul finally did commit to the moves, he did not move with grace and poise. He threw himself upward, scrabbling and slapping like a first-time climber in hiking boots. I felt positively sick, and I was, frankly, angry. Huntsman's Leap is both literally and metaphorically, not the place to push the boat out. The other party in the Leap whooped and hollered as Paul gained the headwall, probably in relief that they wouldn't be asked to testify at the coroner's inquest.

Usually, when you've climbed something harder than you've ever climbed and not fallen, there is jubilation. When I finally pulled myself over the edge and stood clear, Paul had a thousand yard stare. Whatever he'd just faced down there, it hadn't been cathartic. We packed up in silence and made our way back to our campsite.

"Talk to me," I said, shoving a beer into his hand.

Paul didn't dwell in any great detail, but during his tours in Afghanistan, Paul had Seen Things and, reading between the lines, had Done Things too. Bad Things.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is a catch all phrase that sounds so much more modern and scientific than 'He had a bad war'. It covers a host of physical, mental, and psychosomatic disorders that come with having had a bad war and although it's become more socially acceptable, the treatments haven't really come that far from the Great War when sufferers were lightly counseled in a stiff upper lip sort of way, by which I mean not at all, and given access to vast quantities of alcohol. Nowadays, they're given access to drugs and firearms as well, with predictably tragic results.

Initially, Paul had become addicted to the sleeping pills and anti-depressants. Benzos he called them. Then the panic attacks started and his life started slipping out of control. Climbing was his way of imposing control; on himself and his mind. The combination of pure concentration, adrenaline, and exhaustion, was just like being back with his unit. It felt comforting. And then just back there in the Leap, his mind had started falling through panes of glass, shattering as it fell. All he knew in that moment was that he needed to go up and out towards the sky.

"I need something more in my life. Something meaningful that takes every ounce of skill and nerve and brain I have. Something more rewarding than the nine to five, or a wife and kids, or putting up a new climb. Something more than the drugs that keep me sedated and in control. A challenge. If I don't find it soon, I don't think that I can go on living. Or not-living, as I call it."

Now, I could lie and tell you that what I said next to Paul was solely motivated by love and a desperate desire to help the wounded traumatized man in front of me. But it wasn't. Not solely, I mean. Suddenly I saw an opportunity to quell both my demons and his.

"How about something like stealing works of art?"

Paul stared at me. Finally, he shook his head and sighed. "I should have known better. Here I am trying to be all New Age Man and Open Up about my feelings and all you can do is take the piss. I know you've got the emotional capacity of a a a..... cabbage, Louise, but couldn't you just try for once?"

"Even cabbages have hearts," I replied with dignity. "And I was being totally serious."

The mysterious art collector who will stop at nothing to complete his collection is widely discounted as a myth. Generally speaking, that's true. It is very expensive to arrange a successful art theft especially of a well-known piece. So expensive that you might as well just buy something more or less as famous and be done with it. At least you can show it off. Ergo, thefts are/were usually undertaken by mentally disturbed individuals or agents of separatist or terrorist groups seeking to raise funds via ransom. However, the law has become very tight around rewards leading to recovery, and so the vast majority of thefts are for collateral value, not for the intrinsic value of the piece as a work of art. As collateral, the piece can be lodged in a less than scrupulous South American bank and used to finance drugs and arms deals.

But batshit collectors do exist. Especially for 'niche' works. It's an obsession. If you doubt me, look at the brisk trade on e-bay for fetish items like Brittany Spears' knickers and so forth. You may have heard the expression "there's is no such thing as an honest art dealer". What you may not have realized though is that there is no such thing as an honest art collector. So, when one of these types want something and can't get it through legitimate means, one option is to have it stolen to order.

Now you will appreciate that when one wants a painting stolen one doesn't just look up 'art thieves' in the yellow pages. No, you phone your nice, more or less reputable dealer and you tell them what you want and how much you are prepared to pay for it. They tell you that it isn't possible because the painting is in the Prado, or in private hands, or whatever, and absolutely not for sale. You apologize for your mistake and tell them that even 'something very similar' would be acceptable, and that provenance isn't an issue and that a hefty finders fee would be forthcoming. Most dealers, being honest and upright etc will reiterate that it's not possible, but (and here's the rider) should anything similar come up, you'll be the first to know. Both parties retire satisfied and in due course, the dealer phones an 'expert in the field' and the same conversation is repeated.

Let's not beat about the bush, or not mine anyway; as you've probably gathered by now, yours truly is one of those 'experts in the field'. When the painting is stolen, the owner gets the insurance, the collector his painting, the wheels of commerce are greased and everyone is happy. Except, obviously, the insurance company. And the Art Squad, who have to look for it.

To a certain extent, I can put the blame on James Clavell. Reading Shogun had inevitably led to Paul, Maria, and I reading his whole _oevre_. Which is how I was introduced, in the novel Noble House, to the concept of Fuck You Money. FYM is the amount of money that you need, in cash, to be able to say to anyone at any time, Fuck You and quit. Walk out, leave, and never look back. The price of freedom.

I don't know quite why this concept grasped me and held onto me like a bear trap. All I know is that I felt trammeled by all the restrictions of my class, upbringing, age, and sex, but was too much of a coward to openly rebel. The strings, purse strings included, that kept me captive, bound and cocooned me tightly. I was angry when my father died and couldn't understand why it hadn't been my mother, who was, as far as I was concerned, useless, vapid, and mean as a bag of snakes. All my mother wanted was to be loved, but she had plenty of other people for that, didn't she? No need for me to pander to her as well. I wanted to be free to spurn presents and gifts designed to make my mother feel good about herself, and ungratefully (and happily) sling them back in her teeth. I'm sure a competent psychologist would say that I wanted to be free to punish and hurt her without repercussions. Fortunately, I've never met one (competent, that is).

So the concept of FYM, of being able to say Fuck You to her and to everyone, was intensely liberating. I'd never been brave enough to say it and never thought I'd have the opportunity to. All I wanted was to be left alone; never to have to think about what other people needed or wanted; never having to emotionally provide for them and their needs. Being a lesbian was in my case as much of lifestyle choice designed to piss my mother off as it was inclination. Truth be told I don't care who I sleep with, and I will admit to enjoying the power of being unavailable to men who want me. Praise be, I am clever, very clever, and so my brain provides a job for me that makes me comfortably self-sufficient, and I'm attractive enough to pick and chose my partners, but I still have to work and deal with people who have power over me (Bernard!). FYM would change that.

The idea had obsessed me. As a teen, not a week would go by without me calculating what I would need. I would spend hours with Paul and Maria figuring out what were essentials (at twelve years old I had to have a horse. At sixteen, it was a gull wing Mercedes. Now, it's a wine cellar). The amount required has varied over the years. Depending on my mood, I recalculate and reassess, but I've never managed to get the amount I've got saved to come anywhere close to what I feel is an absolute minimum.

Up until this point, with Paul in front of me, I'd never seriously considered stealing anything. The opportunity he presented seemed almost a worthy, if not downright noble, project. Paul would have a mission and A Reason To Live, and I would have a solution to the creeping boredom and mindless office politics of my job, and the wherewithal to Escape My Mother. Anyway, I wasn't actually stealing, was I? I was just facilitating.

And so Paul and I set about forging a new relationship founded on good Marxist principles: All property is theft. I provided the information. Paul stole the goods. You might say pimp and whore but I prefer to think of it as therapist and patient. I benefitted financially and Paul retained his sanity.

As already noted, part of my job involves having to assess the physical condition and location of insured works. Where are they kept? What are the security measures in place? Who is responsible for the security? The answer to these questions was the information I provided to Paul along with a description of the piece that had been chosen for liberation. Paul came up with the rest of the plan. What I didn't know couldn't hurt him.

It could take up to a year for the plan to be executed, so when I tell you that we'd stolen less than half a dozen pieces, you won't be surprised. I don't propose to tell you how we arranged delivery of the property or by whom we were paid. I'm not that careless of my life and anyway I don't know.

Once Paul had completed the robbery, he would send me a birthday card. This was our signal that the job had been done and the goods passed to the buyer's representative. Shortly thereafter I could expect a letter in my PO Box on the Isle of Man confirming a deposit into an account, the account number, and the access code.

Why the Isle of Man? The Isle has a peculiar relationship with Her Majesty's Government being a Crown Protectorate with a Lieutenant Governor complete with silly hat. It has the oldest functioning democratic government in the world, the Tynwold, which makes all the laws; especially those relating to banking, finance, tax, and customs and excise, leaving all the boring non-lucrative ones, like foreign policy, to HMG. In practice, this means that you can hide things here that might raise an eyebrow or two back in Blighty. Like large sums of money. FYM. The sale of the hidden scroll would double the amount I had socked away and get me tantalizingly close to my FYM goal.

Landing at Heathrow on Thursday after sleeping the sleep of the righteous on the flight back from Denver, I am re-energized, re-invigorated and ready to go climbing. Of course, it's much too cold to go climbing so I book a hotel in Portland for the weekend and meet Paul on Saturday night for dinner. We eat in a small restaurant tucked away on a side street that affords both privacy and quite astounding seafood.

Paul is always a little early so he can 'case the joint'. There's no chance of us being overheard but nevertheless, we are discreet.

"Happy birthday!" I exclaim, and we exchange air kisses for the benefit of any potential audience. We've rehearsed this a dozen times. I give Paul a birthday card with all the security details inside which presumably he'll memorize and then eat or whatever it is he does. We've never done a job anywhere but the UK or Europe, so I'm not sure how Paul is going to take the news that our next venture is in the States. This job was actually going to be a great deal easier than many of our others because the owner didn't know he had the scroll, wouldn't know it was missing, and thus no one would be looking for it.

"I have some lovely new friends I'd like you to meet. They live in a place called Aspen." I'm about to continue when Paul breaks in,

"Aspen, Colorado?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's fantastic. I've just been researching flights to the US because there are some old Army buddies I'd like to look up in Washington State. I can look in on your friends before I leave if there's time."

We beam happily at each other and raise our glasses.

"To many more birthdays!"

I will admit I was sorely tempted to add the Clyfford Still and the moon flasks to the haul, but as Paul pointed out, he was a thief, not a removal company. Getting a small scroll out of the country is one thing but a bloody great oil canvas and two delicate vases is quite another.

### Asia

I was in a printing-house in Hell,

and saw the method in which knowledge is transmitted

from generation to generation.

In the first chamber was a dragon-man,

clearing away the rubbish from a cave's mouth;

within, a number of dragons were hollowing the cave

**O** nce Paul had been put into forward gear, I immediately forgot all about the scroll. This wasn't hard, as I had to prepare for my foreign tour. The scope of the tour meant that I would be spending the next two months immersed in living a cross between The Antiques Road Show and Where's Waldo? I traveled to Tokyo, Hong Kong, Jakarta, Mumbai, Karachi, Pyongyang, San Francisco, and finally Beijing. The private clients I consulted with in between the big set piece sales were the usual mixture of plutocrats, kleptocrats, and on one memorable occasion, an actual honest to god collector. It's a good thing I have a very catholic approach to breakfast because that was pretty much the only way I could tell where I'd woken up that morning (fish curry, I must be in Karachi!), although towards the end I decided it was better to stick to tea, two slices of toast, butter, (dark) Seville orange marmalade, and a couple of amphetamines.

Sotheby's Asia Week was the highlight of the trip for me. Great fun, just a whirl of work and heavy drinking at the M bar with the ex-pat filth and the auction team. It's a marvelous drinking establishment with a stunning view over the harbor, all inky black and Vegas glitter (the harbor, not the bar. I really must be more lucid). If I had to nit pick, I'd say avoid the signature champagne cocktail; to my mind, it's a definite contender for an award in the category "most gratuitous use of a herb in a serious cocktail". In this case, basil. <Bletch>

I enjoyed other aspects of the night life too. One of Sotheby's Hong Kong team was a particularly charming bi-lingual Chinese auctioneer called Fan. And that's all I have to say about that.

During the day I nursed my liver, dispensed my professional opinion, and worked. I was hard-pressed to keep up with the running of ever more hysterical insurance numbers as auction bidding climbed stratospherically. Being as how J&J were the insurers of about sixty percent of the lots in the auction, it was a quite staggering amount of exposure for one company, causing much anguish and gnashing of teeth back in London no doubt enhanced by the twelve hour time difference. I could hear the sound of garments being rent and ashes emptied in bucketloads over the heads of the sleepless under-writers every time I emailed another adjustment.

There were two other stand out episodes during my tour. If my time in Hong Kong was the highlight, then North Korea takes the prize for strangeness, and China for oddness.

North Korea is always going to rate as one of the most bizarre experiences of my life. For obvious reasons, very few cultural artifacts have emerged from North Korea, and the vast majority of what has emerged falls into two categories: _Badaji,_ which are intricately carved large chests, and everything else, which has been faked because any authentic pieces were sold off long ago to finance the weaponry and immense statues and public artworks so beloved of the regime. And let's be honest, what's the point of a storage chest (of any size) if you have nothing to put in it?

I flew into Pyongyang, a positive showroom of Dictator Art, a city so bristling with martial bronzes and gargantuan monuments that you can't help but be nauseated by the poor aesthetic. On the upside, Pyongyang is a tremendously clean city. It is wholly unpolluted by either people or cars. The only life on the street I saw were regimented crocodiles of forlorn and solemn children on Art Appreciation Field Visits. No wonder the suicide rate is so high here. They would probably rather bludgeon themselves to death than look at another Tribute to the Heroes of the Glorious Revolution. Pyongyang was clearly designed by the sort of people whose flair for dash and elegance make the average janitor's overalls look like a Christian Dior ball gown. In a bizarre irony, Dictator Art is one of DPRK's most successful industries, earning much needed foreign currency. The design and construction of the two Mugabe statues in Harare and the revoltingly misnamed Laurent Kabila Friendship Arch in the Congo are but two examples of the use of art to proclaim the legitimacy of rule.

Ostensibly I am here as a guest of the People's Revolutionary Council Cultural Exchange Friendship Group to admire the newly completed Museum of the People. In reality, I'm here to value cultural artifacts that can be sold for actual cash money.

My reception committee consisted of a cadre of senior Army officers, who I will be honest all looked the same, as me being on the tall side and them on the small side, all I could see was an undulating sea of platter sized hats. They left me in the lobby of the foreigners hotel with three munchkins of my own, my interpreter, bodyguard, and personal assistant, to look after me as I checked in. I tried to send my retinue away, explaining that I really didn't need them, but there was no chance of them leaving me to my own devices. Not that I wanted to have any devices, because really, Pyongyang isn't exactly a hotbed of excitement or vice of any kind.

"This is the luxury hotel for foreigners," my assistant proudly informed me as she showed my hotel room. As the North Korean idea of luxury is a bathroom equipped with two (small) towels and a bed that could double as a mortician's slab, I'd hate to think what the cheap hotel for foreigners was like. "We will be leaving for the Museum in precisely one hour," she continued, "would you like some tea?"

"I don't suppose there's anything stronger?"

Consternation ensued. Up to this point, our little party had been a sedate affair, but suddenly it descended into Tosca, with my assistant and the interpreter going at each other and, it rapidly became clear, were going to come to blows unless I intervened.

"Stop!" I shouted, "tea is just fine. There's no need for a Diplomatic Incident." Who knew DPRK was teetotal? The only way anyone could live here and retain their sanity was surely to drink?

Precisely one hour later we mobilized in the hotel lobby for the Grand Tour. There were a dozen or so other Western representatives gathered with their retinues. They were easily spotted, their (relatively) brightly colored clothes standing out against the drab, like poppies waiting to be mown down above a field of khaki, and their tongues drier than a camel's whatsit.

A monolithic concrete hulk of daunting scale on the far side of the Kim Il Sung Square, opposite the Foreigners Hotel, turned out to be The People's Revolutionary Museum or possibly The Museum of the Glorious Revolution, or even the Glorious People's Museum of the Revolution. All the buildings are named along the same lines so you'll have to forgive my inattention. Obediently we trooped across the square surrounded by our military phalanx and up the steps to the monumental doors.

We walked through what should have been more accurately named the Kim Il Sung Tribute Museum. Traversing a vast hall, we walked past, examined, and paid our respects to, 387 busts of Kim Il Sung made of failed rocket scrap metal. I kid you not. I counted. It took three hours to reach the far end where mercifully we were allowed to stop for tea and then we walked for three hours back again down the other side. It was like a remake of Being Jon Malkovich, only in monochrome, and Mr. M was played by Kim Il Jong. It was stunning. I use the word advisedly.

One of my military handlers took me aside,

"What do you think, Ms. Benning?"

"I'm speechless."

"And their value?"

I summon every ounce of diplomacy and think very carefully about how to phrase my answer. "Priceless to the cultural heritage of the people."

"Unfortunately the People's Cultural Heritage isn't edible."

"Got any chests?"

The Colonel didn't smile.

"We may have something else of interest. Please follow me, Ms. Benning."

I followed him down a corridor to a small room that was empty apart from a low table on which sat a box. It turned out not to be a box, but a cover, which the Colonel whipped away like a magician at the end of a vanishing trick. But instead of a rabbit, there sat an exquisite piece of porcelain.

In this game, you learn to adopt a professional world-weary demeanor that implies you've seen it all and nothing can impress you. I've always been rubbish at poker so I couldn't help small "oooh" escaping my lips.

The pale blue glaze 'the color of the sky after rain' is superb. There is a faint roseate glow under the glaze just warming the blue around the rim of the saucer. My mind starts to work furiously and I struggle to get my face back under stern control. I turn to the Colonel and say,

"May I?"

He nods, and I lift the bowl, gently setting it back on its cushion upside down. I don't use gloves because they can be slippery and cause red faces all round. I get out my iPhone and stand back a bit because as with gloves, dropping your phone on a precious piece is somewhat embarrassing.

"No photographs, please."

"Absolutely," and I show him the magnifying app, which seems to impress him, and use it to look at the inscription and markings on the base.

I don't have a huge amount of experience with _Ru_ ware. Actually no one does because there are only eighty or so authenticated pieces in the world scattered across a handful of museums, with only three pieces in private hands. 'Rare as the stars at dawn', it was manufactured during the Song dynasty for a mere twenty years on the Emperor's command for his personal use. Only perfect pieces were sent to him, everything else smashed. The rarity and understated beauty of _Ru_ ware makes it the single most desirable porcelain in the world.

Then I use the measuring app to peer at the three 'sesame seed' spur marks. My theory is that the 'sesame seeds', which are the marks left from the supports used to fire the pieces, shouldn't be exactly the same distance apart because precision technology wasn't available in the 10th Century. These ones are precisely 1.7386 centimeters apart from each other.

"How much would you say this is worth, Ms. Benning?"

The conclusion I have drawn from my furious musings is that this is a test, although I'm not sure if it is a test of me, or of the piece. It doesn't matter either way because I don't like people playing games with me. I open my fingers and deliberately let the bowl fall and shatter on the floor. If I'm wrong, then I've just smashed 25 million US dollars worth of porcelain, which is going to be hard to explain back in the office _vis a vis_ employee liability insurance.

"Less than nothing now."

The Colonel starts to laugh. "Your reputation wasn't inflated. We were told you you were good. May I ask what gave it away?"

"If it were genuine, it would have been sold long ago."

And that was that. We returned to the hotel, attended a dinner, and never another word was said about fake porcelain (or chests for that matter). All very strange indeed.

The oddity was at the function in Beijing I attended the night before I flew home.

Our Mr. Fang has been insured by J&J for years and years. In fact, my first overseas trip with J&J was to China to see Mr. Fang. It was, and still is, J&J's policy to show new staff the extent of the remit and the seriousness of their responsibilities. So, quite early in my career, Patrick, for his sins, had to suffer me capering about behind him like Bambi with ADD all over the Far East for three weeks. Our Beijing client, Mr. Fang, had a wide ranging collection of pieces both modern and antique and he was knowledgeable and interesting. All in all, it was an amusing and very educational visit and, if I am honest, I found myself rather smitten.

In return, Mr. Fang was equally taken by my girlish enthusiasm and made it quite clear that the post of First Mistress was available and mine for the asking. Now, although I could quite see the attraction (imagine if you can, a Chinese Harrison Ford. A _young_ Harrison Ford), I'd been warned about Mr. Fang by Lin, so his proposition didn't come as a horrid shock, and I was fully prepared with a pretty speech about how terribly flattered I was and how, with deep regret, I played for the other team. And I _was_ regretful; Lin had told me in quite unnecessarily fulsome detail just how much of a Studley McDudley Mr. Fang was. Apparently, he walked the walk, not just talked the talk. Or in his case, fucked the fuck. So much so, that after meeting him I was secretly harboring Doubts about my commitment to unshaven legs and short hair. We meet every three or four years and he always half-seriously renews his offer and I always half-seriously turn him down and thus we have remained good friends.

As J&J's representative, I am invited to a small banquet that Mr. Fang has arranged for my last night in China. There are undercurrents, power plays, and political maneuverings that I am faintly aware of, but don't fully grasp, even though Lin has given me endless lessons on 1) Mr. Fang and the Communist Party, 2) Opening China to Capitalism, 3) the Need for Discretion, 4) being Careful not to Commit to anything, 5) having an Open Mind, and, 6) Diplomacy. Unfortunately, she always couches it all in such opaque language that I'm clueless as to what she's driving at apart from the usual 7) Don't Fuck Up.

I am seated between two Party officials, on my left a Minister for Culture, and on my right a Minister for Trade. There's a reason behind everything in China, even seating arrangements Lin tells me, but I'm still not clear what my role is; am I a supporting cast member or the main attraction?

"Both," is the answer, as an extremely low cut green silk gown with off-the-shoulder scarf sleeves underscores my magnificent décolletage, in which nestles a brilliant cut emerald pendant of vulgarly large karat set in a diamond-eyed dragon's embrace. To look at either is to be impressed. It's not my first choice of jewelry; it's actually a Throckmorten family piece and Patrick insisted I wear it to this function.

Just before I left on my Tour of Exile, Patrick had called me into his office. I braced myself for a 'We Need to Talk About Duncan' interview but that wasn't it at all.

"This dinner, Louise. In Beijing. It's important. It's about J&J's face. If you would, please be guided by us. I want you to wear this." Just in case there's any misunderstanding he added, "at the dinner. In Beijing." And he handed a pendant on a long gold chain to me.

My eyebrows climbed stratospherically. The pendant was an Imperial Dragon, and almost certainly invaluable. I can only surmise it is supposed to send a message to the assembled company in Beijing. A message that's well above my pay grade.

"And for god's sake don't lose it or I will personally dig your grave."

The inestimable value of the pendant has weighed heavily on me throughout this trip. Not only do I live in terror of actually losing it, I've lost countless hours of sleep trying to work out how to get away with stealing it. In the end, caution wins out over valor and I consign it to my hotel safe at every opportunity.

Patrick's grasp of rudimentary anatomy notwithstanding, at the end of the evening the Ministers are appropriately captivated by the viper in my bosom, and I receive invitations to various functions, to all of which I reply,"Yes. No. Absolutely. I'll get my assistant to call you," with perfect non-committal. That way, Lin can sort the invitations out when I get back, as I have no idea which ones I'm supposed to accept (bulletin point #4 in Lin's lessons).

After the banquet, we mingle about with more drinks; China, thank goodness, is emphatically not teetotal. Quite the opposite in fact, as raging dipsomania seems to be a national pastime judging by the state of my colleagues. After ten or fifteen minutes, Mr. Fang comes over to me and with practiced elegance cuts me from the herd,

"I see you've been noticed by people in high places."

I stare at him aghast,

"What is the matter, Louise? You look quite alarmed."

"That's one of the Three Curses!"

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"You know, the Three Ancient Chinese Curses. May you live in interesting times, may you be noticed by people in high places, and may you get what you wish for."

"Louise, there are no such things as ancient Chinese curses. That's utter bollocks purveyed by Westerners with a taste for the Mysteries of The Orient," he said bracingly. "However, please tell Ms. Wang that her taste in jewelry is excellent."

Instantly confused, I say "Lin? You mean Patrick, right?"

"Yes, of course. My mistake. Please compliment Lord Throckmorten."

Just another instance to add to my list of "curious things to ask Lin about". The list gets longer every day. I resolve to just come out with it and confront her with it. One day.

I arrive back very very early on Saturday morning. The weekend passes a bit strangely as my body tries to adjust to the time change. I am supposed to be back toiling at the coal face of art at 9 am promptly on Monday, but things don't quite work out for me as I fall asleep at 7 am having been awake all night. I stumble into J&J at 2 pm-ish feeling like death warmed over.

"Morning, Lin!"

"Afternoon," says Lin, dryly. "Bernard has called a staff meeting."

"When for?"

Lin looks at her watch "ten minutes ago."

"What? Crap. I haven't had any notification. Am I seriously expected to attend? Does he even know I'm back?"

"He sent an email round last thing Friday. Yes, you are, and yes, he does. And I sent you a text this morning to remind you."

I drag out my phone which is, as per bloody usual, dead. I wordlessly hand it to Lin who sighs and picks up the phone to Bernard's assistant to tell him I'll be late. "Can you fix my Mac too, please?" I hand Lin my computer, which has been SNAFU since Thursday.

"Does it even boot up?" asks Lin as she presses the power button and the machine makes an alarming whirring noise.

"Kind of. Then the screen goes all pink and blinky."

"Sounds like the logic board is fried."

"That makes two us. I'm so not ready for a staff meeting. I hope I'm not tempted to snap at someone."

"Pretend you're in an AA meeting and filled with compassion for your fellow sufferers."

"I've never been to an AA meeting so I have no experience." I add sweetly, "I'll just have to bow to your superior knowledge." Unsung comic genius, that's me.

Lin doesn't look up from the computer screen, but acknowledges the hit by rhythmically clapping her free hand against her forearm.

"Is that the Zen koan, Sound of One Hand Clapping?"

"Nope. I'm trying to raise a vein."

"Always the critic."

"You need to leave," she says, looking at her watch, "now."

Being late to one of Bernard's staff meetings is bad for all sorts of reasons. There's Bernard's withering sarcasm and Bea's false compassion to deal with for a start, but mainly it means that someone else will have won the rather unbecoming scramble to get the chair furthest away from Bernard's halitosis.

"Ok, I'm on my way. But before I lose any more sleep over this...." I hand the emerald dragon pendant back to Lin. "Can you get this back to Patrick, please, and tell him Mr. Fang sends his compliments to Lord Throckmorten on the piece."

"Were those his exact words?"

"Something like that. Why?"

"Try and remember exactly."

"Oh. Okaaay." I focus my memories. "They were: Please tell Ms. Wang her taste in jewelry is excellent. Then he corrected himself and said Lord Throckmorten when I queried him." I paused to gauge her reaction but Lin remained impassive, so I took the plunge. In retrospect, I put it down to jet lag making me punch drunk.

"There are a lot of things that I don't understand, Lin," I continued, "Unified Field Theory, for example. But mainly I don't understand your precise position here at J&J. I've noticed that you're privy to a lot of things. Company things. And your knowledge of Fine Art is immense, which should put you out on the floor and not behind a secretary's desk. Not that I think of you as my secretary," I add hastily.

There ensued a Pregnant Pause.

"We have a saying in China _Qiáng niǔ de guā bù tián_. A melon taken off its vine is not sweet."

Suppressing my rolley-eye reaction, I merely nod and deadpan, "right you are. Absolutely. Melons."

"You know Louise, there are some people who mistake your tendency to levity as a sign of stupidity. I am not one of those people. I think you are actually quite clever." I preened. "Although shockingly, not to say disastrously, naive" she continued, spoiling it.

"I wouldn't go so far as to say that your trip has been an unmitigated triumph, but it has been extremely successful. J&J have garnered considerable face and have seen a substantial increase in business. Patrick and the Board are really quite pleased. I think you can certainly expect recognition of your efforts. But for the time being, can I just ask you to put your curiosity aside and trust that eventually all will become clear? Like the melons; leave things to develop naturally."

Because I'm dazzled by the prospect of recognition from the board (Bernard's job!!) I find myself saying, "yes. Yes, of course. Yes, melons all round," and traipse off to the staff meeting full of myself.

Staff meetings are held in one of the conference rooms. Bernard sits at the head of the table and barks, "speak up" to intimidate the huddled masses at the far end of the table. Last time I saw him Bernard was looking exceedingly unwell, so I had high hopes of not seeing him again. To my dismay, either he's found a fresh virgin to exsanguinate or he's had a liver transplant because he's looking very well indeed, comparatively speaking. Comparative to death bed pallor, that is.

Jonas has lost the game of halitosis chairs and is sitting next to Bernard. Jonas' fresh faced clean cut looks next to Bernard's crepuscular mien is like looking at side by side portraits by Norman Rockwell at his most saccharine and Lucien Freud at his most savage. Naturally, the only vacant chair is on Bernard's other side.

"Good Afternoon, Louise. How nice of you to be able to join us so promptly."

"Sorry I'm late, Bernard. Still on Tokyo time, I'm afraid."

Bernard glances up at the clocks on the wall. It's 11.30 pm in Tokyo. He flares his nostrils and I brace myself.

"Ah yes, your Far Eastern Tour. Let me say, you did very well, Louise."

Whoa. It must have positively _slain_ Bernard to say this. I try not to smirk as Bernard does his wintery smile. James winks broadly at me and Charles inclines his head. Saphira and Jonas are looking at me with naked admiration, which is as it should be. Lawrence is unsure whose lead to follow and settles for a vacuous pout. Bea is wearing her her Other Worldly expression, giving us to understand that she is above the dross of this materialistic plane. Combined with the shearling waistcoat worn over a cheesecloth smock, her resemblance to a hypnotized sheep is marked.

My nascent smirk dies as Bernard continues, "perhaps you could take us through a power point presentation detailing the major accounts of the new business?"

You have to hand it to Bernard. There's a reason he's still Head of Department; his ability to destabilize any challenger is wholly impressive. I haven't had time to get a presentation together and he knows it.

"Yes. No. Absolutely." I say, playing for time. "Actually, I'm having a bit of technical difficulty, Bernard. Lin's trying to sort my Mac out now. All those airport security scans I expect."

James (bless him) steps in to save me.

"Actually, Bernard, Louise has been keeping me in the loop with weekly updates, so we're all pretty much up to speed."

On the other hand, sensing a weakness she can exploit, Bea (curse her) chimes in,

"Poor Louise. Of course, you must be so tired. It gets harder and harder to recover from these trips as we age, doesn't it?"

She makes it sound as if I'm entering my dotage. In the usual course of things, I don't have a lot to do with Bea. Our spheres of influence don't come into contact very often which is the way both of us like it, but this is a low blow even for her; I can give her a good ten years.

"Don't include me in your we," I snap. "It's my computer that's having difficulties, not me. And speaking of difficulties, how's the valuation on those kimonos coming along?"

"I'm just waiting for Charles to confirm my figures," she says, smiling graciously at Charles. Charles' glare, previously directed at me and James because he's not been in on the weekly updates, is now directed at Bea. I don't fancy her chances later.

Bernard is feeling his grasp on the meeting slipping further with every minute and is glaring at everyone. Charles is glaring at Bea, Bea and I are glaring at each other, James is smiling contentedly, and Jonas and Saphira look uncomfortable because the grown ups are arguing. Lawrence just looks moronic.

At that moment Lin breaks the tension by coming in and saying,

"So sorry to interrupt, Bernard, but Patrick has just learned that Louise is back and is asking to see her immediately."

I smile triumphantly as I get up to leave.

"Power Point presentation at 8.30 am tomorrow," says Bernard spitefully.

Patrick's office is, as you would expect, the exact replica of a gentleman's club from the 1850's with chased oak paneling, leather armchairs and faded Persian rugs. It smells faintly of cigars and wet dog, and exudes the air of calm authority needed to part clients from their money. At any moment you expect a decrepit waiter to arrive bearing a glass of whisky on a silver salver, saying, "your usual, Lord Throckmorten".

Patrick is not alone, there are two Board members in the room (Lord and Lady Marchmaine), and the head of our Zurich office, Pussy Von Hoetzel. They are sitting having tea (Pussy and Lord M) and whisky (Patrick and Lady M) in front of the vast fireplace and fall silent as I enter the room. Whilst I've met all of them before I know none of them well. However, I'd recognize any of them in a police line-up.

Pussy Von Hoetzel, far from being the upper-class "It" girl the name implies, is a small man in his late sixties with an unfortunate choice of toothbrush mustache. It does nothing to conceal his permanently pursed lips, which make him look like a cat's arse in retreat. Hence the soubriquet "Pussy". His real name is, I believe, Dieter. His face could only charitably be described as 'lived-in' if you meant that he looked as though a vagrant had been sleeping in the scabrous bags under his eyes. His complexion is soft, yellowish and leathery; like a parsnip in late maturity. The Zurich office historically has been the lead producer in J&J's far flung empire but with the shift in world markets, it's been losing ground to New York. This has diminished Pussy's pre-eminent position at J&J (he didn't get a Board seat), and so, to paraphrase Wodehouse, if not actually disgruntled, he's very far from being gruntled. I don't know why he's in London and make a mental note to ask Lin.

Patrick invites me to sit down. Remembering the Throckmorten sofa I cannily choose an upright chair, only to find an errant but excitingly robust spring in the seat which catapults me vertical again.

"Really, I'm fine standing."

Patrick's lips twitch and he gestures towards a chair in the center of the group. "Try this one, Louise. I think you'll find it more comfortable. Tea?"

There's a short silence while everyone smiles at me. Then a longer one, and I am just starting to get creeped out when the silence is broken by Lady Evelyn Marchmaine, Patrick's sister (but not Despicable Duncan's mother. That's the 'Other Sister'; She Who Must Not Be Named). Lady M's stout legs are fashionably encased in skin tight mottled brown leather trousers worn with a yellow cashmere sweater and topped by a puffy down-filled rust colored gilet. She looks like an ambulatory toad-in-the-hole. The nod to the latest fashion is because she tries just a little too hard to be thought marvelous for her age when in fact she's definitely past her sell by date.

"Louise. We, the Board, just wish to tell you how very happy we are with your terrific performance over the past couple of months during your overseas assignment. Just super."

There are nods of assent and a muttered Hear Hear from Lord Marchmaine. Patrick hands me a cup of tea and takes over from his sister whom he clearly feels is _gushing_. He continues in his clipped upper-class tones

"Well. Yes. There you have it. Can't announce anything yet, still certain formalities to be observed. But! Want you to be absolutely assured that you are our first choice for the position that will be opening up. Along with what we hope you will think is a very generous remuneration package. Very."

No one seems inclined to add anything to this, obviously feeling that words are precious and shouldn't be wasted, so there's an uncomfortable pause while I drink my tea, frantically rack my brains for something to say, and finally fall back on corporate speak.

"It was a fabulous opportunity. I learned a great deal as well making some very good professional contacts along the way that I'm sure will be invaluable in the future. I feel that I'm ready for a new challenge here at J&J as soon as..." I want to say something about getting rid of Bernard without actually mentioning Bernard but it's tricky, "as, ah, as it happens."

"Marvelous," says Lady M.

"Absolutely," says Lord M.

"Indeed," says Pussy.

"Quite," says Patrick.

All of us having exhausted our repertoire of small talk, I'm desperate to flee, so I say thank you and make my way to the door pleading pressures of work after my long absence.

I leave Patrick's office and air punch my way to the stairs. Yes!

Fuck. You. Bernard.

I managed to scrape together a power point presentation (once Lin had downloaded my computer onto a backup drive, wiped my hard drive, reinstalled everything, and gave me a new pencil to use, sighing all the while. Honestly, you'd think she be happy to help) which pleased Bernard. Or at any rate didn't actively displease him because he wasn't nasty to me for at least the rest of the week.

Once that was done, I prepared myself for spending long hours closeted with our underwriting team doing risk assessment and then issuing policies. This was the pedestrian side of my job, the bit that goes on behind closed doors. Whilst I quite enjoy the technical side of the work, I have to say our underwriters aren't exactly a laugh a minute bunch. Don't get me wrong, they're all very nice and well meaning, but, you know, the sort that wear bicycle helmets. The only way I can stay awake in meetings is to drink triple espressos with Red Bull chasers. I was just downing the last of my coffee when someone knocked on my door and opened it.

"Your hunch about the kimono was correct," says Charles coming into my office in a waft of aftershave.

Ha. I have a mind like a steel trap for seemingly insignificant detail. Some might say trivial detail, but not in this case. I'd looked at a collection of kimonos in Tokyo and one of them looked vaguely familiar. I couldn't place it for the longest time but then it came to me; a couple of months ago, Charles had asked me for my opinion on the detail of an oriental ceramic vase in a painting in which there had also been a kimono draped over a chair in the background. Charles had become convinced that the work was by Tissot, painted during a craze for Japonisme. He felt that it could possibly be a follow up to Tissot's painting _La Japonaise au Bain_ in which the bather is almost wearing a kimono. This painting was a full nude, her kimono having been abandoned over a chair. If the kimono in the collection was also the one in the painting, the value of both would be inestimably increased.

"I'm pleased to hear it. Congratulations on being one step closer to identifying a lost Tissot. You must be very excited."

"I'm trying terribly hard not to get my hopes too high, but both you and I know, Louise, that this could be a career making find." Charles looked like a cat positively swimming in cream.

"Are you not happy with your career trajectory here, Charles? Do you want to move onto pastures greener?"

"Frankly, I'm not convinced that my career is going anywhere, Louise. Bernard is hanging on with what I can only describe as disgusting tenuousness. He needs to start taking care in dark alleys."

I wonder if Charles is joking. He doesn't look as if he is. I almost feel a twinge of pity for Bernard. Almost.

"And James needs to stop making himself less busy where you are concerned," he continues savagely.

Somewhat startled, as I have no idea where that came from, I say, "I beg your pardon?"

"James is grooming you, Louise. He wants you on his side come the revolution. But as you can see, I'm going places, and you would be well advised to pick the winning side. I only want strong team players going forward."

I can't very well say that I'd rather poke my eyes out with knitting needles than play on Charles' team, or more to the point, that perhaps Charles should brace himself for playing on my team.

"I'll bear that in mind, Charles. Thanks for dropping by, let me know how the attribution goes." I get up as I'm saying this and usher him out the door.

I turn back to find that Lin has silently materialized in my office.

"I wish you wouldn't do that."

"You handled Charles very well, I thought."

"Thanks. If I'm lucky he won't slit my throat while I'm asleep."

Two days after I got back a text message came through from Paul.

Weather great this weekend. Let's go to Peaks. Dovedale? Unless you are on your way to Aspen to go skiing!

I'm surprised to hear from Paul, because once he's in mission mode, he tends to go incommunicado. The reference to Aspen means that he wants to speak to me about the job; I guess I may have overlooked providing some vital information. I had been rather looking forward to a weekend settling back into my home comforts, but needs must etc.

Love to! See you in the Stoats on Friday

I skipped out of work a bit early on Friday and drove like a lunatic up to Derbyshire, knowing that I needed to make it before 8 pm. The Three Stoats Heads is a long, low, old, stone building in the middle of nowhere. It's been a public house since the Middle Ages, but after the Black Death reached these parts, the population never returned and the pub is usually very quiet. There are two rooms, both tiny, one containing a bar and a few tables into which the locals apparate to play dominoes, and the other where upholstered chairs and a small fire attract the out of towners. There are two taps, and neither of them serves lager. Food is available on Friday night only and there is no menu, the landlady cooks what she likes and you must order by 8 pm. Both the beer and the food are quite excellent. On this Friday night, the place is packed to the gunnels and there must be at least ten people inside.

I made the pub by the skin of my teeth. I rushed straight to the bar and said: "Dinner, please, and a pint of Old Speckled Hen." Paul's battered Landrover was parked outside so I figured he would have ordered by now. I took my pint through to the other room and found Paul already eating.

"Paul!"

"Hello, Dear Heart."

"What's for dinner? Smells good."

"Crab tortellini in a shrimp bisque."

"Oh fabulous, I'm starving." I pinch one of his tortellini, "yum."

"Do that again and I'll stab you with my fork. Didn't you make it in time to order?"

"Only just. I didn't have time to ask what it was though. How are you?" Paul looks a little hollow-eyed to me and the puffiness has vanished. He's not gaunt exactly, but he's definitely lost quite a bit of weight. I mean I don't want to say "have you got cancer", but something's eating him.

"Good. Good. Same old. But how about you? Tell me all about your trip."

We chatted away until the other group crowding the room decided that the excitement was too much to bear and left. We took our glasses and moved beside the fire.

"So?" I raised my eyebrows in mute inquiry.

Paul shrugged and said, "it's just not possible."

"Because?"

"I've never told you how it all works because you don't need to know, but one essential is that I can get onto the site. Your friend's house is in the middle of a field down a private drive served by a one lane access road, from a town with only two exits, one of which is closed in winter. I'm going to stick out like a sore thumb if I even approach the house and my exit route is a trap."

As Paul says, he's never told me any details so I have formed my own hazy ideas of what he does from novels and Bond films. "But don't you do all this at the dead of night, dressed like a ninja?"

"Of course not! No one notices the mailman or the parcel courier or the gardener or the man fixing the alarm or the painter. Running around all blacked up at night is very hard to explain away, especially if the police also want to know why you are driving without lights down a mountain road. In addition to the remote location, your friend employs only two people; a cook and a driver, as far as I can tell, so the house is quiet as the grave during the day with no comings and goings. I just can't get access."

"Well, that's a bit of a blow. Really, can't you try to do it at night?"

"No. The alarm system has to be disarmed from inside the house. Ergo, someone has to be inside the house to do it. I suppose it might be possible to bribe the driver or the cook, but that's not the way I work. I trust myself and no one else."

"Apart from me," I quipped.

"Yes, true, Dear Heart. But you aren't inside the house, unfortunately."

I gazed into the fire. The scroll had seemed to be so tantalizingly close and so easy to steal. Why hadn't I just grabbed when I was there? Because of the camera, I reminded myself. But then again....

"But supposing I was."

"Was what?

"In the house. Supposing I was in the house," I repeated. "What would I have to do?"

At that moment the landlady comes through to clear the plates and glasses and ask if we had enjoyed dinner. We had, most emphatically, but even if we hadn't we wouldn't have dared to say so. The landlady, dressed in a flowery apron, is large and short tempered; a bit like an elephant walrus that's found the sharp end of a rose bush. I dexterously changed the subject

"Did you see your army buddies while you were in the States? Was it fun?"

Paul looks a little uncomfortable and says tersely, "I did manage to look a couple of them up, yes. I don't know about fun but it was certainly a surprise for them to see me."

The landlady moves away,

"We'll talk about this tomorrow," hisses Paul. Raising his voice again he continues, "right, well, let's get going, we've still got our tents to put up."

I stare at him in horror. I'm absolutely bloody exhausted from the drive, my body is still recovering from jet lag, and I'm all warm and comfortable filled with Old Speckled Hen and crab, and now I've got to put up a tent?

"Joke. I already set camp." Paul grins hugely and winks. Bastard.

The campsite we were in wasn't far from the pub, down a farm track into a field. Just as well, because I could hardly keep my eyes open to drive anywhere further. I stumbled into my tent, unrolled my sleeping pad and opened up my sleeping bag. I'd managed to forget my pillow so I stuffed all my clothes into the bag that I'd taken my sleeping bag out of (the sleeping bag bag!). Climbing into bed, blissfully I surrendered myself into the arms of Murphy. Only to be rudely awakened by a fox's screaming bark.

Only it wasn't a fox screaming. It was Paul in the throes of a nightmare. It's wasn't unusual for him to have bad dreams, but they'd become infrequent over the past couple of years. I thought back to how he looked, the weight loss, and I wondered if his PTSD had been triggered recently. Eventually he stopped and I dropped off back to sleep. I slept fitfully after that but emerged into the dawn bright eyed and bushy tailed. Joke. I look like Alice Cooper and feel like Carrie White, what with the combination of crab, real ale, jet lag and screaming. The campfire is going and Paul has made some strong coffee.

"You're quiet," he says.

"I didn't sleep well. Did you have a good night's sleep?" This is supposed to be a cunning opening ploy so I can easily steer the conversation round to asking about his awful nightmares.

"Fine, thanks," he said, which rather left me with nowhere to go.

Instead we sit around the fire for two hours arguing about me going to Aspen and drinking innumerable cups of coffee. I get a caffeine headache as we go over the same ground repeatedly.

"I don't know, Louise. I'm just not sure it's the answer."

"There isn't another option. I can access the house, you can't. You said it yourself."

"What excuse are you going to give for being in Aspen?"

"None. Just the joy of being with each other should be enough, don't you think?"

"You haven't been in contact with her that much so you should have a reason."

"Maybe I could say I'm visiting to research something. A collection of someone famous that I'm not allowed to divulge."

"Hmmmm. Like John Denver possibly?"

"Who?"

"The Country and Western singer?" says Paul. "Don't tell me you've never heard of him."

"Oh yes. Of course I know. Listen." To prove it I launch into my show stopping rendition of 'I am a Lineman for the County'.

Paul stares at me in stupefied fascination,

"Jebus. You just absolutely massacred Glen Campbell's classic." He shakes his head, "this is going to be a disaster. No. Just no."

"Paul!" I shout. "Enough. I want to do this. I'm going to do this. I won't mention John Campbell... Denver. I'll figure something else out. Just tell me what I need to do and I'll do it."

Paul throws up his hands. "Fine. You have no idea how emotionally hard this is going to be for you. But whatever, I'm not going to argue anymore."

"Good."

We glare at each other for a couple of minutes until finally I say,

"Please?"

Paul exhales in exasperation and then starts talking in clipped military tones. He's probably regretting his lack of swagger stick and chalk board. "As you know, there are two system set/override boxes. One is in-between the caretaker's quarters and the main house and the other is just inside the door of the main bedroom. They are both the same. You need to open the cover and enter the code on the buttons..."

"How did you get the passkey for the alarm system?" I interrupt.

"You'll just have to trust that I know what I'm doing, Louise. Everything is on a need to know basis, and you don't kneed to know. Now if you'll let me finish? As I said, enter the code and the system will deactivate the alarms and the cameras. To reactivate, just press the green button at the bottom. Then.... just go and steal the scroll."

"What do I do with it?"

"Put it in your briefcase of course. I'll give you a specially modified briefcase to take with you. It will have a hard shell interior compartment for the scroll."

"No, no, I mean what do I do with it afterward? Once I've left the house?"

"Oh, I see what you mean. Well, I'll meet you inside Denver airport at your departure gate. We'll swap briefcases. I'll be flying out the same day as you, but I'll be heading somewhere else. Paris probably."

Swapping briefcases sounds exactly like a Bond film to me. This is more like it. I shall wear oversized sunglasses and a hat as a disguise.

"How terribly thrilling. I shall wear a disguise. Why are you going to Paris?"

"Because I'm hardly going to go to London on the same flight as you," says Paul exasperatedly. "And don't wear a bloody disguise! God, it's like working with an eight year-old."

As usual, my riposte to abuse like that is to stick my tongue out.

"And supposing I get caught?"

"It's quite simple. Don't."

We spent the rest of the day hiking down Dovedale. Usually, we natter on with easy familiarity but conversation was strained. Paul was very quiet and every now and then his brow would furrow and his lips would pinch. He looked very much like he did that day at Huntsman's Leap.

"Is something bothering you?" I asked.

"No. No, why would you think that?"

"You seem a bit distant, preoccupied. You look quite...... upset," I wanted to say traumatized but bit it back at the last moment, "and, er, you were talking in your sleep last night."

"Was I? Well naturally I'm not happy about you doing this Aspen thing."

"I don't think that's it, Paul. You've lost quite a bit of weight and you look drawn. You're obviously suffering."

We carried on walking, the limestone buttresses looming out of the intensifying mizzle like sheet shrouded cartoon ghosts. The silence lengthened.

"This is fun," I remarked brightly. "We really must do this more often. Perhaps we could do it in more wintery conditions next time? Maybe with a picnic? I could make those lobster baps you like so much and we could drink champagne. Oh, I know! We could borrow a couple of smelly dogs so we could really get into the groove..."

Paul sighed and stopped walking. "Shut up, Louise. Just.... shut up."

"No. I'm going to continue to annoy the crap out of you until you talk to me."

Paul gazed at me for a long time. "There's something I need to do. I don't want to tell you about it."

"Why not?"

"Because you'll never look at me the same way again. Because there are things that civ...normal people.... shouldn't have to face."

"Civilians. You were going to say civilians."

"Yes. Civilians."

"This is about the Army, isn't it? Afghanistan."

"It's nothing. Let it go, Louise," he says, his tone hard. The voice of a commanding officer.

"Fine. Whatever. But I'm always here for you, Paul. Always."

By the time we got to the pub I was utterly drenched, weighed down by wet clothes and sadness. I loved Paul and seeing his pain was unbearable.

Reluctantly leaving Paul to his demons, I text Missy on my way back to London.

Miss you. Planning trip in 2 weeks time. You free?

Immediately a text pings back.

Yes yes yes!

### Aspen

The Gnat that sings his Summer's song

Poison gets from Slander's tongue.

The poison of the Snake & Newt

Is the sweat of Envy's Foot.

The poison of the Honey Bee

Is the Artist's Jealousy.

**O** n Monday I settled back into the drab routine of earning a living. After the excitement and challenge of the past couple of months and the prospect of Aspen ahead of me, London seemed positively staid. I did more follow up on all the new business I'd generated and ignored looking at my expense account report.

"Lin?"

"Yes?"

"I'm thinking about taking a holiday."

"But you just got back two weeks ago."

"That was work, not holiday. Though I might be able to combine...."

Lin does that thing where she cocks her head, raises her eyebrow, and twists the corner of her mouth, which wordlessly says: You have to be fucking kidding me.

In turn, I do my thing where I raise both eyebrows and smirk, which wordlessly says: What are you going to do? Sue me?

Now that we both know where we stand, she says, "I wouldn't do another work trip if I were you. I open your credit card statements, remember?"

I wince. "Is it that bad?"

"Pretty much. Where are you going to go?"

"Dunno. I fancy a couple of days on a beach with drinks that come in coconuts with little umbrellas in them. Belize? Florida? How about Cuba?!"

"You can't go to Cuba. You have an American passport," says Lin.

"Really? I thought that all got sorted out. By the Pope, wasn't it?" I was getting quite enthused about the idea and Lin's comment comes as a disappointment. Then I remember that I'm actually not going on holiday at all, so the whole thing is moot anyway.

"Your grasp of world affairs is remarkable," says Lin. Not admiringly.

"Oh well, Florida it is. It's quite like Cuba anyway."

"Actually, it's not, but never mind. Do you want me to book you a flight?"

"Nah, I'll figure it out, thanks." Florida makes me think of sun loungers around a pool, which inevitably leads me to think about Germans. "Oh, by the way, I meant to ask you. Why was Pussy Von Hoetzel in London last week?"

"Pep talk. It turns out that part of the fall off in business in Zurich is because his mind hasn't been on his job. He's embroiled in a nasty divorce. There has been a suggestion of a sabbatical."

Well now, that's interesting. Both Bernard and Pussy heading to the benches. I could quite see myself in the Zurich office, lunching with UN worthies before heading out into the snow for après-ski. I didn't even know Pussy was married, but the divorce doesn't surprise me (very small hands, one can't help but notice). As always, Lin's intelligence network is amazing. How does she know all this? She must have Patrick's office bugged.

Missy and I continued to text (or sext, if you must be pedantic). I explained away my heretofore lack of communication on the grounds that a) she was a married woman, and I didn't want to influence her relationship with Davis, and that b) I was still getting over Emma and it wouldn't have been fair on her (Missy), and so throughout, it was only Missy's well being I'd been thinking of. Missy thought this was all rather noble. So much so that I almost started believing it myself.

I told Lin I'd booked a ticket to the US and that my plan was that I would fly into Miami and hire a car and go to Disneyworld. I reasoned that if I was traveling I wouldn't have a set itinerary, and therefore couldn't be tracked down.

"Disneyworld?" said Lin incredulously.

"I've never been."

"I thought you wanted a beach holiday?"

"I was worried I might get bored."

"But..... _Disneyworld_?"

"They have all sorts of other things there too," I say somewhat defensively. "There's the expo site and, um, and a place where you can wrestle crocodiles."

"Well do take lots of pictures. I can't wait to see you with Mickey Mouse. And the crocodiles."

"Oh, of course!" I cry gaily, my heart sinking as the flaw in my cunning plan becomes thunderingly apparent.

Aaaagghh. Why didn't I think that she would expect pictures! Now what was I going to do? Thank god I'm not allowed a social media account that I'd have to update. But, no matter how you look at it, Colorado is nothing like Florida, and they don't have crocodiles; of that I'm reasonably sure. A botanical garden! That's the answer. Photos of me with exotic flowers. Photos of me with exotic food, which I'm bound to be able to find in Colorado. Photos of the exotic Florida sea and the exotic crocodiles...... would be hard.

And then it comes to me in blinding flash of inspiration. There would be no photos. I'll lose my pencil and my iPhone will break. Too bad, so sad.

Two weeks later I'm America-bound. Eschewing the battle of the roadworks, I flew into Denver and changed flights for the short hop to Aspen. Aspen's airport is one of the more terrifying places to land, being ringed with mountains that force the planes to spiral down to the runway, as opposed to descending gracefully along a straight trajectory as socially acceptable custom generally has it. So they tell me; I had my eyes shut.

I emerged from the terminal into the fading light to find Missy waiting for me dressed in cowgirl chic; all subtle shades of denim, lace, and fuck me. Suede lavender fringed short cowboy boots, denim skirt over multiple laced petticoats, cotton shirt with lace finishes (unbuttoned to barely polite tolerances), and a cowboy hat. As she went to sit in the driver's seat, she hiked her skirt and petticoats to reveal a glimpse of tanned thighs. My mouth dried up with lust.

Aspen, last seen drifted with snow, was just beginning to green up. Black pocked piles of snow lined the streets and the ski slopes were streaked dirty brown. The sidewalks were clear of snow but still gritty underfoot; the festive winter-in-wonderland feel of a ski resort (twinkling lights, mulled wine, ostentatious wealth) was distinctly lacking. Aspen looked like the exhausted prostitute she is. In the harsh glare of spring, without the camouflage of snow, fissures and cracks revealed the lines on her aging face.

"Do you want to stop and get something to eat or drink here in town? There's plenty of food back at the house too, if you'd rather that? How's the jet lag? Are you tired?" asked Missy.

Truth be told, I am hungry, thirsty, tired, and overwhelmed by the questions. So I settle for what seems easiest. "How about a bottle of champagne in bed?"

"I love the sound of that."

We drive up to the house, which is still surrounded by snow. Missy has given the caretaker a couple of days off, so we will have to fend for ourselves as best as possible, relying only on vast stocks of food, a cellar full of fine wines, a media room, and ourselves, to ward off starvation and cabin fever.

In the kitchen, Missy pulls a bottle of champagne from the fridge and pours two glasses. She hands one to me and then sits on a barstool. She raises her glass and we toast each other. Moving in, I part her knees and stand between them. We kiss for a long time and then I slowly undo the buttons of her shirt.

It has grown dark by the time we make our way back down to the kitchen from the bedroom. Missy makes a fire in the great room while I rummage about in the fridge and pantry looking for dinner ingredients. I settle on asparagus with lemon butter, mustard soy encrusted tuna, and baby new potatoes, also with butter, because you just can't have enough of it as far as I'm concerned. Butter, that is.

After dinner we sit and drink and gaze into the fire. Above the mantel is the remarkable Clyfford Still but its restless energy exhausts me and I have to swivel round to face Missy. This maneuver brings Davis' Georgia O'Keefe into my line of vision and I realize with a jolt that the iconic sexualized flower is a portrait of Missy; the ivory petals staining a rosy blush when she comes, and I wonder if Davis bought it for that reason. The thought makes me uncomfortable so instead I focus on Missy's cleavage with predictable results and I end up shifting uneasily about like a schoolgirl needing a wee. We chat about what we would do the following day. There is an exhibition by a local artist that Missy would like to go to. Watercolors. It would be.

"Unless it feels too much like work? I know you've just come from an appraisal."

"Eh?" then I remember that I'd told Missy that I was extending a work trip in Oklahoma to come and see her. "Yes. No. Absolutely. I'd think that would be lovely." It won't be, I'm prepared to bet. I've been to these type of things before. Daubs in muddy browns; self-portraits judging by the execution.

"Who were you appraising for?" ask Missy.

I look blankly at her.

"Oh, you can tell me," she chides. "I won't tell anyone."

"No. Really I can't."

"I bet it's someone famous, isn't it?" Missy pouts, "you can ignore client anonymity for me, can't you?" She runs her hand along my thigh.

When she puts it like that, of course I can't.

"Glen Campbell," I say, blurting out the first name that comes into my head.

"Really? Glen Campbell has an Asian art collection? In Oklahoma? I thought he lived in California.... and I would have expected him to collect something a bit more, well, American."

"I know, right? Who knew?"

I am desperate to get out of this conversation, which I can see is going to lead me into deep water without a boat, let alone a paddle. So, despite being completely knackered, I start kissing her instead and we stumble upstairs. Flushed with desire she might be, but Missy nevertheless doesn't fail to set the alarm system. She catches me watching her and smiles "It's a habit. You should be pleased. After all, you are our insurer."

Finally, Missy falls asleep. I wait for what seems like an eternity then I grab my phone, slip out of bed and ooze my way quietly to the door. The panel glows very faintly greenish. Even so, I need the flashlight on my phone to see what I am doing. I know the alarm won't go off but never the less, it's terrifying just touching the cover. I'm suddenly aware that my heart rate has climbed stratospherically.

Gently lifting the cover, I stare at the panel in horror. Instead of a push button panel, I'm staring at a touch screen pad. I know without a doubt if I touch it, the system will go into meltdown just like my phone does. I need my pencil and it's downstairs in my handbag. I hastily shut the cover and slip back into bed. Missy stirs. "Are you OK? do you need anything?"

"No, no, I was just thirsty."

Missy comes fully awake and reaching into the bedside cupboard brings forth a bottle of fizzy water and a glass. "Here you are."

"Lovely. Thank you."

"Are you sure you're OK? You seem a bit breathless."

"Altitude," I say confidently.

Once awake, it's a while before Missy can be persuaded to go back to sleep, so that's one night without a result. Speaking as a thief that is.

It takes me much longer to go to sleep. Paul was right about stealing not being as easy as I supposed it would be. I liked Missy, quite a lot actually, and I didn't dislike Davis. These were real people, people who had offered me hospitality, not nameless, faceless abstracts. Could I really do this?

The following morning, Missy and I breakfast at the crack of 10 am (avocado on toast topped with poached eggs if you must know). It's a stunningly crisp, blue sky-ed day outside, with only a hint of the spring warmth to come. Once again I've traveled hopefully and my wardrobe isn't quite up to the rigors of the nasty edge to the wind, so I have to ask to borrow a more substantial jacket from Missy. To get the coats Missy disappears into her so-called walk in closet, which is about the size of an average high street department store. She reappears holding a dark wool coat over her arm, and my mouth drops open.

"What?" she says.

Missy has emerged wearing a fur coat, and I don't mean fake or dyed rabbit. I mean full on, screw you PETA, three quarter length leopard. Snow leopard. And with that, any moral qualms I had about stealing from someone with whom I had broken bread utterly vanish.

The exhibition that Missy had wanted to see turned out not to be by a single local artist at all, or indeed only watercolors. Aspen Center for the Arts was hosting its annual show. The winners in each category (Best Landscape, Best Mountain, Best Stream, Best Wildflower, Best Aspen Tree, Best Blobby Smear by A Generous Donor etc. etc.) was then auctioned off for charity.

We walked around dutifully viewing each painting. A limited palette of color and subject greeted the viewer. Children (red, white, blue) and/or horses (brown, white) marching stolidly through meadows (green) of shoulder high wildflowers (yellow, blue, red) and/or aspen trees (green, yellow) towards a stream with a distant snow capped peak stark white against a cerulean blue sky. It was like being slapped repeatedly in the face with a towel soaked in mediocrity. This being Aspen, there were glasses of a very tolerable white wine and some splendid caviar topped blinis circulating. I decided that they were being served as an apology for the suffering that I was having to endure and partook liberally.

"Missy? My eyeballs are bleeding and I may have eaten one too many blinis. Can we please leave?"

"Oh, you poor thing," Missy laughed. "We can't leave until after the auction. I need to bid on a painting."

"Dear god, why?"

"Davis wants one of them."

"Really? Which one?" This makes no sense to me at all. Davis collects Rothkos for heaven's sake, why on earth would he want a poorly executed saccharine daub of a mountain he can see out of his windows?

"I'm not sure yet, one of the landscapes."

"That doesn't really narrow the field much. They're all landscapes. Bad ones. Although I suppose that one by the door, the door where we came in, could be tolerated," I said, trying desperately to be positive and upbeat. "The one with the orange horses and purple mountains. It's...." I groped for an inoffensive adjective, "different."

"Specifically, it will be by Marianne Brandon."

"Let me guess. That's the pseudonym of, um, Angelina Jolie, and he's going to resell it on eBay for a fortune?"

"Not quite. Marianne is the wife of one of his big investors. There's a psychology behind the auction. Aspen is a very small community and this auction gives a bunch of billionaires something public to compete over. Davis studies the results to see who is cozying up to whom. He says you can even tell whose marriage is in trouble and who is playing away from home if you look closely enough. It's not Marianne's painting he's buying. He's buying her husband."

How very clever of Davis to take advantage of a thinly veiled dick measuring competition. Sure enough, Missy runs up the price of the painting to a startlingly vulgar amount, and makes sure she mentions Davis' name prominently in her pretty spiel for the press when she writes the check. At last we leave the auction and head to a nearby bar.

"Where will you hang it?"

"In the fire."

That night, I make sure to take my handbag upstairs to the bedroom. Once again I wait until Missy has fallen asleep. Pulling on one of the massive toweling dressing gowns from the bathroom, and arming myself with my trusty pencil, I approach the panel. I hold my breath as I punch in the numbers but Paul's intelligence proves to have been correct and the system powers itself down with a sigh.

It takes no more than a minute to run down the stairs and along the corridor to the storeroom. Using the flashlight on my phone, I thread my way through the furniture. Because I'm a bit panicked I smack my hip against a table. The table is piled with dining chairs and there's an awful couple of minutes where I struggle to stop the whole lot crashing down. Superhuman strength from adrenaline helps me to right the pile and I step back in relief. As I step back I whack my ankle on the clawfoot of a sideboard and go down like a wounded wildebeest. I want to scream as loudly as I can but have to settle for weeping into the sleeve of my dressing gown. I don't even want the damn scroll now, I just want to go home.

Hobbling toward the back of the room I realized I hadn't thought about what I'd do if the scrolls weren't there; kill myself probably. Mercifully the collection is exactly where I left it. I slip the scroll out of its hiding case and rush lopsidedly as quietly as possible back up to the kitchen, hip and ankle throbbing. I shove the scroll inside the false bottom of my briefcase and heave a sigh of relief. My heart is pounding and I feel faint and slightly nauseous, and it's a good few minutes before I can compose myself. Paul was right, I'm not cut out for this.

I head back to the bedroom, thankfully noticing my pencil on the stairs, which must have dropped out of my pocket on the way down. I slip through the bedroom door and reset the alarm. I am creeping stealthily across the bedroom when Missy sits up and turns on the light.

"What are you doing? Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine. A bit restless, that's all. Go back to sleep, I was trying not to wake you, I'm sorry."

"What are you doing with that pencil?"

"Pencil? This pencil? Oh, you know, I thought I'd do some sketching. To help me fall back asleep."

Missy looks confused, as well she might.

"What were you going to sketch?"

I try to look sheepish and then smile charmingly. "You. You look so beautiful when you're asleep. I wanted to remember you always. Like this. Here."

"Oh, Louise," breathes Missy, "how incredibly sweet."

Phew. How close? Gillette could take lessons, that's all I'm saying.

Tho' now I've got to produce a sodding sketch because Missy's bound to want to see it. Women, eh?

The following morning I beg Missy to let us have breakfast in bed together. I present it as a cozy, loving, intimate experience, the memories of which we will cherish forever. The truth is, I can barely walk. As soon as Missy goes downstairs to organize coffee and mimosas, I crawl to the bathroom to assess the damage. My hip is slowly turning purple and my ankle looks like a cantaloupe.

Turning on the shower, I step in and throw a bar of soap on the floor and spray some shampoo about. Then I yank the shower curtain and rail out of the wall and onto the floor and let out a scream. I lay on the floor for a bit before realizing that Missy didn't hear me so Academy Award Winner Louise Benning had to get back up, turn off the shower, and perch pathetically on the toilet until Missy comes back upstairs.

"Coffee!"

"Where are you?"

"Louise?"

"In the bathroom," I moan, looking all woebegone.

Missy surveyed the damage open mouthed. "Oh my god, what happened? Are you all right?"

"No," I wail. "I think I've sprained my ankle."

"Wow, I'll say. It's huge. Do you want to go to the emergency room?"

"No, no, I'll be fine with a few painkillers and resting quietly if you can help me get back into bed. I'm so sorry about your shower curtain, I just slipped." I said, piling on the tragedy with a sob.

"My god, look at your hip! And you could have easily been knocked out! My poor darling."

I stayed in bed for the rest of the day. Missy quite enjoyed fussing over me and playing nurse. She strapped my ankle while I bravely bit my lip and fought back tears (not entirely unfeigned), and she did such a good job I felt able to get up and hobble downstairs for dinner.

The next day she drove me to the airport and I kissed her goodbye. This would be the last time I saw Missy and I realized I would miss her. I liked her, despite the fur coat, but I didn't think I could overcome the guilt I was carrying in my briefcase. I determined that this was the last theft I'd have any part of. Paul would have to find another way to overcome his demons and my FYM would have to grow at its own pace.

It was a wonderful flight from Aspen to Denver. And by wonderful, I mean an utter sweating ball ache of terror. Take off was delayed for 'technical reasons', which as far as I'm concerned is up there with "This is your Captain speaking. Don't panic." Hard spirits weren't available on board so I had to settle for a glass of perfectly filthy red wine. The wine was thin, mean, and rough. Like a one night stand you pick up in an ill-lit bar.

It was late afternoon when I finally sat down in the hard plastic chairs near my flight gate in Denver. I had bought a newspaper to hide behind while surreptitiously looking for Paul. I'd read about this in spy novels but it turned out to be considerably harder to do than I had imagined. I needed a hole in the newspaper or I was going to look like a demented Peek A Boo player. I didn't have anything in my bag that would remotely enable me to make a hole because sharp objects are, of course, banned on International flights. In the end, I gave up and started reading The Economist. I like the Economist; the pictures they use to illustrate articles are highly amusing, almost surreal.

I was deep in an article about Chinese pork farming (illustrated by a boy on a motorcycle with a pig riding pillion) when Paul surprised me by saying, "Do you mind if I sit here?" Paul was shouldering an overcoat and carried a briefcase. We struggled a bit as I stood up and started to move my briefcase, coat, and hand luggage from the seat beside me and then we both sat down again. In the flurry, Paul put down his case and picked up mine. It was that simple. A couple of minutes later they started boarding, we both stood up, and as I made my way to towards the gate, Paul drifted away.

The flight home was uneventful I expect. I slept all the way, my guilty conscience sodden with gin and my mind inert under a duvet of Ambien.

### Douglas

A Horse misus'd upon the Road

Calls to Heaven for Human blood.

Each outcry of the hunted Hare

A fibre from the Brain does tear.

A Skylark wounded in the wing,

A Cherubim does cease to sing.

**B** ack in the salt mines on Monday, Lin immediately greeted me with, "how was Disneyworld? Did you take lots of pictures?"

Wordlessly I handed her my phone.

"Oh, you're joking Louise, this phone is only four months old! You can't have broken it!"

It took some effort, let me tell you. Not only did I not use my magic pencil, but I slept with it nestled to my bosom.

"All my holiday pictures. All gone," I said sadly, "but it does still power on, Lin. Can you try and find them, please?"

That'll keep Lin occupied for a couple of hours I should think, more than enough time for me to break my computer for good measure. Lin would have missed me, I know, and it's only right I should make it up to her.

There's a pile of reports on my desk. The top folder is one marked 'Expenses Report' in unnecessarily aggressive red marker. I opened it up and looked at the bottom line on the cover page. I read the figure twice to see if I'd somehow transposed a decimal place and then hastily shoved it to the bottom of the pile. There was clearly an error somewhere in there and I wasn't really up to finding it just now. The rest of them were follow up reports on the new Asian business. J&J were now insuring a vast number of new clients, most of them with highly eclectic collections, so every department and specialist was involved in coming up with the final actuarial data.

I'm immersed in one of Lawrence's intriguingly badly written reports when Lin appears at the door.

"A text message came through while I was trying to get your pictures back."

As I'm engrossed in reading, I don't really register what Lin has said.

"Uh huh. Lin, what do you think 'contrapunctual synthesis within a Dionysian parameter' means?"

"It sounds like something from Pseuds Corner. What's the context?"

"The decoration on a tea pot."

"Good grief. Who on earth wrote that?"

"Lawrence."

Lin's brow clears instantly. "Oh well then, that's easy. Dionysian is Lawrence-speak for dirty pictures."

I peer more closely at the photograph of the frieze around the bottom of the tea pot.

"Well bugger me. I thought they were young men playing leapfrog."

Lin raises an eyebrow in singular eloquence. "Speaking of which; the message?"

"What? A message? From whom?"

"It's a rather explicit text from Missy Smith."

Continuing to study the photograph with pretended unconcern, I frantically rack my brains for a brilliant explanation.

"Who?"

"Missy Smith."

"Oh. Ah. Well actually, that's not really Missy," I say confidingly. "I just used her name. Security purposes, you know." I tap the side of my nose and wink.

Lin shakes her head in pity. "Might I suggest you choose your code names a little more imaginatively? You wouldn't want anyone to jump to the wrong conclusions."

"You know me, Lin, I'm one of a kind when it comes to all that cloak and dagger stuff."

"Which is a great relief to us all let me tell you."

As Lin hands the phone back to me it pings another message

"Don't tell me! I don't want to know!" shrieks Lin.

I look at the sender,

"Neither do I, it's from my mother."

"If it's not one thing, it's your mother," says Lin brightly. "Actually, I'm impressed. I didn't know your mother knew how to text."

"She doesn't. She has staff for that sort of thing. And, speaking of staff...."

Lin's eyes narrow dangerously.

I hand her the file. "Could you return this to Lawrence with my compliments and ask him to either rewrite it or give me the secret decoder ring. It's utterly incomprehensible drivel."

"Just once more for the record, was that drivel or dribble?"

"Either one, I'm not bothered."

My mother's message is short and sweet; only if sweet means utterly demanding.

Call me immediately Louise

Checking my calendar to see if I've managed to incur her wrath by missing her birthday (no, although it's worryingly close enough to start panicking about gift selection), I procrastinate for only a mere couple of days before calling her.

"Louise! And about time too. I sent you a text days ago. It could have been important for all you know. I could be dead."

"Then calling you wouldn't have been much use, would it?"

As always, logic fails to impress my mother, who then proceeds to harangue me for a couple of weeks. Eventually, she gets around to the point of her call.

"It's about your brother."

"I don't have a brother."

"Don't pick nits, Louise. You know very well I mean Francis."

Francis is my step-brother. The best way I can describe Francis is to say he is a rabid believer, positively dripping with high moral principles. Well, he describes them as principles, I prefer to say prejudices. He and I Don't Get On.

"Please tell me he's been caught with his hands in a choir boy."

"Don't be coarse, Louise. No, he's getting married and you are expected to attend."

"Married?!"

"Yes, Louise. Married. I don't know why you should be so surprised."

"People like Francis don't get married. They go to clubs for that sort of thing."

"No, Louise, it's people like you that don't get married. Or provide grandchildren," she added aggrievedly.

"This is me rolling my eyes. You didn't want children so I can't imagine you wanting grandchildren. And "people like me" _do_ get married. What's more...."

I'm just about to get on my soap box when my mother breaks in,

"I don't want to talk about it any further. Anyway, I wanted to call you so you wouldn't be surprised into displaying bad manners by refusing him when he invites you."

"I'd rather be run over by a bus," I say emphatically.

I can't imagine anyone wanting to marry Francis, so part of me is actually quite intrigued to meet the intended victim. However, I am not, positively not, attending another family function this year. I've only just recovered from Christmas at Castle Doom. A wedding running high with repressed emotion is beyond my capabilities. Someone will end up being eaten by an eel, I can guarantee it, because likely as not it'll be me throwing Francis in the moat.

"It will be the third weekend in August. You will attend, Louise, and that's final," says she who must be obeyed.

A couple of weeks or so later, I was just starting to prep dinner when the phone rang.

It was Sue calling to tell me, her voice rigid with pain, that Paul was dead. He'd died in a climbing accident, abseiling down a cliff face scoping a new route. He'd fallen into the sea and his body had only been recovered a couple of days later. The inquest ruled death by misadventure and the funeral was held on a wet Wednesday a week later.

The service was made all the more unbearable because Maria wasn't there. There had been some balls up with her work permit and while it was being sorted out she couldn't leave the US for fear of not getting back in. Apparently, the powers that be don't consider a death in the family a time to back off, but a time for bloody-minded bureaucracy to make life a bit more stressful for all concerned.

Paul was buried with military honors, his casket bearers all Paratroopers. I held Sue's hand tightly as his coffin was lowered into the grave, the tears streaming down my face. Sue and John wore masks of stoicism and moved mechanically through the service and the wake, the cracks only appearing towards the end of their respective bottles. I saw John maudlin for the first time and Sue grimly drinking as if on a mission.

The drive back from the funeral passed unnoticed. I was on auto-pilot. My head was full of thoughts of Paul. Scenes from our past played out in no particular order and then I'd find my mind drifting off on a random trail about unimportant, tedious, stupid things like I had any eggs left in the fridge. Then I'd catch myself. What was wrong with me?

In between the eggs and the memories, I berated Paul out loud as though he were sitting beside me. I was furious that he'd been so careless, so stupid. What the hell had he been thinking? It was totally unlike him not to check and recheck his gear placements. And in god's name why was he scoping a new route on a sea cliff on his own? Nobody in their right mind climbs sea cliffs on their own!

I briefly wondered if he'd been suicidal, all that weight loss.... did he have cancer after all? but dismissed that as unlikely. Apart from anything else, he was "on the job" as it were. That thought jolted me into the realization that I had no idea what was going to happen to the scroll now. It was too depressing to even start thinking about that, so I didn't.

I parked the car and took the service lift up to my flat and then back down to the lobby because I'd forgotten my mail. A stack of credit card offers, bills, and junk mail awaited me. I grabbed the sheaf and went back upstairs. I threw everything on the bed. Mail, handbag, case, coat.

Wandering into the kitchen I grabbed a glass and poured myself a whisky. A single malt that tasted of ashes and sadness. Then I traipsed back to the bedroom to take off my boots and change out of my funeral clothes. The stack of mail slithered towards me as I sat on the bed. Time stood still. In the middle of the gaudy shiny offerings was a plain white square envelope. A birthday card.

Paul must have mailed it just before his death, must have just completed the delivery. It wasn't exactly unexpected, but it felt very strange all the same; a mixture of relief and sorrow. I opened the envelope expecting to see a "Happy 3rd Birthday!!!!" card designed for a child featuring balloons and cake: Paul always found this hilarious. But instead, he'd chosen a Japanese woodblock print card of chrysanthemums. It was beautiful and restrained and elegant. Not in the least like Paul.

I drank another glass of whisky. And then some more glasses.

The morning after the funeral I woke before the alarm. I'd had an uneasy, restless night. The whisky had made me "tired and emotional" and I felt horrible. Wisps of my dreams, or rather nightmares, clung at the edges of my mind. An image of Paul dressed in camouflage tying a knot at the end of rope.

I dressed in my running clothes and headed out into the pre-dawn. It was going to be a sunny day. The pinky orange glow slowly spread across the sky pushing the navy blue night before it.

I was, if not a good runner, certainly a religious one. I'd started at University and had come to really enjoy the early morning solitude and peace. I also enjoy occupying the moral high ground when I drop "my early morning run" into a conversation. If only I was also a vegetarian, I could be an almost saint-like figure.

I fell into a familiar rhythm that allowed my mind to settle into a meditative state. Usually this was comforting but this morning the images of Paul from my dreams kept looming large. Paul had always been super safety conscious, always checking and rechecking his and his partner's harnesses, knots, and belays. In that moment, it dawned on me that that was what had been bothering me. It just wasn't possible for Paul to have abseiled off the end of his ropes because he always, always, tied a knot in the ends, and for that matter, it wasn't possible for his belay to have failed for the same reasons of obsessive safety. Not unless it had been a catastrophic failure of the rock, and there had been no mention of that at the inquest.

Halfway round my run I realized that I was being watched.

At University I had lived in a row of terraced houses and next door across the passage was Mrs. Forten and her middle-aged son, Trevor, a driving instructor. Superficially, Trevor was exactly what you would suppose a middle-aged man who still lived with his mother to be, all knitted pullovers and damp hands. However, Trevor turned out to be remarkably interesting. His hobby was falconry and in the back garden aviary, he kept his pride and joy, a young female Golden Eagle. He would take her to exhibitions at Renaissance Fayres and fly her in front of the crowds.

At that time, my pride and joy was my car. A secondhand Audi Quattro Turbo. Oh, how I fancied myself! I believed then (and still do as a matter of fact) that I am a superb driver and this car was the embodiment of my dreams. One day Trevor asked me how I liked it and I enthused about it, the power, the road handling, the speed, and, inspired by a television program about a housewife learning to be a rally driver, told him how one day what I'd really like to do was go to a proper race track and drive flat out and learn how to handle it properly.

"I can teach you that."

I stared at him.

"Hop in and take me for a drive. Show me what you can do."

After twenty minutes or so of me showing off, we swapped places and Trevor took over. It turned out that Trevor wasn't a driving instructor in the usual sense. His job was to teach new Porsche owners how to handle their just-delivered high-performance cars and the Metropolitan Police how to conduct high-speed car chases safely. Anybody can drive at high speeds like a twat, but to do so safely is a skill. For example he drove in the middle of the road whenever possible because he explained, that gave you a better view of things coming out of side streets and therefore more time to react. He also kept up a running commentary on everything that was happening outside the car. The other cars on the road, their color, their relative proximity and speed, the number of people in the car, pedestrians who had dogs, or small children, their likely intentions, every and all possibilities covered. This commentary was crucial to control and communication. He drove butt-puckeringly fast. I tried to be totally cool about it, but the dents I left in the dashboard with my fingers rather spoiled the nonchalant effect I was striving for. It was a seriously impressive performance that I have never forgotten.

The other thing that I haven't forgotten is the time I was out on a run and had crossed over a pedestrian bridge into the park. The bridge was a low rise arch crossing over a busy road. It had high metal sides to stop people throwing either themselves or concrete slabs onto the cars beneath. I was running back towards the bridge after doing a couple of circuits around the park and I saw someone crossing the bridge before they disappeared from view down the zigzag ramp. As I ran, I realized that the person hadn't emerged into the park and therefore must be waiting, hidden, on the ramp. There could be any number of explanations but my gut told me to keep on running and go home a different way. A week or so later, a girl was raped in the park.

As a result of these two incidents, when I run I keep up a running (!) commentary in my head of all that I see because I'm hyper-vigilant after the park incident. This morning, the morning after the funeral, there was a silver car parked just up the street from my flat with two people in it, a man and a woman. They were still there when I came back. Only someone exceptionally stupid needs to study a map for thirty minutes. During my run, there was a young man in a khaki jacket reading the notices in the window outside the newsagent at the end of the road. The same man was walking down the street towards me as I approached the flat.

I spent the rest of the day on sick leave. I tried to write off the map readers and the khaki jacket as coincidences but in order to assuage my incipient paranoia, I changed my run time the next morning and saw the same young man getting out of a silver car just around the corner from the flat.

The only possible explanation was that the Art Squad were watching me. I reasoned that Paul's delivery of the scroll must have been compromised and somehow I was suspected of being involved. Although I couldn't really see how that was possible because Paul wouldn't have told anyone. And none of which reasoning could explain my growing conviction that Paul's death hadn't been accidental.

For the next week I did absolutely nothing unusual to alert "them". I kept to my routine and nothing happened. My watchers remained, but they'd been joined by another young couple, Asian, who I thought either were, or pretended to be, lovers. They appeared on park benches kissing and posing for selfies on the Embankment. I wondered what they did all day while I was at work.

I had to get to the Isle of Man without anyone knowing, so I arranged to see a client in Scotland that I'd been avoiding dealing with for ages. The Laird of Argyll and Perth was yet another of my mother's ex-admirers from back in the day, tho' I'm mystified to understand why he'd been jettisoned. Unlike 'Poor Johnny', His Lairdship is filthy rich. I can only suppose it must have been something to do with living in Scotland. All I remember from that period was being dragged up to his estates as a reluctant teen for weekends of midges and thrashing through bracken in pursuit of something to slaughter.

Be that as it may, he's got a collection of ceramics that might turn out to be Important (let us never forget the Bainbridge Vase, as I am told unceasingly by clients. Bloody thing. I'd give my eye teeth for it to never have been discovered; my life would be so much easier without everyone being convinced their umbrella stands are worth a fortune) and he wants me to evaluate it. I've been avoiding doing so because I'm almost certain the collection is Unimportant and I don't want to listen to endless reminiscences about 'your mother'.

"Lin, where's the file on Lord Petersham?"

"In the Client Files. Labeled Lord Petersham, I expect."

"No, it isn't."

"Yes, it is."

"I've looked under Petersham, Lord of, and Argyll, Duke and/or Laird of. I'm not going to play yes-it-is, no-it-isn't games, Lin. It isn't, and you'll have to prove it is by coming in here and finding it."

Lin comes in and clicks away while I sit back and fleer.

"How is this even possible? You've opened an unsynchronized three year old version of the client files. Which shouldn't even be available. Did you open in dropbox?"

Ooops. "As always," I lied.

Lin closes everything and reopens it. When she's finished Lord Petersham's file shines triumphantly from the screen. She looks at me expectantly and raises her eyebrows.

"Oh, all right. I'm sorry."

"We have a saying in China, _chú shēng zhī dū bù pā hū_. A baby calf doesn't fear a tiger. You'd do well to remember that."

"That rather depends on whether I'm the calf or the tiger."

Lin presses her fingers to her eyes and, rather theatrically I feel, takes a deep breath,

"So you're finally going to see Lord Petersham's valuables?"

"Yes. His Lairdship is getting rather insistent and I can't put him off any longer. I was supposed to go and see him before I went to China."

"Do you actually call him that?"

"His Lairdship? Good god, no. I don't think he'd find it in the least amusing and Lady P would have a conniption."

"What's Lady Petersham like?"

I conjured up a picture of Lady P in my mind's eye. "Oh, she's very strong in pearls. You know, the sort that opens fêtes with her teeth. Their daughter on the other hand is absolutely stunning."

"So the main attraction isn't the ceramics?" says Lin dryly.

"Not for me," I say happily. "She's the only bright spot in the unremittingly damp grey mists of Scotland. I met her a couple of years ago at her wedding. It didn't last. The marriage that is, not the wedding. She'd been rather forced into it by her parents."

"The sooner titles are abolished the better. Forcing people to marry for class and not for love is both ridiculous and distasteful in this day and age," said Lin forcefully.

"I didn't know you had Republican leanings, Lin. I hope you aren't a communist. After all, where would J&J be without either the class or money system?"

Lin makes a sound a bit like a turkey being sat on by an elephant.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

"The sound of hope being strangled."

I told Lin I'd arranged to drive up to Scotland on Tuesday and would be back in the office on Friday. Then I called Lord Petersham and told him I'd probably be driving up on Thursday.

The following Tuesday I turned my phone off and went off grid.

Sick of planes piloted by sadistic underachievers and determined to outwit my watchers, I had sneakily decided not to fly to the Isle of Man, but to sail. I dressed with care. Today was an above the knee skirt, thick opaque tights, heeled ankle boots, black polo neck and my silver lightweight down jacket and a large-ish tote handbag, hair down. I took the tube to Oxford Street and headed into one of the large department stores. Purchasing a suitable nautical outfit (Guernsey sweater, baggy jeans, a jaunty cap) I headed into the cloakrooms to change. I'd thoughtfully provided myself with a large soft striped cotton bag, a couple of bags from a rival department store, sunglasses, and ballet flats. Down jackets look bulky but they compress into a tiny little space. The rest of my clothes and heels I put into the bags, put my hair up under the cap, put the tote into the canvas bag, and left in disguise, congratulating myself on my streetcraft, as I believe it's called.

I did a couple of getting-on-the-tube-and-getting-off-at-the-next-stop moves before finally catching a train to Liverpool. There was no sign of my watchers, and so, double oh sheven Benning, Loueesh Benning, headed towards the docks.

I shall draw a discreet veil over the journey to the Isle of Man. I was wrong about sailing being preferable to flying. Copiously. Far from being the Good Ship 'Grimalkin', the SuperCat turned out to be a cross between a hovercraft and a catamaran which didn't so much skim oo'er the waves as smash through them with the subtlety of a brick through a window. It reminded me of flying - or rather of landing – for three hours.

I floundered greenly ashore in Douglas, snarling 'over my dead body' at the cabin crew wishing me a good stay and looking forward to seeing me on the return journey, and headed toward the car rental breathing in deep draughts of good clean sea air.

The young person behind the desk could somewhat charitably be described as 'on the sturdy side' with hair dyed an extremely improbable shade of red. Whatever it was they reared them on up here it was clearly chock full of antibiotics and hormones and had a deleterious effect on the skin. I have no idea what he or she was wearing but I thought that mu-mus had gone out of fashion thirty years ago. Perhaps I was wrong and the Isle of Man had decided to re-brand itself the Hawaii of the Atlantic.

On balance I decided she was a female of the species and was thrilled to be proved correct when I spotted a small badge almost lost in the folds of the brightly colored fabric which declared her to be 'Stacey'. Taking my keen observation to be signs of inappropriate interest (as if - I wouldn't touch her with yours), she clutched her arms tightly around herself.

"Can I help you?" she asked in a gratifyingly confrontational tone.

"Hello, Stacey. I'd like to rent a car please."

Unable to chew and glare at the same time, she moved the cud from one side of her cheek to the other and moved ever so slowly to her computer.

"Have you booked?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

Her sigh rippled the fine hairs of her mustache. Quite impressive in its own way.

"We're quite busy, you know. You should have booked really."

I glanced around the empty tin box marooned in a sea of cars. The sound of crowds stampeding towards the rental office was distinctly absent.

"So I see."

She tapped the keys for an eternity

"Do you want four wheel drive?"

"Don't you think that's overkill for the streets of Douglas? Or is there something you're not telling me? Has there been a coup, perhaps?"

"You what?"

"Never mind. No, I don't want four wheel drive. Just a small, ordinary car will do."

The Post Office in Douglas is not one of those glorious Victorian monuments to civic pride. It's a long rectangular box of glazed brown brick that looks like a polished turd. The windows are narrow slits of mirrored glass, which, according to the informational plaque inside, are 'easily converted to provide defensible firing vectors'. Clearly, the good burghers of Douglas know something the civilian population doesn't. Perhaps I shouldn't have declined the four wheel drive after all.

Inside my post office box is a stout cardboard tube and an envelope. Popping the seal on the tube I slide the rolled contents out a couple of inches. The brushstrokes are as familiar to me as the lines on my face. I hastily push the canvas back into the tube, aware of a faint line of sweat forming on my upper lip, and hastily slam and lock the box. The envelope I shove into my coat pocket.

Clearly, Paul didn't manage to arrange delivery of the painting for some reason. I was expecting the PO box to contain an envelope containing confirmation of payment and an account number. If the painting hadn't been delivered, then that's not what the envelope contains. It also means that it's probably not the Art Squad who are watching me.

My general paranoia immediately becomes specific, and just in case "they" are watching, I pick up some junk mail from the trash can provided for just that purpose. I return to the car, toss the mail on the seat, remove my coat and transfer the envelope from my coat onto the seat, then drive to the nearest supermarket, where there is a Starbucks. I grab the mail off the seat, put on my coat, and wander into the store, get a coffee, and sit down at a table.

Pulling out my phone, I check my messages while absentmindedly opening the envelopes with my thumb. Some of the mail I don't bother removing the contents, just peer inside the opened envelopes and take a quick read and discard to the side. One I turn front and back and don't even bother opening. I nonchalantly divide the mail into two piles and throw one pile into the trash as I finish my coffee and leave.

Next, I hie myself to the only SuperStore on the island and cruise up and down the aisles. Among other things, I purchase a pre-paid envelope and a couple of burner phones. Back in the car, I check my phone again and, under the guise of removing my coat (always a struggle in the car!), slide the contents of the envelope out onto the seat, surreptitiously photographing the piece of paper inside with my phone, and pop the contents back into its envelope and then into the prepaid envelope. My phone rings, just as I programmed it to do while I was having coffee, and, holding the phone to my ear, I scrabble for a pen. While pretending to take down directions, I address the envelope.

Then I drive to a mailing store, purchase a large box and packing tape, and as I leave, hidden by the large box I'm carrying, drop the envelope in the mail box just inside the store.

That's the list taken care of for the time being. The painting though..... that's a whole 'nuther story.

In China, round about the 9th Century give or take a few years, the 'in' pastime amongst the nobs of the Tang dynasty, apart from killing each other off in various unpleasant ways to curry favor with the Emperor, was opera. It bore a resemblance to what we know as opera, to whit hideously fat people singing impossibly high notes in an incomprehensible language before committing suicide in the name of love. Hideously fat young men to be precise as women were deemed to be too ugly to play the female roles. The odd thing about this was that the young men who played these roles didn't just dress up for each performance but actually lived as women full time and were fêted and courted as such by the nobility, and we believe, even taken as concubines. The absolute _numero uno_ of the operatic chaps was a lad called Te Te Ting. We know this because a series of eight scroll paintings of Te Te was commissioned by someone, obviously a huge fan of Te Te, showing him/her in all the leading roles of the day.

These scrolls cannot be found in museums. Not because the museums can't afford them, although the only two ever to reach the open market reached an astronomical sum, but because although the ostensible subject matter 'Te Te Ting Sings Opera' is unexceptional, someone forgot to tell Te Te to put on any clothes. In the series, Te Te is shown lying on a yellow robe draped over a sofa, enacting the inevitable final scene (all opera ends in someone's demise. Always. No such thing as a happy ending in opera). Yellow was a color reserved on pain of death for the Emperor and his family. To commission these portraits would have been political and professional suicide, so we have a strong idea that the Emperor himself must have been the commissioning buyer. The Emperor, sadly, succumbed to a needle through the corner of the eye into the frontal lobe. Ironically quite an operatic end.

The paintings were executed by an artist, about whom we know very little other than his name, Master Qi. There is nothing inscrutable about the person of Te Te. Quite to the contrary, he is so scrutably portrayed in all his, um, _largeness_ , as to suspect a touch of autism _vis a vis_ realism in Master Qi's unerring hand. But even this, astonishing as it is to the unprepared eye, is not what makes these paintings so attractive to the 'specialty market' as we coyly say in the trade. No; collectors of erotic artwork ('erotic' is so much more acceptable than 'pornographic') seek out these paintings for the four panels depicted in the background hanging on the walls of Te Te's apartment. Rendered in breathtakingly erotic/pornographic detail, one needs a magnifying glass to fully appreciate the subject matter, but that's all part of the fun.

This specific painting, number seven in the series, is of Te Te lying on a k'ang in the role of Woman Cuī, from the opera _Lànkē Shān_ who, having drunk deeply from a cup of poison, has slit her wrists. A little over the top but that's opera for you. Even such a jaded palate as mine still drew a sharp breath on seeing it. Not least because I had arranged its theft, and so finding it in my PO Box was a bit of a facer. I don't know if it is the Art Squad who are watching me, but either way if they happened to catch wind of this I'm in serious trouble. At any rate, the painting was safe in the box until I could figure out what to do with it without my watchers knowing anything about it at all.

Next, I turn my attention to the photo I took of the contents of the envelope. Just a single piece of paper with a list of six names. Name, rank, and I assume it must follow, serial number.

Corporal Porter Blaine 387609834

Sergeant Beau Ramone 672084511

Captain Raymond Ellery 947864209

Corporal David Binowski 445810363

Sergeant Michael Wildehart 598299145

1st Lieutenant Rollo Miramontes 079231625

They meant absolutely nothing to me. Why didn't Paul send me the list with the birthday card? Why did he send me a list at all? Or the card for that matter? Why didn't he just call me, arrange to meet me for a drink, and tell me what the bloody hell was going on?

And then it dawns on me. Because he knew he wasn't going to be able to deal with the painting or the list; and if he didn't want anyone to know about the painting then he didn't want anyone to know about the list either. Clearly, he wanted me to deal with the painting and the list. But why wouldn't he be able to deal with them? Because he didn't have time? Because someone had discovered our little secret? And then came the show stopper: Because he knew he wouldn't be around to deal with them? Oh god, the birthday card hadn't been a birthday card at all. White chrysanthemums symbolize death. Paul knew he was going to die. "They" had killed him.

Nobody in their right mind climbs sea cliffs on their own.

### Wales

The pride of the peacock is the glory of God.

The lust of the goat is the bounty of God.

The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God.

The nakedness of woman is the work of God.

**N** aturally, I did what any right-minded person would do in a situation like this. I panicked. If I wasn't going to set sail from the fair Isle of Man, then the only option was to fly. I drove back to the car rental and, after a brief tussle, the young heifer admitted that she could phone for a taxi to the airport for me.

The flight to Heathrow was in one of the smallest planes I've ever been on; you could have dusted crops with it and not look out of place. My seat was both an aisle and window seat, just to give you some perspective. There was a moment of panic (well certainly on my behalf, hopefully not on the Captain's) before we left the terminal as the crew asked us to redistribute our weight throughout the plane; strongly suggesting that if we didn't, the damn thing would flip over backwards like a stranded beetle as we attempted to take off.

I spent the flight morosely sipping a brace of G&Ts, which I had to practically wrestle from the steward, made palatable by adding some extra gin from my hip flask. The time sped by as my thoughts chased each other around like weasels with a chicken. Someone had killed Paul and I was being watched, probably by one and the same people, although I reasoned that the Art Squad was still a more logical possibility. I was pretty damn sure no one had followed me to the Isle of Man or had traced me back here, but now I had a stolen painting to deal with, and my only clue to the mess I was in was a list of random names.

Decanting myself at Heathrow I rented a car, drove to Claridges and left the car with the valet. After checking in and a restorative cup of tea among the ferns and palms in the Conservatory (possibly one of the most calming places in London. Have the Broken Orange Pekoe Tips), I took a bus to the Imperial War Museum to trawl through their archives of Army Service Records trying to glean some information about the names on the list as they were obviously military and must have something to do with Paul's army career and subsequent problems.

If you have never been to the Imperial War Museum, you must go. The photographs in the displays are the perfect balance of poignancy and swagger and never fail to leave me deeply moved. Willie McBrides all. The building itself is a glorious architectural masterpiece. It was originally the Bethlam Hospital built to replace the medieval 'Bedlam'. Unfortunately, some medieval Bedlamite allowed a Modern Architect to get his hands on it recently with predictable results.

The only information I got about the soldiers on the list was that there wasn't any information about them because it turns out that a 1st Lieutenant is a not a rank in the British Army rank but is in the United States. The soldiers were American.

Heading back towards Claridges, I made a detour to a small Bond Street gallery.

"Louise!" A short, compact man in a fiercely well-cut suit made his way towards me.

"Hello, Miles."

Miles Crowe and I had been at University together. Miles had ambitions to be a painter but after struggling to make his mark, decided to 'screw being a starving artist', married well, and instead opened a gallery that showcased up and coming artists. His connections to the art world run deep and wide. Miles' mother was a fairly successful painter, quite collectible now, and Miles' wife is a Saatchi and a director at Tate Modern.

Miles and I are friends of the sort that are always glad to see each other and catch up, but not the sort that actually socializes. Although Miles himself regards art as a means to acquiring filthy lucre, he tends to be surrounded by types that think that Making Art is Serious and Important, which I find irritating and pretentious. Being a doctor is serious and important; paper mâché collages made of your own body fluids is self-indulgent bollocks.

"I'm so glad to find you here, Miles. Let's go for a walk."

Miles raises his eyebrows and calls one of his gallery assistants over, a tall willowy blonde dressed entirely in black, naturally. I'm surprised she's not wearing a beret.

"Fiona, darling, I'm just nipping out for some lunch. Mrs. Johns is due in soon to look at Fabian's work. Let her know that it's all sold, would you?"

Fiona gives Miles a look that can only be described as 'gobsmacked'. My bet is that Fabian's work isn't all sold at all and Mrs. Johns is being hustled and I say as much to Miles as we leave the gallery.

In reply Miles just smiles enigmatically. We head around the corner to Regents Park where we walk past the pond.

"This feels all very John Le Carré, Louise," says Miles jokingly.

"Good, because I'm being watched."

Miles gives a start and looks around wildly.

"Not right now! God, you'd make a hopeless secret agent."

As you may have guessed, Miles is one of the unscrupulous dealers who calls an expert in the field to discuss potential acquisitions. Miles and I have never discussed our business beyond the initial contact. That was the way Paul had wanted it. Paul would then be the one to contact Miles to arrange delivery and payment.

"Miles, has anyone contacted you about the Chinese opera singer?"

Miles looks around furtively.

"Stop looking furtive. We're just two friends out for a stroll and a chat."

"Well yes, actually. But the delivery, um, ah, never went through."

"That's because the delivery boy is dead."

"Shit."

I let Miles absorb the implications for a minute or two while we walked past men with folded newspapers sitting on park benches. I bet they'd made holes in them at home. Perhaps I was wrong, but I've always trusted that Miles' love of money would keep him honest. Honest in the sense of keeping the people who made him money safe. "The thing is, Miles, as I mentioned, I'm being watched. I don't know by whom, or why, so there we are. But it is perfectly possible it's the Art Squad. You need to tell your buyer to be content to wait for a while."

"You have the scroll?"

"No, I don't. But I think I know where it might be."

As I say, I trust Miles, but I see no point in being unduly careless. I could always tell Miles that I hadn't found the scroll and sell it at some point later down the road. There's always a brisk market for smut.

Back at Claridges I soaked in a long hot bath, using all those dear little expensive toiletries. Then I called Lord Petersham and canceled my visit citing pressure of work, but asked him to take a ton of videos for me. We could catch up on the finer details by Skype. After room service and a raid on the mini bar, I collapsed into a deep feather bed for twelve hours of restorative sleep.

The following morning after a simply marvelous breakfast served with exactly the right sort of élan (when was the last time you had kippers?), I used one of my burner phones to call Lin, just in case "they" were listening.

"Hey, Lin."

"Louise?"

"I'm shattered you don't recognize my voice by now."

"I do, but not your telephone number."

"I'm using one of my burner phones."

"Please don't tell me you've broken your iPhone already."

"Nooooooo. Not exactly. It's just acting a bit strangely so I thought I'd not take any chances. Anyway, the thing is, this Scottish gig is taking a bit longer that I thought, so I won't be back in the office until Monday."

I've always found that an ounce of inaccuracy saves a ton of explanations but in this case the subterfuge was unnecessary.

"Is it the ceramics or the daughter keeping you occupied?"

I couldn't very well remonstrate with her, so I merely allowed a small harrumph to escape my lips.

Lin sighed, "Either way, enjoy yourself."

Then I drove to Wales for the weekend to visit my godparents.

My father had been an innocent bystander when the IRA let off a bomb in the lobby of a hotel in London. My godparents, Dennis and Diana, in the guises of an eccentric retired paint chemist and gourmet chef respectively, realized that my mother was MIA as a parent, and decided to help a child on the threshold of her teenage years by teaching her their ideas of the skills she would need to be self-reliant.

My godparents didn't exactly live 'off-grid', but their lifestyle was excitingly subversive and alternative to a delicately nurtured public schoolgirl. I think my godmother would have been happier in a flat in Chelsea but my godfather was made of more Puritan stuff and so they lived in the middle of nowhere in Wales with a large kitchen garden and an Aga.

My godfather's nod to Leninist principles and chemistry meant that he had a still in the attic which produced exceptionally good gin, and a brandy that formed the base for an extensive range of fruit liqueurs and cordials. He also stuck it to the man by reusing postage stamps, carefully removing the franking ink and dissolving the adhesive on the envelopes. As a teenager, going for a Sunday drive on weekend visits meant crawling along the country lanes scanning the hedgerows for roadkill pheasant (my godmother drew the line at squirrel), and the upsetting and tragic death of a deer was cause for intense celebration.

So from them I learned how to yomp across the moors, dress roadkill, and make interesting and exciting things from household chemicals; along with collecting mushrooms, herbs, and plants, digging for clams and cockles, and then turning it all into outstanding fare. Should the SAS ever need a recruit to cook a 3* meal in the middle of Brecon Beacons, I'm your woman.

I arrived at their whitewashed stone farmhouse in time for lunch. A simple meal of hearty granary bread, butter, and a bowl of tomato soup. All homemade, all delicious. The secret, apparently, is a belt of gin stirred into the soup before you add the cream. Diana insisted that Dennis and I went for a walk along the headland while she did the dishes. Knowing full well there was an industrial sized dishwasher in the kitchen, I suspected she just wanted to be left to her post-luncheon nap in peace.

We drove to the sea a few minutes down the road and started walking along the coastal path for a mile or two before dropping down onto the shore. We meandered along the beach looking for fossils and picking up driftwood that my godfather strapped to his homemade backpack frame. It would be added to the pile by the shed; insurance against a harsh winter. We stopped and sat for a while on one of the groynes that ran out into the sea.

"I received your envelope," said my godfather.

"Did you look at the contents?"

"I did. I'm not entirely sure what it means though."

The sea seethed rhythmically up and down through the shingle. A gull wheeled and cried overhead.

"I know you were in North Africa in the War. Fighting Rommel. Growing up I formed the impression somehow, osmosis maybe, that you did rather more during the War, and afterward too."

"Rather more than what?"

"Just your bit."

We sat in silence.

"Because if you did, rather more that is, I wonder if you could help me?"

"I see."

"The list of names. They are, or were, American soldiers, probably operating in Afghanistan. My guess is that they were on loan to the SAS or some similar cloak and dagger outfit. Can you confirm that? And where they were deployed?"

Dennis raised his eyebrows.

"I'll try. Can't promise." He paused, "turning over stones isn't always wise, Louise."

"It's something I have to do. It's a matter of honor." And I told him about Paul, and about what Paul had hinted at when we talked about his PTSD. I also said that I needed to be convinced that Paul's death had been an accident. I didn't mention the scroll. There was no need to disappoint him with my lack of ethical standards in other areas.

He nodded. We walked back to the car.

If I describe dinner, you'll think I'm completely obsessed with food, so I shan't. But it was bloody good. It doesn't take any keen psychological insight to wonder why, when asked if I wanted to sleep in the guest bedroom or the attic, I chose the attic where I had slept as a child. Full of roast potatoes and plum wine I made my way up the narrow stairs to the tiny room that housed my godfather's collection of fossilized shark's teeth, drying onions, and a group of stuffed dried frogs playing instruments that I had found in Mexico and sent back for my godfather's amusement. I collapsed into bed and slept the sleep that only the righteous can enjoy.

After a proper breakfast of fresh mackerel stewed in milk, a soft boiled duck egg and soldiers, and lashings of strong smoky Lapsang, I drove away the following morning, wishing I could stay forever in the safety and warmth of the kitchen.

My watchers were still there when I got back from Wales. I felt like waving at them and shouting "I'm back!" although I didn't notice any obvious signs of surprise or relief at my return. Which means they had to know I was going to be away. My office or my office phone must be bugged! Alternatively, I reminded myself, they could have just called J&J and asked where I was. Who were these people? If they were Paul's killers then why hadn't they made a move? Why would they watch me instead? The only people who would want or need to watch me are the Art Squad. Back to square one.

Back at the bat cave on Monday morning, I half expect "them" to come banging on my office door at any moment. My justifiable paranoia is making me stabby and irritable and the only person I can't be mean to is Lin. Mainly because she'll double down and I'll be in tears before bedtime. Everyone else is fair game.

"How was Scotland?"

"Oh, beautiful as always. Rainy, obviously."

"I tried calling you on Friday, but your phone wasn't working."

"Really? It's fine now, I used it this morning."

"Well never mind. I was calling you to remind you that Joan in accounting needs your expenses report and receipts for the past three months. She's got past emailing and is now calling me," Lin added pointedly.

"I'll definitely get it done this week. Promise."

What I want to say is screw Joan and her tedious pointless little life and to go down to accounting with an axe screaming, "Here's Johnny!".

My promise turned out to be a lie because I had to spend all my time making up for not going to Scotland in person with a bunch of Skype calls with Lord Petersham who was unable to follow basic instructions for taking videos. Stabby stabby stab stab.

Head pounding and unable to vent my spleen on Lin, Lord Petersham, or indeed Joan, the next person unlucky enough to cross my path is Bea.

"Oh! Louise!"

"Bea!"

As Bea and I don't cross paths often I am surprised to see her, although Bea seems unduly and unreasonably surprised to find me in my own office.

"I didn't expect to find you here."

"Really? Who did you expect to find?"

"Well, no one really. It's just that you spend so much time out of the office, it's almost like you don't work," she pauses, "here, in the office, I mean. I never know when to expect you."

"I see. But as I don't find it necessary to share my itinerary with the staff, how could you?" I smile sweetly.

Take that, you passive aggressive witch. A momentary tightening of the lips is the only indication I've got to her. "So. How can I help you, Bea?"

"Well, it's about your birthday."

Oh, for fuck's sake. A couple of years ago we had a corporate motivator come in to help our department 'bond' and improve our team spirit (a hilarious concept in its own right). I have no idea whose idea it was, but hopefully, they were quietly hung, drawn and quartered later. We sent him away after 24 hours, a broken man, the stripes across his back courtesy of Bernard's tongue. The one motivational suggestion that did stick, was that we celebrate each person's birthday by us all having a drink together on the grounds that any excuse for a piss-up being paid for by someone else is a good one. My birthday is next week and so Bea has come to see me in the guise of The Ghost of Office Parties Past, clutching a mouldering cheesecake and clanking reams of paper chains she's whittled herself.

"Actually Bea, I'm going to be in Scotland for most of next week, so I think we're going to have to skip it this year." My lies slide easily between my lips. Frankly, I'd rather remove my spleen with a spoon, and I think I can speak for the rest of the department too. Except for Lawrence who seizes on these affairs as a chance to get completely rat-arsed and exhibit a staggering lack of inhibition regarding his clothing. My eyes close momentarily as a vision of Lawrence _sans_ shirt channeling Miley Cyrus flits across my memory. Dear god, when will someone invent brain bleach?

Three days later my godfather called

"Louise! How wonderful I've caught you at home. Now don't interrupt, I've got a favor to ask and want you to hear me out before you commit!

"Diana and I were wondering if we could impose on your goodwill and ask you to join us this weekend. It's the bird hospital's annual fund raising fête and Diana, as always, is on bun duty. Unfortunately, she slipped and broke her wrist this morning. She trusts you implicitly to help make the goodies so she doesn't let anyone down. It's been so long since we've seen you and we'd so love to catch up with you. I know it's short notice, but please do say you can come up and help out."

His uncharacteristic effusiveness along with the blatant lies rang warning bells.

"I I I'd love to" I stuttered. "Yes, it's been too long. You know how it is with work. I can leave on Friday a bit early and see you about seven?"

"Oh, thank you, thank you, my dear. Diana will be so relieved. Such a stupid thing for her to have done, but can't be helped. Bye now, see you on Friday!"

Once again we sat on the groyne and stared out along the shore. The tide was out and the wind and the gulls the only sounds.

"It's very smelly, Louise. You were right, they were all part of an elite unit in Afghanistan. They were operating in Kandahar. There was a massacre. A rogue American soldier, Robert Bales, suffering from PTSD, was charged. However, it is more probable that a group of US soldiers carried out two separate attacks the same night. This list is the names of the other soldiers that were involved the massacre."

"How would Paul have got the list?"

"Your friend Paul was also operating that night. Don't know any more than that, they were a bit tight lipped about Paul. Presumably, he saw the massacre, and he knew or found out who the soldiers were. Perhaps he was waiting for the truth to come out and when it didn't he decided to come forward. Maybe he was waiting for the soldiers to die or be discharged."

He paused, and then added reflectively, "and you have to accept the strong possibility that Paul and his unit may have been part of the massacres and he could no longer keep silent and decided to take matters into his own hands."

He let out a long breath,

"However, there's a bit more to it all. The American soldiers were all based at Fort Lewis JBLM in the US. The heart of the matter is that Bales isn't the only soldier from JBLM linked to other atrocities and killings. Word is, is that JBLM is a rogue base and it's dirty from the top down.

"This is the sort of dirt that must be swept under the carpet, Louise. The US didn't sign up for the Rome Treaty precisely to avoid the embarrassment of this sort of thing. It's one thing to have an isolated incident of The Horrors Of War, but quite another to have to admit to a culture of institutionalized psychopathy. If the press got hold of evidence of a joint operation with Britain, who is a signatory, to carry out or turn a blind eye to an atrocity of this sort, the consequences would be unimaginable. Of the six soldiers on the list, five are dead, and your friend Paul is also dead. I insist you walk away from it. No one knows you have this information and you must keep it that way."

"Are you implying that Paul's death wasn't accidental? That he was killed to keep this a secret?"

My godfather hesitated "No, you're inferring that."

"Given what I suspect about the circumstances surrounding his death, I don't think that's an unreasonable inference."

Again, Dennis hesitated and picked his words carefully. "Accidents do happen. It would be better for everyone, myself included, if you accepted the facts of the accident and left all those stones unturned."

"Have I put you in a difficult position if this is meant to be secret? Will asking about Paul cause you problems?"

"Fortunately, I'm the keeper of many other secrets."

Dinner was medallions of venison in a red wine glaze, _pommes_ Anna, peas from the garden, and an apple and blackberry crumble tart with real custard for afters. Dinner was followed by a closely fought game of Scrabble in front of the fire, which Diana won. She always does. Or did, I should say. Such happy times.

### At Home

A man carried a monkey about

for a show, and because he was a Uttle

wiser than the monkey, grew vain,

and conceived himself as much wiser

than seven men.

**S** ettling the yoke back across my shoulders on Monday I knuckled down to catch up on all the stuff I'd been putting off forever. It was the perfect way to stop my mind endlessly revolving around the central problem of 'what do I do now?'. Dennis had made it clear that doing anything with the list would be irresponsible and downright dangerous, but Paul had wanted me to do otherwise. My watchers were still trampling the undergrowth around my flat hoping to catch me doing something, but what? And then there was the scroll. Miles and I were both going to have to get our hands dirty without Paul around to arrange delivery and payment.

My expense reports from my US and Far East trips were the perfect antidote to my racing mind. As I've mentioned, I'm pretty shit hot at maths and I enjoy working with numbers but try as I might, I simply could not reconcile the quite harrowing total of my expenses, somewhere in the region of $25,000, with my receipts, which totaled some $18,000. The only explanation that could possibly make any sense was that Lin had been stealing by using my credit card, so I called her into my office to confront her.

"I have been working on my expense account and it has come to my attention that you have clearly been charging my credit card with god knows what, drugs and toy boys probably, and now there's $7k unaccounted for. I'll see you hang for this." I switch to my impression of Ian Paisley "Dere is no alterrrrnative."

Lin rolled her eyes.

"It's like he's actually in the room. Did you remember to check your emails for e-receipts?"

"Never heard of them," I declare mendaciously. "I'll overlook your misconduct this time, but don't let it happen again."

"Right you are. Anything else you want? Only I need to get back to filing my nails. No doubt you'll be taking that report down to Joan yourself."

As my mother so often says, you just can't get the staff these days.

"And by the way, Bernard wants to see you."

"Oh god, what for?"

"No idea."

"Thank you, Captain Helpful," I mutter.

"You're welcome. Anytime. I'm always here for you, you know."

"Just remind me again of your job title, Lin. Personal Assistant, isn't it? Which would indicate you should actually, you know, assist me. Yes?"

"Assist you, yes. Read Bernard's mind, no. I'm not psychic."

"I don't think I've ever referred to you as my side kick," I say, deliberately mishearing her.

"Let me remind you that Confucius says, _Cáng lóng wò hǔ_."

"Does he indeed?"

"Yes. Hidden dragon, crouching tiger."

"That was a film!"

"It's Confucian saying meaning there are people lurking unseen with great power and strength."

"Well stop lurking. It's most unbecoming."

Figuring it was better to get it over and done with as soon as possible, I wandered off to confront Bernard in his lair.

"Hello, Bernard."

"Louise. Come in. Shut the door."

That doesn't bode well. 'Shut the door' is Bernard's way of saying "I'm going to give you a bollocking". I rack my brains to think what I could have done to aggravate him. The only possibility is that Dear Joanie has moved on from harassing Lin to calling Bernard.

"Is it about my expense account? If so, I can explain."

"I'm entirely uninterested in your expense account, Louise. What are your plans for the next couple of weeks?"

That catches me a little off guard and I scramble to remember my diary. "Oh. Well. Bunny Cartwright has invited me up for the glorious 12th and..."

"I'm not interested in your bloody social calendar, I want to know what your work schedule is for the next few weeks," snarls Bernard. "By which I mean if you intend doing any work for J&J. You seem to be spending an inordinate amount of time out of the office."

"But, Bunny, that is Lord Fanshawe...."

Bernard breaks in, "I'm well aware that Bunny Cartwright is Lord Fanshawe, Louise."

"Yes. I mean, I know you are. But what I'm trying to say is that the party includes Alexei and Stalya Medvedev," I say in a rush.

"I see." Bernard's ire vanishes as he mulls this information over. J&J have been courting the Medvedevs and their Russian Mob money (only we call it 'new money') for a while. I fully intend to add my charms to the cause in the old monied atmosphere of an English Country House Party. It would be quite a feather in my cap to bag the Medvedevs and would play well to the home crowd (The Board! Bernard's Job!).

"In that case, I may consider coming with you."

I stare at Bernard in horror. He cannot be serious.

"Freddie Cartwright, the Earl of Carnarvon, that's Bunny's father, Louise," he added unnecessarily sarcastically, "is an old friend. I'm sure he'll be pleased to have someone more mature and experienced lending a hand to the trigger with the Medvedevs."

"Don't you mean 'hand to the tiller'," I say, confused.

"No, I bloody don't. It's a shooting party, not a yacht race," Bernard snaps. "Now, get out."

I stumble my way back to my office unable to think of any way out of the horrendous prospect of a week's shooting with Bernard hovering behind me like the Vampyre LeStat waiting for a chance to sink his teeth into the Medvedevs. It's going to be like Downton Abbey meets Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

"You look rather pale, Louise. What on earth did Bernard want?" asks Lin.

"You're never going to believe this. Actually, I can't believe it myself. He's going to come up to the Cartwright's with me. To lend his maturity and experience with the Medvedevs."

Lin gazes at me in wordless appreciation of my plight. "Wow," she says finally, "a week of Bernard followed by your brother's wedding. How on earth will you cope?"

Christ, I'd forgotten the wedding. My cup runneth over.

A couple of days later, an IM flashed across my screen from Lin

There are two policemen on their way up

It's not that I haven't been expecting this, a confrontation with "them", but seeing it in black and white set my heart pounding. At least now I knew that my watchers were the Art Squad.

Ask to see their warrant cards. Take your time

I naturally have a healthy respect for the Law, but mindful of the fact that I had a stolen painting if not in my actual possession then in my PO Box, my stiff upper lip and innate sang-froid rather deserted me. Reminding myself that the Art Squad couldn't possibly know anything and all I had to do was be polite and marginally helpful, I started to panic but in a well-bred sort of way, managing to get my breathing under control and not gulping unattractively by the time Lin showed them into my office (I knew all that yoga would pay off eventually). She gave me a slight nod to indicate she had checked their credentials. They were in plainclothes and introduced themselves as Detective Inspector Keithley and Detective Constable Padam.

"Please sit down. What can I do for you?"

"It's fine, Ms. Benning. We'll stand."

This sounded like the opening of a hostile interview to me, so I leaned casually back against my desk, crossed my arms and ankles, and girt my loins for battle.

"Ms. Benning, we're sorry to inform you that your godparents were killed in a car crash yesterday evening."

Everything went very still and quiet, and then I got tunnel vision and a roaring in my ears. I must have wilted a bit because suddenly Lin was there with a glass of water. Fighting my nausea, I struggled to say something coherent that wasn't completely profanity laden.

"A car crash? That doesn't seem at all possible. Are you quite sure it's them?"

"I'm afraid so Ms. Benning. Your telephone number was in their cell phone. It was the last number called. We think that Mr. Collins, who was driving, got distracted and drove off the road."

"I see." I nodded sagely. And indeed I did see. Dennis never drove when they were together, it was always Diana because Dennis needed to be free to spot roadkill on the verges.

Lin showed the policemen out, softly closing the door behind her, leaving me to embrace my Arctic grief. Keening is such a strange word. It has no relation to being keen; keen to join the football team, keen to go on holiday. It's the sound of the living calling to the dead at a pitch only they can hear.

Lin called for a car to take me home. I sat gazing out the window at familiar streets made strange by my seeming inability to get my brain to process meaning from the images. The sheets of rain washing down the window made people and things all blobby and blurred.

"Ms. Benning? Ms. Benning, we're here."

I gazed at my driver. I couldn't see him very clearly and I couldn't understand what he was trying to say. The words didn't make sense.

"I don't have a raincoat."

"It's not raining, Ms. Benning," he said quietly.

Sometime later I found myself sitting in the living room with no clear recollection of how long I'd been there, time had evaporated. The pain resonated under my ribcage, pulsing, expanding outwards, the pressure on my stomach making me feel sick. I decided to focus on a single task, perhaps that would get me functioning again. Starting small, I decided to Make a Cup of Tea. It took a very long time indeed, and even after applying the back of the spoon that I had been using to stir the boiling liquid to the inside of my forearm, it didn't make anything less unreal.

Losing Paul had hurt, but losing my godparents left me desolate in a different way. They were my safe place, my escape pod, my invisibility cloak. For the first time, I knew what it was to be truly alone.

I don't know what I did for the rest of the day but eventually I went to bed. I didn't sleep, just lay there with my thoughts revolving endlessly. I'm not stupid, despite appearances to the contrary, and the knowledge that whoever it was that had killed Paul had now killed my godparents, and would almost certainly be coming for me, leaving me scared and feeling cornered and out of control. I wanted to lash out at someone or something to take the fear away. I had no idea what to do or who to turn to now.

Because I was awake, I heard the front door splinter and crack as the lock was forced. I slipped out of bed and swiftly ran to the kitchen through the bathroom. Behind the kitchen door is an alcove where there used to be a dumb waiter. I grabbed a cast iron frying pan and hid behind the door. I could hear whoever it was moving slowly and softly around the flat, looking for me. The man came through the door and I wielded the pan through an arc that aimed for the floor via his head. He went down like a sorority girl at a frat house party.

Grabbing a roll of duct tape, I wrapped his ankles together and then tried to do the thumbs of his hands but that was really hard, so settled for taping his wrists together behind his back. Then for good measure, I did a couple of loops between his hands and feet. I put a strip of tape over his mouth and stood back.

Then pulling on a pair of disposable latex gloves (I don't know about you, but turmeric stains my hands so I have boxes of them about the place) I quickly went through his pockets, which were empty. There was a gun in the waistband of his trousers in the small of his back. That was a bit of a shock, I'll admit. I put the gun carefully on the counter.

I thought about removing the tape from his mouth in case there was a chance he was sick and choked to death on his own vomit. But life is a series of random chances, isn't it? Not that I cared particularly, he could die on his own time, but then again, I needed information first. Ripping the tape off gave me a great deal of satisfaction and brought him round fairly sharpish.

I picked up the gun and his eyes widened. Very ostentatiously I removed the magazine and carefully got the chambered bullet out and put it back into the magazine. The Glock had a silencer on it, which I unscrewed and put in the utensil drawer. I detached the barrel from the grip and put the gun parts in the freezer in a couple of plastic containers and the magazine in a cereal packet in the cupboard. Then I took off the gloves and hid them at the bottom of the trash.

"Who are you, and who sent you?"

No answer came the stern reply. I was cross and on an adrenaline high, so what happened next came from a part of me that I'd kept tamped down for many many years. So many years that I'd forgotten it was there.

"Right. I don't have either the time or the inclination to fuck about. I am going to torture you. Partly because I really do want to know who you are and who sent you, but also partly because my godparents are dead and I have anger management issues. Actually, to be honest, it's mainly because of that. You have a gun with a silencer and a bullet in the chamber. You were here to kill me. That makes you a professional, so you presumably know what's going to happen. If there's anyone you want me to call afterward, now's your chance to tell me because when we're done, I'm calling the police. Do you understand?"

He continued to stare at me. Ever the good soldier. Perhaps he thought I was bluffing.

I shrugged. Oh well. I put the duct tape back over his mouth and said conversationally:

"So, do you do much home cooking?"

I am a good cook. I enjoy good food and good company and am fortunate to have what an Estate Agent would describe as a "kitchen for the serious cook", which is a bit more comprehensive than having stainless steel backsplashes and an over complicated espresso machine. I have two signature dishes that garner me praise and admiration. One is a wild mushroom risotto and the other, a fennel pollen crème brûlée. Pretentious? Moi? Don't knock it until you've tried it. The silky coldness beneath the molten crunch is achieved in restaurants by shoving the brûlées under a salamander. My kitchen is well equipped, but not _that_ well equipped, so instead I use one of those adorable hand held blow torches for that professional finish. It's also really good for roasting red peppers. None of that faffing about turning them over an open gas flame and sweating them in a plastic bag. Just a short application of concentrated heat from the torch and the flesh swells, the skin blisters, and then it chars and splits.

I will admit here and now that it took a disappointingly short amount of time for him to tell me what I wanted to know. Then I hit him again with the pan.

Afterward I washed my hands and gazed at myself in the bathroom mirror.

"Who the fuck are you?"

Then I called the police, and sat on the sofa and composed myself into an attitude of pathetic shock. This wasn't hard after hearing what my intruder had to say. I didn't really have any time to absorb his information before the police arrived and it all started to get busy as people rushed about with ambulances and muttered into their walkie-talkies with serious faces. The police didn't seem to be overly impressed that I'd stopped a burglar in his tracks. Actually, they seemed to take quite a dim view of citizen activism. I thought I deserved a bit more sympathy, I mean, really, I hadn't killed him, had I?

At any rate, I was taken down to the station to give a formal statement. I sat in a room that had been lightly spritzed with bleach in a deliberately half-hearted way to not cover up the smell of vomit, and which was decorated with a hard chair and a hard table with a matching hard policeman. He watched me impassively while I waited to be interviewed by 'The DI'. DI Nicola Walker turned out to be a stout party in her late fifties. Face like someone had set fire to it and put it out with an axe, and hair which passeth all understanding. She wasn't happy about my scene of the crime statement. Not happy at all.

"Can we just go over the events again Ms. Benning? You heard someone breaking in, and so you ran to the kitchen and hid."

"Yes."

"Then you took a cast iron frying pan and hit the burglar when he came through the door?"

"Yes."

"Why did the burglar come into the kitchen?"

"Er. Sorry?"

"Well, burglars usually steal cash or jewelry or electronics. Which you don't typically find in kitchens."

I shrugged. "I have no idea why he came into the kitchen."

"So you hit him and then tied him up. And then you called us."

"Yes."

"Why didn't you call us as soon as you had hit him? Why did you take the time to tie him up?"

"I was worried he might come round."

"You seem to have been remarkably composed Ms. Benning."

"Thank you."

"It wasn't a compliment."

"Oh, right. Well, shock affects us all differently, doesn't it? I was in shock. Obviously."

"Obviously."

There was nothing there for me so I decided to keep my mouth shut. This was not going to be as easy as I had hoped. DI Walker was no fool.

"I don't think he was a burglar Ms. Benning. And I don't think you think he was a burglar either. Which makes me wonder exactly what he was doing in your flat."

I shrugged. "I guess you'll have to ask him."

"We will when he regains consciousness." She waited for a few beats. "If he regains consciousness. That's not a given right now."

His losing consciousness or not hadn't been my concern at the time to be honest. However, I hadn't reckoned on killing him. I was feeling a bit sick now. "Will he live?"

"I'm not God, Ms. Benning."

"I'm aware of that, but any port in a storm. I didn't mean to hit him that hard."

"You could be looking at manslaughter charges if he doesn't."

That brought me up short. I was relying on charges being pressed given the information my burglar had imparted, but manslaughter was way beyond what I'd bargained for. However, I've watched a lot of police procedurals on TV, and I knew there was only one possible response I needed to make.

"I'm not answering any more questions without my solicitor present. Take me to the cells immediately."

"We haven't charged you with anything. Why on earth should you want to go to the cells?" said DI Walker considerably startled.

At that moment a policeman came into the room and handed DI Walker a note. After she had read it she went red, her nostrils flared a bit, and then she went all white and pinched. Most unattractive. Anger radiated from her with the heat of a thousand burning suns.

"It appears we won't be needing you for questioning any further Ms. Benning. It appears that you and anything you say are protected under the Official Secrets Act."

Oh tits. I hadn't seen that coming. My cunning plan had been to get myself under the care and protection of the Boys in Blue until I could arrange my own safety. Being sprung from jail by the very people who wanted to kill me hadn't been part of my calculations. The prospect of freedom wasn't particularly comforting.

"Ah. Official Protection," I said bleakly. "Well, it's not all it's cracked up to be, I promise." I sat numbly looking at the table. My stiff upper lip wobbled a bit and a tear ran down my cheek. Now what was I going to do? I was a dead woman walking.

"Ms. Benning?" said DI Walker gently "you can leave now."

I found a quiet corner outside the interview room and did what I often do when I'm in hot water and Blind Pew is starting to shuffle around the place handing out black spots; I called Lin.

"Thank god. Where are you?"

"I'm in Brixton nick."

"What? Oh. My. God."

"I think I might have killed someone."

"On purpose?"

"No! Of course not on purpose!" I paused, "more or less. Anyway, that's not the important thing. I'm in trouble."

"If you've killed someone, you certainly are."

"No, I mean they're letting me go, and people are after me, trying to kill me."

"OK, we're on our way. Can you stay safe for twenty minutes?"

It didn't occur to me just then to wonder why Lin was so relieved to have found me and why she accepted my declaration of dire need without question.

I headed towards the toilets and just narrowly missed being spotted by a couple of plain-clothes types deep in conversation with DI Walker. They were most certainly not police officers given the reaction of DI Walker who looked as though she'd found something on the bottom of her shoe and was about to wipe it clean on their faces. They were facing away from me and DI Walker saw me pass behind them but by not a flicker of her face did she betray me. Instead, she followed me to the toilets where I was hiding.

"Is there something you'd like to tell me, Ms. Benning?"

"Off the record?"

She nodded.

"He wasn't a burglar, you were right. He was coming to kill me. That lot out there won't make a mistake this time."

"Why is someone trying to kill you?"

I gave her a long unhappy look. "If I told you, they'd kill you too."

DI Walker thought about this for a bit and then started shaking her head.

"I have no idea what is going on but until I get this sorted out I'm putting you in protective custody. I'm going to take you to the cells immediately for assaulting a police officer."

"Oh, thank you. Thank you so much."

As she escorted me from the toilets towards the safety of the cells the big men moved towards us flashing secret squirrel badges while DI Walker held out her warrant card like the shield of whoever it was in the face of the Medusa and shouted "I have jurisdiction here. Not you. Get out of my nick."

She didn't see the other two coming up behind us but I saw them reflected in the glass at the end of the corridor. They were just breaking into a run and pulling things out of their pockets and I wasn't going to hang around to see what they were. I executed a sharp left and ran as fast as I could, crashing through the exit doors, and out into the street where, unfortunately, I got hit by a car.

Out of the frying pan into the fire in an unnecessarily dramatic way, as my mother would always say later.

### Hospital

Little boy,

Full of joy;

Little girl,

Sweet and small;

Cock does crow,

So do you;

Merry voice,

Infant noise,

Merrily, merrily, to welcome in the year.

**W** hen I came round I was in a hospital bed hooked up to a couple of drips one of which was a morphine drip. I asked the nurse what was wrong with me but she just looked grave and said the doctor would explain, but in the meantime, I must keep ahead of the pain curve, and showed me how the morphine was self-administered with a push of a button. I always have been a quick learner.

The doctor, when she arrived, was a very attractive Pakistani lady liberally endowed with the right stuff. Dr. Singh reacted to my attempts at charming her much as you would expect someone to react to finding a rattlesnake coiled around a dead rat in their bed. Clearly, I'd lost my touch. With charming people, I mean.

She told me I'd been run over, which I knew, and a rib had punctured my spleen, which I didn't, but explained the lacerating pain when I sneezed (Once. Never again. Quick learner as always). The spleen had been removed, which had had some longer term, but manageable, complications. Apparently, during the surgery I'd started to bleed quite heavily. Listening between the lines, there had followed a tense few minutes during which Voices Were Raised. Hence the multiple drips.

In addition, my liver was badly bruised but would recover given enough time and lack of alcohol. Dr Singh said the last bit rather pointedly. I'd been concussed and I might not remember things, or be a bit confused for a bit, but that was perfectly normal and it would improve rapidly. She said I should be well enough to leave after a week assuming nothing further went wrong. All in all, she and her staff felt I had got away rather lightly.

Mindful of the fact that "they" were almost certainly still waiting for me, I suggested to Dr. Singh that I probably wasn't well enough to be interrogated. She agreed, adding that the armed guard outside my door would probably help in that regard. Apparently, DI Walker had me under arrest for assaulting a police officer and for manslaughter. Which went a long way to explaining Dr. Singh's reaction to my attempts at bonhomie. I thought about trying to explain it all to her but I was suddenly very tired.

Opium dreams are vivid and immensely satisfying but they leave you with a haunting sadness, a fierce need to regain something you've lost, and also the most amazingly itchy skin. In my dreams Chinese artworks swirled and boiled, dissolving into chaos like the smoke rising from a joss stick. I don't know if Lin was there or not, but a beautiful Chinese woman bearing a striking resemblance to her sat on my bed every now and then. Mainly she sat there, but occasionally I'd summon the mental effort to talk to her.

"Why?"

"Confucius says the evil that men do lives after them."

I ruminated on this for a bit. Possibly days.

"I thought that was Shakespeare?"

"I translated it for you." She fiddled with the jade necklace she was wearing. The dragon smoke momentarily coalesced into a vision of the portrait of Josiah, the first Lord Throckmorten, a jade ring on his finger. The vision dissolved into another of a jade brooch sitting on a table in a basement room in Colorado and a finial on a scroll case. The three pieces were a matching set.

"That family scroll is yours isn't it, Lin?"

"It belongs to my family, yes. We have been searching for a long time. And waiting to punish those who stole from us."

"Mr. Smith?"

"His father. My parents paid to have themselves and our heirlooms smuggled out of China during the Cultural Revolution. Smith Sr. kept some things for himself and there are other things still missing that we may never recover. For example, there were many Imperial gifts and scrolls. My family was once very high up in the Song dynasty. We lost favor over the centuries. During the Qing period, we made some bad trade decisions and in other cases, we were cheated. Opium makes for strange bedfellows."

"Josiah."

"Yes. J&J were complicit in some of our misfortunes. It was hoped I could rectify the past by becoming part of J&J's future."

I thought about this while I scratched my skin. There was a long game here that I couldn't quite grasp.

"Louise?"

"Yes? Still here."

"I just wanted to say how sorry I am."

"What for?"

"Running you over."

I was so happy to see my godfather, Dennis

Hello you

Hello you back

Is Diana here too?

No. She couldn't come today. Maybe tomorrow. I thought we could have a little chat together. Just the two of us.

Oh, I get it. Secrets. Was I right about you being a spy?

Yes. Yes, you were. Very perceptive of you actually. You may have heard me talk about my friend Len. He's a writer.

Len Deighton?

Yes, that's the chap. I know you've read his novels. Do you remember the name of his main character?

Bernard. Bernard Sampson

Do you remember what drove Bernard?

His wife, Fiona, was a double, no, triple, agent.

You always did have such a good memory! Now, we need to make sure you are going to be safe. You need to get that list of names out of the shadows and into the light, as it were. Splash it across the front pages. Didn't Paul have a sister? Maria?

I thought you said there would be unimaginable consequences if the press got hold of the information?

Well Diana and I are dead, and you've come quite close, so the consequences for us have already been unimaginable, haven't they?

When Josiah Fernley-Lemoy, the first Earl of Throckmorten, sat down on my bed for a chat I was thrilled to be able to tell him all about my adventures. I knew he'd be ever so interested, what with him knowing Lin's great great grandfather and all.

"Oh, you aren't wearing your ring. Did you know that I found the rest of the set?"

"Did you? Where?"

"A place called Colorado. It's in the New World. The brooch was there, and of course, Lin has the necklace."

"Does she? How did she get that?"

"I don't know. I expect her grandma gave it to her. And she probably got it from her grandfather. I thought maybe he'd given you the ring?"

"Quite."

"And her family scroll was there too. It had been stolen, you know".

"No. No, I didn't know."

"Oh yes. They were a very well to do family. Very close to the Emperor but they made some bad political decisions somewhere along the line and ended up trapped in China when the Revolution kicked off. Mr. Smith's father stole their family heirlooms and Lin's been looking for them ever since. That's why she's at J&J."

"I see."

"Do you know Lin? She's my assistant, you know. She's very beautiful. Not a great driver, but you can't have everything."

"I have met her, and yes, she is very beautiful."

"Oh, where did you meet her?"

"At University. I fell in love with her the first day I was there."

"You should have married her," I said kindly.

"I wasn't allowed to. But I've been able to spend my life with her anyway."

"She's your mistress. I see." I was becoming quite tired now. "Did she fall in love with you too?"

"Up until now I always thought she had, but perhaps I was wrong."

We both thought about that for a while until I remembered what I really wanted to say to Josiah before I had to go back to sleep.

"I don't suppose you could let me have some of your opium, could you? They're a bit stingy with it here, and I know you probably have lots of it to sell on board ship."

Lord Throckmorten looked at me a little strangely and said "Louise, we don't sell opium anymore. That was centuries ago. I'm Patrick."

Hello, Dear Heart

Paul!

You've been in the wars, I see.

Yes, my loyal assistant ran me over, but at least I didn't fall of a sea cliff.

I didn't fall off one either. I was pushed.

I thought so. You knew that was coming, didn't you? That's why you sent me the list. You knew them, those men. In Afghanistan. That's why you have PTSD, isn't it? You needed to find them and kill them.

Yes. We, my unit, were in Kandahar conducting an interrogation of some local mujahideen jointly with this American unit and something happened, went wrong. I don't know what. And suddenly there we were in the aftermath. They were just...... animals; their hands filled with guts and their heads with glory. Officially there was nothing that could have been done because officially it didn't happen. Eventually, I couldn't not do something. I was angry.... I'd started to see them almost every night... the girls... lying in front of me.... cradling those tiny bodies to their poor breasts.

Planning the thefts helped for a bit, concentrating on the logistics and the intelligence and what have you. Eventually, it didn't help and I decided that the truth would set me free. So much for freedom. Anyway, I started turning over stones.

My godfather said that wasn't always a wise thing to do. He also said I should tell Maria. Is that OK?

I think it's a very good idea. I think that's probably what I was going to do.

We sat in companionable silence for a bit and then Paul said

How did you know I was killing them?

A man came to my flat and told me, well eventually he told me, that you'd gone a bit rogue. That people higher up the chain of command were worried you weren't going to stop there so they decided to um, 'remove you from the field'. I was quite shocked actually because he'd come to kill me too. He'd already killed Diana and Dennis. Tying up loose ends, he said.

When one is very angry, one becomes capable of doing shocking things. You understand that yourself now, don't you? said Paul gently

An immaculately well-preserved woman sat at my bedside and was talking as I emerged from the abyss.

".....unnecessarily histrionic as always, Louise. So thoughtless of you. I had to leave Malcolm and come straight back after just two days."

"Hello, mummy dearest. Why do you have an owl on your head?"

"For god's sake, it's not an owl, it's a fascinator."

"Oh." I thought about contradicting her and telling her that it was, in fact, an owl, but arguing with my mother has always been a mug's game. I felt that I had missed something in the preceding monologue and after a minute or two I put my finger on it. "Who is Malcolm?"

"What do you mean who is Malcolm? Malcolm is your step-father, Louise."

This rather puzzled me.

"I know I haven't been in touch as often as I ought, but I rather thought his name was Edward?"

"I was divorced from Edward last year, as well you know," my mother snapped. She pulled her fur jacket closer to ward off the germs of maternal love. "I have to say the doctor didn't mention anything about brain damage. I was due to fly back to Grenada tomorrow but perhaps I should postpone."

"No, don't," I said quickly. "Really mummy, I'm fine, I know who Malcolm is. Really."

"Hmmm. Well, I still think you're looking positively haggard so I'll stop by on my way to the airport tomorrow and bring you some makeup. There's no need to let yourself go any further. You'll feel a lot better with a face on. I always do."

My mother gets up to leave, adding, "not to mention you'll miss the wedding. Sometimes I wonder if you do these things deliberately, Louise."

I stare at her in disbelief. "Did you really just say that?"

My mother has the grace to look discomforted. But not for long as her rampant narcissism, checked briefly at the starting gate, comes galloping to the front of the field. "You did say you'd rather be hit by a bus than attend the wedding" she points out.

"I've lost my spleen," I say quietly. "Much as I dislike Francis, even I think that's too high a price to pay, don't you?"

My mother leans over and kisses me somewhere reasonably near my forehead, "never mind, I can see you're tired darling, I'll go now. Get better soon."

Shortly after my mother left, borne aloft by a cloud of Arpêge and fox pelts, the nurse came in all agog.

"Was that who I think it was?"

"I don't know. That would rather depend on who you think it was," I said cagily.

"Well. She's the spit image of that Princess Stephanie of Luxembourg!"

Great. Just my luck to have a nurse who's sole reading matter consists of Hello! magazine. Where do they find the time?

"Oh no, you're quite wrong. My mother's name actually is Stephanie funnily enough. But she's not a princess." I smiled with my lips.

I was being "economic with the _actualité_ ", as one of my uncles so famously said. Technically my mother isn't a Princess now that she's divorced Edward.

My recovery progressed quickly and much to my dismay, Dr. Singh started to become unimpressed by my morphine consumption and threatened to cut me off entirely. I explained about the nurse telling me to keep ahead of the pain curve.

"There's a difference between being proactive and being premature Ms. Benning. Plus, I hate to break this to you, but you have a very high tolerance for opioids. Unless you want to become seriously addicted, you need to get a handle on it."

Bit of a blow that. I thought I'd been restrained and quite admirably stoic, but apparently I'd been off my tits on smack for the past couple of days. Damn, but I was going to miss all my visitors. Well, most of them. One in particular I could do without was DI Walker. My rapid recovery meant an interview.

"Am I really under arrest for manslaughter?"

"You were, yes. But your victim hasn't died yet, so we will be amending the charges to attempted manslaughter which carries a mandatory five year suspended sentence. You can plead not guilty, cost the tax payer a great deal of time and money, and then end up doing jail time, or you can take my advice and plead guilty."

"Oh." I sighed. "I don't suppose I have much choice, do I?"

"You don't have any as far as I can see."

"Having a criminal record won't help my career prospects," I muttered sullenly.

"Depends on your choice of career," deadpanned DI Walker. "It was also a way of keeping you safe from whatever mess it was you'd got yourself into. I'll remove your guard only when I'm sure you're safe."

"I've taken steps to ensure my safety. I'm pretty sure I'll be OK by the end of the week."

"You do know that you didn't have to run away, don't you?"

"Dunno 'bout that. I saw two men trying to get past you and two more coming up behind. I didn't fancy my chances to be honest."

"The two I was keeping at bay were military intelligence and you needed to be kept safe from them, I totally agree. The other two were Secret Service and they were the ones who had put you under the protection of the Official Secrets Act. So how about you tell me why?"

I owed her that at least. So I told her almost all of the truth, or at least as much of it as I thought she needed to know.

"It should hit the papers very soon. Maria's team have been working around the clock to verify the story. They've interviewed the surviving soldier. They'll be here again tomorrow to talk to me about the break in and about my godparents' death."

"Yes, the car accident. The Wales police tried to re-examine the evidence and found that there wasn't any."

I was shocked. "But it simply wasn't an accident. They were murdered. It had to have been staged."

"No, or rather, yes. When I say there wasn't any evidence, I don't mean there wasn't any evidence of foul play, I mean that there wasn't any evidence. At all. Which is evidence in itself."

"Covered up? That's quite serious, no?"

"Oh yes. The Benning Affair, as it's been dubbed, has caused a lot of..." She paused, groping for the right words, "soul searching among various branches of the security services; hence the Official Secrets Act. Your godfather had made certain provisions apparently."

"Soul searching? You mean panic."

"Yes. That too."

The Benning Affair. I rather liked that. It sounded like a Robert Ludlum novel.

"So I can expect a visit from MI5?"

"Highly unlikely," she said, dashing my hopes. "MI6 though.....who knows? They work in mysterious ways that lot, but I doubt they have any intention of telling you why, or more probably who your godfather nominated to be your guardian angel. I'd let sleeping dogs lie in that department if I were you."

Maria sent her London journalists straight to me and I told them everything that I knew, or thought I knew. It turned out that Buzz had already been investigating the allegations at Ft. Lewis JBLM. Military support groups had reached out to Buzz, alleging that the base commanders ignored medical staff and insisted that returning soldiers diagnosed with PTSD had their diagnoses downgraded in order to send them straight back into battle.

As a result, once back home in the States after their third back to back tours, an unreasonably high percentage of JBLM soldiers were linked to a number of crimes, including, but not limited to murder, suicide, and waterboarding their children. The Kandahar Massacre list was the definitive proof Buzz needed. It vindicated the military families allegations that the overuse of infantry personnel for close combat was a direct cause of violent crime on and off the battlefield. As an addendum to that, it also revealed that the US Military had covered up a war crime and British forces had been complicit, both in the crime and in the cover up. Scandal was an understatement.

The news broke on Buzz and The Guardian simultaneously on a slow news day. The Guardian led with "Jointly Sanctioned War Crimes" and by the end of the day the news had prompted questions in Parliament and demands for a Congressional Inquiry in the US. Both the Prime Minister and the President denied a cover-up despite the evidence uncovered during the investigation. The following day the International Court of Justice issued a statement denying that warrants had been issued for senior US and UK military personnel, which sent the press into an even greater frenzy.

The excitement died down after a couple of days or so, only to ignite again when the media had dug into the fine print and found an anonymous source who quoted 'The Benning Affair' as being the bomb to Franz Joseph's carriage. I woke to find a strange man beside my bedside who pronounced himself to be my lawyer and PR consultant, Jim Beresford.

"I don't remember hiring you."

"Well, technically, you didn't hire me. Lady Stavely did." Blue eyes twinkled under bushy brows.

I looked at him blankly.

"Lady Stavely? Your mother?"

"Oh god, yes. Malcolm, Lord Stavely. It's all coming back. Sorry. Why did she do that?"

"I think she's rather concerned that you might, um," he paused.

"Blurt out something inappropriate and/or wield the truth like a blunt instrument?" I finished for him a little bitterly.

"Those were almost her exact words, yes. Although as your lawyer, I have to say it is always best to tell the truth. But rarely, if ever, necessary."

"I am under arrest for attempted manslaughter, you know."

"I think we'll be arguing self-defense, Ms. Benning."

"Oh." I ruminated on this. "Would it help if I told you he was carrying a gun?"

"What? Was he? There's nothing about that in the Police report."

"No. I didn't tell them. Like you said, it's seldom necessary to tell the whole truth."

Jim raised both of the eyebrows Dennis Healey had left him in his will. "This is not one of those times."

"Right. Well it would probably be best if you broke the gratifying news to DI Walker. I don't think I'm well enough to see her in person. In fact, I've had a relapse. It's not that I'm a coward exactly, but DI Walker doesn't strike me as the understanding type _vis a vis_ keeping that sort of detail to myself."

"No, I can quite see how she might be less than thrilled. Do you still have the gun, by the way?"

"Yes. It's in my freezer."

"Right." Jim thought about that for a moment. "Any particular reason why you put it in the freezer? I'm just curious; it's not a crime. Well, not as far as I'm aware," he added judiciously.

"It just seemed like a safe place." There was no point in burdening him with the idea that I'd put the gun in the freezer in case I wanted to use it later. "I wasn't really thinking clearly."

"Right you are. I'll also be handling your press statements by the way. Please don't speak to anyone before speaking to me first. Aside from the wholly unenlightening visit from a nondescript man who presented me with the Official Secrets Act to sign, Lady Stavely has indicated her concern and J&J have also expressed an interest in guarding your privacy."

"I'll bet," I said dryly.

As notoriety is the worst crime one can commit at places like J&J, it wouldn't surprise me if I got 'released from employment'. The thought rather depressed me.

Approximately thirty seconds after Jim Beresford left, DI Walker hove into view. As opiates somewhat warp time, it may have been as much as thirty minutes; at any rate, it was much quicker than I was hoping for; I had known she wouldn't let me off lightly. I could tell by her stride she was on a mission. Probably to flay me alive. Hiding wasn't really an option, but I did my best and pretended to be asleep.

"I know you're awake, Ms. Benning"

"I thought we were calling each other Louise and Nicola?" was my muffled retort from under the covers.

"That was before I was informed about the revolver."

"Semi."

"What?"

Why on earth can't I keep my big show off mouth shut? I pushed back the covers and emerged apologetically.

"Semi. Semi-automatic. Not a revolver."

It would be easier for a rich man to pass through the eye of a needle than DI Walker's, so narrowed were they.

"Yes, I know. I merely wondered if you did." The unspoken answer hung in an Arctic silence.

"I read a lot of American crime novels," I said weakly. "Raymond Chandler and, um, so forth."

"And from your extensive reading of fiction, you field stripped a Glock, reloaded a chambered bullet into the clip and then hid it in your freezer," she retorted sarcastically.

"Magazine."

"What?"

"Magazine. Clips are what you put in your hair." DI Walker's face turned an alarming shade of claret. "Just FYI," I stuttered, "I mean, I wouldn't want you to look amateurish, so I just thought you ought to know; they're referred to as magazines..." I trailed off as it became apparent that professional advice from me was not what DI Walker was open to right at this precise moment.

Barely keeping a lid on her anger, DI Walker stood up and snarled "I haven't decided what I'm going to charge you with, Ms. Benning, but rest assured, charged you will be, no matter what your pricey lawyer says. Or the sodding Official Secrets Act." She turned on her heel and marched rigidly away.

"Will you bring grapes next time?" I called as she closed the door.

It was, of course, my godfather who had taught me to shoot. He felt that a working knowledge of shotguns was indispensable, "Especially," as he put it, "I can't trust your mother to know which end is which, and you need to not have to rely on the Laird's ghillies to instruct you." He also decreed I should be able to use a handgun safely and accurately. He believed in thoroughness, so I had learned to strip and clean the guns too. Having handguns in Britain, outside of a heavily monitored gun club, isn't just frowned upon, it's pretty much a hanging offense, so "mum's the word, Louise."

And mum I was to DI Walker, though I was struck by the thought that maybe I should get back to Wales as soon as possible to retrieve Dennis' armament stash, just in case it fell into enemy hands. Well, not enemy precisely, someone's other than mine, I mean.

Emma comes to see me, which surprises and not altogether delights me. My life seems complicated and drama filled enough without her.

"Oh Louise, how awful. I had to come and see you."

"Er. Ah. Um." I prevaricate. "Good morning? Are you a new doctor?"

"Louise, it's me. Emma."

"Do you know, you remind me of a woman I once thought I loved. Her name was Emma too."

"That's me. That's my name."

"Is it? What a coincidence!"

"Louise, it's me, Emma." A note of panic creeps into her voice. "Do you really not recognize me?"

Idly I wonder how long I can keep this up for and how long it would take before she burst into tears. Then I realize I can't be bothered. It's too much effort.

"Oh! Emma! Yes, of course I recognize you. You looked a bit different for a moment there, what with clothes on and everything. Sorry. Aren't you supposed to be on the hustings or whatever they're called?"

"They don't have hustings nowadays. They have campaign rallies. They're simply awful and I hate every minute of it."

"So you ran away to visit an old friend in hospital," I said, the sarcasm cauterizing the space where my heart used to be.

She is silent.

"Go back to where you're needed. And wanted."

Yes, yes, but sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind. Emma had made her bed and now she could lie in it with Despicable Duncan. I pressed the button many times.

"Do you think I'll get sacked, Lin?"

"Sacked? What for?"

"Whatever seems to be the best defense in an employment litigation case? I don't know, my celebrity status being incompatible with J&J's famed discretion? Blackmailing Duncan? Being off work and in hospital? Bernard hating me? Take your pick."

Lin rolled her eyes. "No, of course you're not going to be sacked. Your mother's preoccupation with her public image is magnifying your concerns out of all proportion. J&J expects you back at your desk as soon as your doctor says you are well enough to return."

With that off my mind, there's just one other thing I need to resolve. Striving for nonchalance, I try to find out if the Art Squad are still sniffing around behind the bike sheds.

"Lin?"

"Yes?"

"Have the Art Squad been into the office?"

"The Art Squad? Whatever for?"

"Oh, nothing really. I was just curious. I had the feeling that I was being watched a little while ago. Before my accident. I wondered if J&J were being monitored."

"No. Not that I'm aware of. You were probably imagining it."

"Yeah. Probably."

My next visitor was one I recognized immediately. I'd last seen him heading towards me and DI Walker at a fast clip in Brixton nick. He was a tall heavyset man with sandy red hair that clashed horribly with his tie, a purple paisley job that he, no doubt, thought dashing. He was wearing a wrinkled suit under a raincoat and he smelled faintly of teashops; sweet and damp. He introduced himself as Jeremy Barton.

"From MI6, right?" I said. He nodded and I added, "so, where's your partner?"

"We don't always come in pairs Ms. Benning. You're confusing us with the police. It's the good guys that always come in pairs."

"How comforting. Has anyone ever told you your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired? Are you arresting me?"

"Good heavens, no. I'm just here to check up on you. See how you are. See if you need anything. We just want to make sure you're all right. You know, safe."

"Why do I somehow very much doubt that?"

"Ms. Benning," he sighed, "you've already 'spilled the beans' so there's nothing we can do to unspill them. But now they're all mopped up, let's make sure there aren't any more 'accidents', hmmm?"

"You'll have to explain. I'm easily confused at the moment."

"As I say, what is done is done. The boys with the big toys have retired from the field. However, we would like you like you sign the OSA. The Official Secrets Act." He waited a few moments before adding, "because if you get the urge to spill any more beans it might be a little difficult to protect you."

"My lawyer..." I croaked.

"He signed on your behalf when you were still, um, poorly. Now you're well enough to sign yourself. It's not strictly necessary but we just like to keep all our paperwork tidy."

"Why?"

"Because..... paperwork! The devil is in the details, what?"

The boys with the big toys had to be the military, although I was at a loss as to what further 'beans' he thought I had to spill. His whole manner of speaking was shrouded, occluded, like a verbal sleight of hand.

"I really meant why are you still interested in keeping me safe? I'm not in any danger, am I?"

"No! Not at all," he said reassuringly, adding less reassuringly, "not as far as we know. But these little affairs can have lingering effects. Like aftershocks following earthquakes."

I had a sudden flashback to my godfather writing in his study. "Are you writing your memoirs?" I'd joked. "More of an insurance policy," he'd replied. It came to me in a burst of inspiration: My godfather must have told them that I knew what he knew, that I had his 'insurance policy', those were the 'more beans' they were worried about. I didn't have it, but I pretended I did, and nodded sagely. "Yes, quite. Aftershocks. I see."

"And in return for our protection, we'd like you to help us."

"Help you do what?"

"Oh, nothing really. Not immediately anyway, but who knows what the future holds?"

Whilst being James Bond has long been one of the fantasies I cheer myself with, I had discovered in myself a definite aversion to killing people, even if it was personal. Having to kill people impersonally was suddenly not that appealing.

"So I'll have a license?"

"I'm sorry? A license?"

"You know, a license to kill."

Jeremy looked at me askance. "It's not that sort of help we were thinking of. Much as we appreciate the offer, obviously."

I was equally both relieved and disappointed. "So, we're talking about, what, exactly?"

Jeremy wriggled a little inside his suit, clearly not happy about being put on the spot. "It's hard to say exactly. You might come across some information that we might find interesting, for instance. That sort of thing."

I think about all the information that comes across my desk. I'm doubtful that Lawrence's reports on smutty teapots would interest them, but who knows?

"Spying is the word you're looking for, Mr Barton."

"Well, yes."

"Can I have some time to think about it?"

"Not really, no."

### Another Party

A Robin Red breast in a Cage

Puts all Heaven in a Rage.

A dove house fill'd with doves & Pigeons

Shudders Hell thro' all its regions.

A dog starv'd at his Master's Gate

Predicts the ruin of the State.

**M** y recovery went well, my doctor pronounced herself pleased, and I was allowed to go back to work after one more week at home recuperating. We had a last chat before I was discharged.

"Remember, without a spleen you can't afford to get sick so always carry antibiotics," said Dr. Singh. "Take it easy for a couple of weeks before you start running again, and, I can't emphasize this enough, lay off the booze, Louise."

"But livers regenerate after trauma," I said, "I read up on it."

"Consider it as a general life instruction rather than specific medical advice in your case."

Coming back to the flat was a bit strange, though Lin had arranged for it to be cleaned and the door replaced. I wondered if I should sell it. Would I always see my would-be assassin lying on the floor? Would I ever look at crème brûlée the same way again?

My watchers must have given up while I was in hospital because I didn't see them around again. On the other hand, I wasn't going for a morning run any more, so maybe they'd just gotten very much better at hiding.

Although I was medically 'well', physically I felt fragile. As if any sudden move might tear something important. I tried to explain this to my Physical Therapist, who listened very intently, nodded, and made agreeable, understanding noises, and who then made me do planks, side planks, and one armed planks, followed by 'easy' stomach crunches. There's a special circle in hell set aside for PTs. It involves vats of boiling coconut oil and kale enemas.

Mentally and emotionally, I wasn't so much fragile as numbed. Things didn't really seem to matter much. I decided that I was obviously finally cultivating a Zen like detachment and bought several pairs of black yoga pants and an incense burner to help me meditate. The first time I used it, it set the fire alarm off. Lin told me I needed to get over my detachment PDQ before I was fired (ho ho), so I started weaning myself off the anti-depressants I'd been given to wean myself off the opiates and the world gradually came back into focus.

During my stay in hospital, I had nursed the faint hope that Bernard would finally succumb to his demons and would have been locked in J&J's cellars, leaving me free to fumigate his office. But on my first day back, he called me in for 'a chat'. I wonder if I can conceivably get away with carrying a bottle of oxygen and a mask with me on the pretense of still being poorly. Realizing that to be unfeasible, I instead decide to regard it as chance to display my immense reserves of fortitude in the face of life's little pricks. After all, it couldn't be long before he was retired with full honors and a gold toothbrush.

"We are of course all delighted to see you back on your feet, Louise," Bernard lied, "but I know it's going to take a little while for you to get back up to speed and I wanted you to know that James and I have arranged for the sale of the Smith collection. We'll consign it to the Christie's February Chinese Fine Art sale. I'll need you to finalize the actuary documents and catalogue notes.

"I met Mr. Smith in Aspen while you were in the hospital. I told him you were indisposed with an unfortunately non-serious infection. No need to frighten a client with the truth. He sent his regards and hoped you would recover quickly.

"I also met Mrs. Smith, ah, Missy. She asked to be remembered to you. She was quite insistent actually." Bernard directed a long, level gaze at me.

"Goodness," I muttered, "how touching."

"I doubt goodness had anything to do with it. Touching, probably. Whilst J&J appreciates staff doing their utmost to secure a sale, I don't believe that extends to sleeping with clients. Or their spouses," he added sweetly.

I cast about for some suitable words but my customary eloquence deserted me.

"Oh. That. Yes."

Bernard shook his head and sighed. More in sorrow than anger I thought.

"Get out."

Wrong again. Bernard doesn't seem particularly pleased to see me making a full recovery. I'm surprised as his manners are usually faultless.

After I'd settled the straightjacket of responsibility firmly back around me, I began to wonder what was happening on the job promotion front. There seemed to be no sign of Bernard packing his trunk and saying goodbye to the circus. Perhaps Zurich was going to be my reward? I was wondering quite how to approach Patrick when Lin came in and announced

"The Board have called a special meeting. You're to join them tomorrow at 11 am."

At freaking last. Bernard's job is mine. I wonder how they will break it to Bernard. Will I have to do it? Surely not. Will he jump or will he have to be pushed? I know where my money is on that question; Bernard will have to be removed with a winkle picker.

J&J's Board consists of six people plus the Chairman. Traditionally the posts are held by family members and/or the previous or current heads of our offices in New York, Buenos Aires, and Zurich. Every now and then, a particularly important client will be offered a seat. At the moment, Patrick holds the Chair and tiebreak vote. In addition, his sister Lady Marchmaine, and brother in law, Lord Marchmaine, have seats. Patrick's Great Uncle William Fernley-Lemoy also has a seat but no one has seen him since Suez, so he may or may not actually exist. Two of the other three seats are held respectively by the heads of the New York and Buenos Aires offices. The last seat is held by Marion Flint, the great modern art collector and the Chair (and Founder) of Flint Global.

It's a full Board meeting (except for Billy 'fucking hell' Fernley-Lemoy, whose absence, as you can imagine, is felt keenly) in the Board Room. A long table of rare wood is flanked by many chairs, and running down the center are clumps of crystal decanters surrounded by matching tumblers. The decanters contain water much to my disappointment.

The head of the Buenos Aires office, Carmen Da Silva comes forward to greet me. A sultry temptress with a mind like a steel trap and the numeric literacy of Deep Blue, she makes everyone feel completely inadequate in her presence. Ever a lover of clichés that she can later confound, she looks as though she's been poured into her red dress and someone forgot to say "when". I admire her _deeply_ and aspire to be exactly like her when I grow up.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Louise, and I'm so happy to see you making a full recovery," she purrs, and I almost faint with pleasure.

Next, I turn to say hello to our man in New York. The new world is represented by an East Coast Old Money chap, Manley J Cummins III, who speaks in such such strangled vowels I'd rather poke out my eyes with knitting needles than have to endure more than ten minutes in his company. He's a shambling bear of a man who looks exactly like Jeff Bridges in The Big Lebowski. Consequently, his nickname throughout J&J is 'the Dude'. He is, apparently, a world-renowned expert in miniatures, but how often do you come across them for heaven's sakes? He's also very hot on Early American Watercolors, is an Internationally ranked polo player, and a gourmet chef. He and Bernard despise each other with a heartiness that is a pleasure to watch (I once heard someone refer to the Dude as a Renaissance Man in front of Bernard who snapped, "only if you have a very poor grasp of history").

Lady Marchmaine is seated when I enter the room and so I have no idea what she's wearing below stairs. Above stairs she's wearing something ghastly with frills, which I refuse to look at in any great detail. She is accompanied, as always, by Lord Marchmaine, who, perhaps laboring under the confusion that he married a nice, comfortable, woman, is wearing his habitual beaten puppy look. One doesn't know whether to cuddle or kick him. I'm fond of Lord M actually. Despite the passage of the years, he's the sort of man who is still determined to go on saying "Anyone for tennis?" in the face of the insurmountably crushing misery that is Lady M.

Sitting next to Lady M is Marion Flint, a remarkable woman and wholly admirable in many respects. Fabulously wealthy in every way that matters, she inherited it from her father, made it herself starting up Flint Electronics, and then, for good measure, married it. Three times. No one dares to say what everyone thinks and that is that she undoubtedly poisoned her previous husbands and had them buried in her orchid greenhouses (she's also world expert on Orchidaceae). She's built, like Precious Ramotse, on traditional lines, and is large and ripe, like a piece of fruit just about to turn. Marion has no direct heirs and her comprehensive Modern Art collection is, to put it frankly, up for grabs, hence her having been offered a seat on the board.

Patrick calls the meeting to order and breaks the quite shattering news that J&J have been granted the sole independent trading license to deal in Chinese antiquities in China and a stunned silence settles across the Boardroom.

Without wishing to bore you with shop talk, this is A Big Deal, both politically and financially. Heretofore, The Party has operated the only antiquities house, PolyAuction, staffed by former military officers and led by relatives of senior Party officials. It is notorious for being riddled with _yahai_ , or elegant bribery, and thus the authenticity of its pieces is either actually, or at the very least emotionally, suspect. The amount of money J&J stands to make is staggering. I'm fascinated by this news and wonder who will be the head of the new office. Then it hits me that they are going to promote Bernard to live out his glory days in China, leaving me to fill his shoes. Brilliant!

After the initial shock, a low key hubbub starts up as the Board members turn to each other and gleefully evaluate their stock options. Patrick continues, "Consequently J&J will be opening a new office in Beijing and I am therefore putting forward a motion that this Board takes a vote on offering Louise Benning the post of heading up this new office. May I have a second?"

"Seconded," says Lord M.

"A show of hands, please. Thank you. Carried unanimously. Congratulations, Louise."

I left the Board meeting in a state of shock. I had fully expected to be heading up the department here in London and to discover I had been under a stupid misapprehension was a bit lowering. By contrast, learning that I was to head up a whole new office, in China no less, was just amazing. This was a massive promotion for me, and a huge vote of confidence in my abilities.

However, there was something niggling me about this whole thing. They say that nearly everyone harbors the secret suspicion that that aren't quite up to the job that they're doing and live in expectation of someone confronting them with a cry of Fraud! Imposter! so I resolutely put my inner qualms down to lack of self-confidence and generic centuries of oppression by the patriarchy.

I bounced back into my office full of the joys that only the promise of a Lehman Brothersly large amount of money coming one's way can bring.

"Lin! You'll never guess what just happened to me!"

"We're moving to Beijing?"

That rather took the wind out of my sails, but then I remembered Patrick's little admission. "Oh, of course, you probably knew months ago," I said a little pettishly.

"Do you remember when I asked you to trust that all would be made clear to you?" she waited until I nodded assent. "J&J have been trying to open the China door for a long time and we were stuck. So I've been encouraging Patrick to try another, different, tack. I thought that you could possibly be the key, with the result being that you made an impression on the people that matter."

Let me be clear; I'm under no misapprehensions about my charms, however, Lin's explanation rings false and the niggling feeling suddenly distills into a single image. The worm of bitterness wriggles for I _intensely_ dislike being manipulated.

"And there was me thinking the dragon pendant rather swung things in our favor. You're correct Lin, I'm not stupid, though I may be 'disastrously naive' as you say. That was an Imperial Dragon I was wearing in China. The sort of thing given out by Emperors for services rendered to be redeemed without question for favors to be granted. Next time you use me as a patsy, tell me."

It is decided by those who make these kinds of decisions, that the announcement will be made at Throckmorten Hall at the summer party that upcoming August weekend.

The summer party at Throckmorten Hall is always a jolly affair. The grounds that were laid out by Capability Brown provide a stunning backdrop, and the gardens around the house are the work of Gertrude Jekyll, and so provide a riot of color as a foreground. Dress code is the dreaded smart/casual with the opportunity to feel awkward two ways if you get it wrong. Especially on the hat front. Casual hats are easy for men: a Panama or light straw trilby serves perfectly. A woman's straw hat runs a very serious risk of either 'Dirt Farmer's Wife' or 'Hippy in the Sunflowers' look. Not that Lawrence knows what awkward is. While most of the men are in linen/cotton/seersucker blend suits, Lawrence is wearing capri pants, an untucked polo shirt, boat shoes, and a ball cap. I'm almost embarrassed for him.

The main problem for women at these sort of affairs is shoes. Because the bar is set up under a tent on one of the lawns, if you are wearing heels you are restricted to the terraces and paths and subject to the whim of the circulating waiters and the signature punch. The alternative being that you have to do an ungainly tiptoe across the chamomile sward to the bar to get something less potent, while trying not to leave the lawn looking as though it's just been aerated for winter.

Unlike the winter party punch, which varies according to the dictates of whichever red wine is cheapest, the summer party always features Elephants Walk punch. If you don't know, it's named after the Ceylon tea plantation in the book (and the film, starring Elizabeth Taylor) of the same name (plus bonus point information: it's always an entertaining subject for charades). It also describes the cumulative effect of the punch, which tastes lovely and summery and innocuous until you try to walk. I love EWP as it's basically gin and tonic flavored with cherry brandy, angostura bitters, and lashings of lime juice.

I'm wearing one of my favorite outfits. High waisted linen blend dress pants in a sort of shimmery gray that fall softly to the floor, a crisp white fitted and elegantly tailored cotton shirt with an open neck, and a loose tie of the same material as the pants. All jauntily topped with a Panama hat. It's both feminine and powerful. I have to be a little careful though as one extra button undone and the whole thing looks unbelievably louche and people are left with the impression that I'm debauched beyond redemption. The impression is reinforced by the hip flask I habitually carry which allows me to wear my Christian Louboutin spikes and not have to cross the lawn.

I'm doing the social rounds when I suddenly became aware that Duncan and Emma are also here. Duncan, as predicted, won his seat as an MEP and I expected them to be entrenched in Paris, so seeing them discombobulates me somewhat. I watch Emma covertly from behind a large planted urn where I can pretend to be interested in the flowers. She's wearing an antique 1920's broom whisk dress in old gold and she looks unhealthily thin. Either she's taking the fashion for heroin chic a bit far or she's genuinely sick. Personally, I hope she's suffering from a broken heart.

Before anyone has the chance to get thoroughly sloshed, the word goes around that we are expected on the main terrace. We all waft fragrantly towards the hall, drinks in hand. I know what's coming next so I position myself where I can see Bernard's face. Take your pleasures where you can is what I say.

Patrick stands on the steps of the Hall flanked by a tall woman with short gray hair, Lord and Lady Marchmaine, The Dude, and Marion Flint. Lin is standing next to me so I mutter,

"Is that Caroline next to Patrick?"

"Of course it is. Don't you recognize her?"

Caroline, Lady Throckmorten, is rarely to be seen because she's busy a lot of the time. I've met her twice in the past fifteen years. She's an astrophysicist, rather a good one apparently; for example, she's on the international board that decides where to point the massive telescopes dotted about the globe, and she advises N.A.S.A., _personally_ , which gives you some idea of her importance. It's been a couple of years since I last met her, so I thought I'd better check before I made a twat of myself. I'm sure she's a lovely woman, but. Not that I'm excusing Patrick's behavior, but I can quite appreciate him failing to resist the Lin-shaped temptation in his path. Her being here underscores the importance of the occasion.

Patrick taps his glass for silence and launches into his speech.

"Ladies and gentlemen, friends and colleagues. I am delighted to announce that a new chapter in J&J's future has been opened. For the first time in its history, The People's Republic of China has awarded an independent trading license to a foreign company to operate in mainland China. That company is J&J. Future blah blah, exciting blah, team etc. etc."

I let the speech drift over me and watch the crowd react to the news. There's lots of surprise, shock, pleasure, anger (Duncan), meaningful looks (Emma); all depending on one's position in J&J, the reactions are pretty much as I'd expected.

"It has taken many years and a great deal of hard work behind the scenes to achieve this, the culmination of which is the opening of a new office in Beijing. I'm sure you will all join me in congratulating Louise Benning for securing the final details and wish her well in her new position as Head of the Beijing office."

<gasps of surprise and the muttering swells to applause>

Patrick turns to me and raises his glass.

Bernard's face is a picture. A still life.

After the announcement, we all dribble away to our respective corners to start the serious drinking of the day. I know I'm going to be approached by any number of people wanting to be noticed, plus Bernard is out there somewhere wanting to eviscerate me, so I've just settled on a lounger in a shady corner of the terrace on the other side of a potted bay tree where I can hide when Lin comes to find me. Lin has cleverly avoided the Lady's Straw Hat Problem by donning a massive bamboo coolie hat and thusly resembles an elf taking shelter under a magic mushroom. The hat is so large it eclipses the sun as I turn to gaze up at her from my semi-recumbent position.

"May I suggest you stay away from the bar for a bit?"

"I've hardly drunk anything," I protest. "Doctor's orders." Then, because I can't help myself, and it's a perfect opportunity, I add "no spleen, remember?"

Lin's smile becomes a bit menacing and she says sweetly, "yes, I do remember. And if I didn't I feel sure you'll keep reminding me for as long as I live, but my point is, have you seen Duncan?"

"No, why?"

"He's at the bar fingering an ice pick."

"Ah. So he's taking it well."

"Quite."

"Well, in that case, you'll have to go to the bar for me, gin-wallah" I said, nestling deeper into my cushions and proffering my glass.

"Gin-wallahs are Indian. I'm in my Chinese Peasant Outfit" she said crisply. "And I'm sure I don't have to add that you should stay away from Emma too."

How did Lin know I was just contemplating the wisdom of seeking her out if she didn't find me first?

"And you can't hide from Bernard forever," she said, reading my mind. Again.

Saphira had got into the lighthearted mood of the occasion by wearing an edgy steampunk getup. She looks like Helena Bonham-Carter on the set of "An Unfortunate Series of Events". A short boxy black denim jacket with epaulets and black braid is worn over black denim matador pants. This turns out to be an unfortunate choice as the British Summer has done a _volte face_ and changed from relentless rain to very hot indeed. The dark granite of the Hall's stonework, garden walls, and crushed gravel, radiates heat like one of Dante's circles.

This year's catwalk fashion dictates that underwear is worn openly, and Saphira has chosen to complete her ensemble with a fishnet camisole. Having realized it is far too daring for this gathering, she is trapped inside her black jacket. Her red hair is pinned in wild Medusa coils on her head and she towers in very high heels and anyone who looks at her breaks into a sweat at the thought of the camisole. I can't go anywhere near her for fear I may start acting unbecomingly.

I must have been looking at Saphira a bit goggle eyed when James comes over.

"Transfixing, isn't she? The living embodiment of the phrase 'A Hot Mess'."

"She is indeed."

We both sigh wistfully and watch as Saphira is joined by first Marion, and then Lin. Each woman is in stark, almost deliberate, contrast to the other two in every single way.

"Two's company, three's a coven," says James turning away. "Never mind, you'll soon have that temptation removed from your path. Congratulations Louise, you deserve this. I promise you'll have all the support you want from this end."

I think about this for a bit. "So you'll be taking over from Bernard?"

"Off the record, yes."

"I'm so pleased, James. Congratulations to you too. I'm almost sorry I won't be here to be under you. So to speak."

"There's always time for that, Louise," he winked.

I am standing chatting with Charles when Bruce, Charles' long-term partner, joins us. Bruce is Australian (I know, right? His parents must have done it ironically. Naming him, I mean) and is heart-stoppingly good looking if you like the dark, brooding, Byronesque type. He is one of Charles' major assets as he is a director at Glyndebourne with access to lots of very rich potential clients for Charles.

"I thought you'd abandoned me," says Charles to Bruce, "where on earth have you been?"

"I was waylaid by a dreadful young man with a pony tail."

"Lawrence," say Charles and I simultaneously.

"And god knows what he was wearing. He was boring on about landscaping. I'm no gardener but has anyone thought of putting salt on him?"

Charles and I collapse into giggles when Bea drifts into our orbit and we instantly sober up. As opposed to Saphira, Bea looks like a refugee from the set of "The Grapes of Wrath". All she needs to complete the picture is a couple of barefoot, hollow-eyed urchins and some potatoes. There is no question in my mind that she is wearing an oversized flour sack. Across her shoulders is a shawl, one of those knitted jobs of extreme knobbliness no doubt made by an admirer in a remedial class, in a festive shade of misery.

I gird my loins for a passive aggressive hippy love and peace spiel, but to everyone's shock, Bea grabs my arm and quietly spits, "how many members of the Board did you have to fuck to get you what you wanted? You don't deserve this promotion and you know it."

My jaw drops but my mean streak kicks in a moment later.

"All of them, Bea. Every. Single. One. Perhaps you should try it? But I dare say you have" I pause and deliberately look her up and down, "and failed."

"Fuck you, Louise."

Charles moves in between us and suggests to Bea that perhaps the punch is a little stronger than she had anticipated and maybe she should go and straighten her veil in the nearest restroom.

"Wow," says Charles as we watch her move away. "I've never seen Bea so unhinged."

"Was she ever hinged? It always comes as a surprise that I'm not universally adored, especially by those that know me well," I say lightly. Truth be told my flabber is completely ghasted but I'm hiding it well. I honestly had no idea Bea resented me that much. Lin's comment about my naivety stirs in my bowels.

"Apart from anything else, it's completely untrue," adds Bruce. "Isn't it?"

I move back along the upper terrace intending to cool off in the house before throwing myself back into the gaiety. Once again I find myself in the lesser drawing room being stared at by the herd of Throckmorten portraits.

I raise my drink in a silent cheer to Josiah, jade ring and all, and am startled into tipping the contents of my glass all over myself as a voice from the depths of the demon sofa cries,

"Louise!"

"Shit! Emma! What are you doing hiding in here?"

When I first met Emma she was wont to wear challengingly short dresses. That changed as Duncan did. When she thought no one could see, a defeated look crept over her porcelain face, foundation not quite concealing the purple shadows under her eyes and she took to wearing long sleeves and long skirts to hide the bruises. Today, the long golden net shawl she has draped over her upper arms tells its own tale in this heat.

"Aren't you hot in this heat? Let me take your shawl," I say cruelly, making no move to do so. "How's Paris?"

Emma is silent for a while and then says,

"Do you know what I hate the most?"

"Let me guess. The essential sameness of the Parisian whores? The difficulty of finding a lover that really understands you? Duncan beating you? No? I give up. Do tell."

She holds out her hand towards me ,

"Help me."

"I can't help you, Emma."

"Why ever not?"

"You need professional help."

Emma looks perplexed for a moment,

"No, you idiot. Help me up. I can't get out of this sodding sofa."

"Oh, good lord, I'm sorry." I immediately rush towards her and take her hand. Enabling her to pull me down into the sofa with her.

"What I hate the most is you not being there."

Inevitably I have to face Bernard.

"No doubt you think I should congratulate you."

"Good manners would dictate it, certainly, but if you don't feel up to it I quite understand."

"You understand, do you, Louise?" He shook his head gently. "You understand nothing. You are an unwitting pawn in a game you can't even begin to understand," he says sadly.

As Bernard has verbalized my subconscious unease, there's not much I can say.

"I have never thought you stupid, Louise, just very naive," he continued, echoing Lin. "You fail to realize you've been handed a poisoned chalice."

I have always found Bernard's withering sarcasm hard to bear. It turns out his compassion is vastly worse.

"Why is it a poisoned chalice, Bernard?" I ask bluntly.

Bernard regards me thoughtfully and appears to be weighing up the choice of crushing me with the truth or flaying me with sarcasm. "There are a considerable number of people interested in seeing J&J fail in China. Let's start with The Party as a matter of principle who have never wanted Capitalism to succeed so blatantly. Then there's Ms. Wang wanting to settle old scores. And lastly, there's her uncle Lo Fang who I am reliably informed is tipped to be the next Premier, who needs..."

"What? Wait! Mr. Fang is Lin's uncle?"

Bernard raises an eloquent eyebrow. "Oh yes. And, incidentally, a direct descendant of the last Emperor."

Well that explains the effect of the dragon pendant. I thought it was aimed at the Chinese Ministers, but obviously not. It also explains how Lin knows such personal details about Mr. Fang. Leaving those thoughts aside for the minute, I circle back to Bernard's previous revelations.

"Who needs what? What does Mr. Fang need?"

"A high profile diplomatic incident over which he can grasp power. A foreign company, the first licensed foreign company in China, trading in forgeries would do nicely."

"We wouldn't be trading in forgeries," I snarl.

"You would if Lin told you they were genuine. I know she advises you, Louise."

As Lin said, how "shockingly naive" I am.

I've got to the point where my feeling that I really haven't a clue about what has been going on has pretty much overwhelmed me. Even Bernard feels sorry for me, which says a great deal indeed. Mindful of my poor damaged liver, I've not been able to drown my qualms in a vat of gin, so I haven't drunk enough to care less, only enough to care. Being set up for failure didn't make me feel too chipper.

Lin finds me gloomily surveying the party. She stands beside me and says conversationally,

"There's just one thing, Louise. We have a saying in China, _Qiang niu de gua bu tian._ "

Given Bernard's revelations, I'm in no mood to indulge Lin. I roll my eyes, "you were born in Basingstoke, Lin, what do they say there?"

"It ain't over 'til the fat lady sings."

I frown into my gin. "As in opera?"

"Exactly."

"It sounds better in Chinese."

Lin looks at me meaningfully. I look owlishly at Lin.

"It's no good looking at me meaningfully Lin, I have no idea what you're not talking about."

"You accepted a commission from a buyer to find a certain scroll. I believe you found it."

I went very still, my inadequate but enjoyable gin buzz vanishing quicker than chocolate body butter on the thighs of a virgin. So they tell me.

"How can you possibly know that?"

"Because I was the commissioning buyer, Louise. I knew you'd found my family scroll and I suspected the Ting scroll too. That was confirmed as soon as Miles notified me the Ting scroll had been acquired and was available once Paul contacted him to tell him so. And your watchers were not the Art Squad, that was my family trying to protect the scroll, and you, I might add. Now, where is the Te Te Ting scroll?"

I reeled back in shock. How "disastrously naive" I am to be sure.

I started to babble a bit "I have no idea. I found it, yes. In Colorado. And Paul stole it, yes." I shrug helplessly, "but, obviously, he was killed before he could make the delivery. I honestly have no idea what he did with it; he never shared his plans with me because he felt safer that way. I don't know what to say, Lin. Apart from O M F G, seriously, you were the buyer?" I stare at Lin in what I hope is a confused, helpless, _naive_ way.

I have never known Lin to resort to profanity, so what she said next startled me even further,

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

I know what you're thinking. In my defense, the realization that I've stolen the scroll from Lin and not from Davis does make me feel a little queasy. Not queasy enough to give it back to her though, and given the way I've been used, I'm not inclined to either.

### Beijing

Vomiting his poison out

On the bread and on the wine.

So I turn'd into a sty

And laid me down among the swine.

**I** t's the day of J&J's first auction in China. It will be held at 6 pm this evening and there are still a lot of details to be checked and rechecked. Patrick and James are due in the building this morning for the final rehearsal and I'm understandably nervous. A great deal rides on this first auction both for J&J and for my career and I'm feeling under pressure to put it mildly. As a result, I have closed the door on the agape of chaos and I'm lying on my office floor trying to meditate. Irritatingly, the sweet cloying smell from a basket of ripe melons keeps wafting over me and distracting me.

My office in Beijing is in some ways very much like my London office. As Head of the China Office I get a huge space with windows that I can open on two sides, but this being Beijing, the high level of pollution means you can't open them because you would asphyxiate, and nor can you see out for the same reason. My view is of smog forever with two hulking shadows of neighboring tower blocks ebbing and flowing in and out of focus. It's like living in a classical Chinese ink and wash painting updated for the industrial era and is only marginally better than London's next door's ductwork. The eternal gray outside is echoed inside, everything is monochrome black, white, and shades of gray.

The one shot of color in my room comes from an ever changing flower or fruit arrangement. Initially I thought Lin was just trying to cheer the place up, but it turns out I was completely off base because she has my fortune read every morning (Lin has gone "full retard" since we've been in China, perfecting her inscrutability so that it's at a point where it's like working with a Madam Tussaud's effigy. Nothing can be moved in the office before her consulting the Feng Shui expert, and she consults a fortune teller at every turn). The soothsayer (not some toothless old crone in shabby weeds clawing coins from gullible fools, but a frighteningly competent twenty year old with gold nails and an iChing app which she then interprets) tells Lin my fortune, and then advises which fruit or flowers would enhance or impede the results. Today, yesterday's azalea has been replaced with a basket of melons.

Lin comes in with her List of Things To Do, which she has been doing every day since we got here. With the sale looming, the size of the list has increased exponentially, and it's worrying that on the actual day of the sale the bloody thing hasn't got any shorter.

"Are you ready for the final rehearsal? We just need to go over some of the finer details again please, Louise. Only when you feel up to getting off the floor, of course."

"What do the melons do, Lin?"

"Ward off evil influences apparently, and we can eat them later."

"Fine. Fabulous. Whatever. I feel sick though, so please can we put them somewhere else?"

"You do look a bit pale. I hope you don't faint with excitement. Do you want me to call Mrs. Ming?"

Dr. Ming, or Ming The Merciless as I prefer to call her, is my acupuncturist. She's a tiny, po faced party sporting an almost narcotic level of arrogance. The first time I met her, she checked my meridians and demanded, "where spleen?". I opened my mouth to explain, but before I could get a word out she carried on, "no spleen very bad. Never mind. I fix." A statement both comforting and worrying in equal measure. She checks up on me every week and not once have I been able to get a word out before she crows, "never mind. I fix," before impaling me with a quiver's worth of needles.

"Good god no. I'll get up and put my head between my knees."

"If I could put my head between my knees, I'd never leave the house!" booms James, striding into my office. "Looking a bit peaky there, Louise. Come on now, this is a fabulously exciting day! What's the worst that can happen? Apart from some eeejit dropping the flasks, I suppose." He holds out his hand and pulls me up off the floor.

"I hadn't even considered that someone might drop something. Please go away, James, you're making things worse. And anyway, you're here very early. Is Lord Throckmorten with you?"

"Nope. He's downstairs in the auction room shouting at people. He's demanding you be down there, so I left him to it and came up to get you."

"Righty ho. I suppose I better go then. Would you mind bringing the melons down with you?"

"What for?"

"To ward off evil spirits according to my astrologer."

"I expect Patrick believes in god of the C of E kind. I don't think melons will work on him. Unless you throw them at him, I suppose. I say, are you going to be sick? You look awful."

I can't tell James it isn't excitement making me ill, but terror at the thought of what I'm going to do tonight. I've been planning a little surprise for the auction, which involves technology and hiding things from Lin, neither of which are my forte, and the prospect of failure is almost suffocatingly overwhelming. Taking Bernard's warning to heart, I am going to ensure that J&J succeeds in China in a very public way.

Down in the auction room, Patrick is indeed shouting at people. What's more he's swearing at them in Cantonese and gesticulating with a sheaf of papers. Patrick's upperclass tones are clipped and strangulated in his natural habitat, so I can only assume that he's reveling in the full-throated theatre of what must pass for a motivational speech. I've never seen this animated side of Patrick, who has hitherto fore always appeared icy and clam. I can almost see what Lin sees in him, and it must have been her who taught him to swear quite so impressively. And extensively: I count at least five _diu_ in his summing up before his minions scatter to recoup their hearing.

"I do hope you haven't been frightening the staff, Lord Throckmorten," I say mildly.

"Does them good to have a rocket up their bums" he says, "and anyway, I enjoy it. Where the hell have you been?" and glancing at James, who, as instructed, is holding the basket of melons, adds "and what on earth are you doing with those bloody melons?"

"Ask Louise. I'm just the bearer."

Patrick turns to me with raised brows.

"Ask Lin" I say, "I'm just following instructions."

Before Patrick can get seriously annoyed, Lin appears and starts giving us the details on our duties and the running order of the auction. Patrick is on speeches and flesh-pressing duty. James is an old hand at auctioneering and so merely needs pointing in the right direction as to where to stand and what buttons to push on the lighting console and so forth. My purpose as the second auctioneer is for when James needs a break to recover his voice or go to the bathroom, and to give the punters (Customers! screams Lin) a change of scenery.

We break for lunch and sit in one of the conference rooms eating dim sum and noodles. I'm not eating because I still feel queasy. James, however, insists because, "you'll burn it all off in adrenaline, Louise. Seriously you must eat or you will pass out at the podium and then we will have to kill you for interrupting the auction."

James eats a lot, and he and Patrick manage to finish a bottle of claret between them. I am in awe of their prowess. After lunch we get down to the nitty gritty of studying the invitation list and deciding who gets to sit where, who they will have as neighbors (always best not to have rivals sitting beside each other), and who gets to schmooze them.

"So what's the proportion of individuals to teams?" asks Patrick.

"Roughly half and half," replies James, studying the invitation list.

That's very good. It means that half the buyers are individuals and half the buyers are bidding on behalf of clients. The representatives from all the major auction houses are the 'teams'.

"Who are Sotheby's sending?" I ask. I'd enjoyed the Sotheby's auction team's company in Hong Kong and was looking forward to reciprocating their hospitality in Beijing.

James peruses the list and says, "well christ knows who's manning their Hong Kong office this weekend. Judging by this, they've sent their whole auction team and a few others besides."

"Let me see."

James passes me the list.

One name jumps out at me. Fan. Ooops. That might prove a little awkward. Oh well, cross that bridge when I come to it. To hide my discomfort I say, "Wow, Sonia Chang is coming."

"Not surprising as she's Head of Asian Development," says James, "although if you ask me, women her age should do the decent thing and fade away and only reappear to curse babies at christenings or haunt wells."

"Turn you down, did she?" asks Patrick.

I roll my eyes. "You are such a dinosaur, James. And on that note, I'm going to take my leave as I need to double check the porters have every piece in the correct order. I'll see you all back here tonight."

I slip away to one of the back storerooms and start examining the various bits and pieces on the shelves pretending to take notes. Behind me, someone comes into the room and quietly shuts the door.

Even dressed in baggy overalls, Mai-ling is startlingly beautiful. She has enormous eyes, crazily long lashes, and a wide, generous smile. Who could resist? Certainly not me, especially as she is one of the senior handlers and I need her in more ways than one. Yes, that one too.

"How are your fingers? You have the grave responsibility of not dropping one of those flasks, so it's my grave responsibility to check that they are in working order." I take her hand and kiss each of her fingers in turn.

"Why don't we see if they are up to the most sensitive of tasks," she murmurs, sliding her hand between my legs.

"Ohhhh. Yes. Please."

My fingers work pretty well too it would seem, and after a mutually pleasurable interlude, I reluctantly take my leave.

"Everything okay for this evening? You're are absolutely clear about what to do?"

"Crystal."

"You are adorable," I say and kiss her nose. "I'll see you later tonight."

I head up to my office to get my stuff and poke my head into Lin's office on the way.

"Lin? I'm going home to have a nap before getting ready."

"Make sure you are back by 5 pm at the latest. By the way, what are you wearing tonight?"

"Um, I'm wearing my jade green job. Why? Is it important? What are you wearing?" I pause and then say with just the teensiest bit of sarcasm, "oh wait. Yes, of course it's important. What am I supposed to wear? What message do you want me to send this time?"

"Actually, I was wondering because I bought you a gift. It's a pair of gold earrings, I just didn't want then to clash with what you were wearing."

Oh balls. My embarrassment knows no bounds. I take the exquisitely gift wrapped box and open it. An antique gold and enamel phoenix faces a matching dragon. The two most powerful and auspicious creatures in the Chinese cannon; a perfect gift.

"I'm such a pig, Lin. Please forgive me."

"Only if you promise never to mention your spleen again."

"I promise I'll try."

The Beijing auction room is packed for J&J's first sale in China. Bidding is brisk and there's an interesting selection of very nice pieces (something for everyone!), mainly porcelain, but there are a few paintings, calligraphy, coins, and sculptures too. The highlight of the sale has been advertised as the pair of moon flasks from Davis Smith's collection (Bernard had to wrest them back from a reluctant Christie's after consigning them; apparently he had to make a _scene_ ) and they have attracted a couple of National Museum directors.

As James was elected the senior auctioneer for this one, he's been personally pumping up interest in the auction everywhere he goes (I think I saw the phrase 'media whore' crossing Charles' lips during one of inter-departmental Skype meetings). He and the pressroom at J&J have clearly done a good job because there are five hundred people seated in the sale room with more lining the walls, and another eighty telephone bidders are on the lines representing 33 different countries.

There's a short break scheduled just before the flasks are to be auctioned. This is so that theoretically, bidders can have one last look to make sure they know what they are buying and haven't been misled by the catalogue (as if we would!). In fact, it's really a chance for everyone to have a pee break to prevent the excitement from causing embarrassment. As the hammer goes down on the prior lot, I move to the podium and mutter in James' ear while pressing a piece of paper into his hand. He looks a bit startled and moves off stage allowing me to take his place. I'm sweating slightly as I'm about to gamble everything on the provenance of a single item.

"Ladies and Gentlemen. There has been a last minute addition to the auction catalogue. Before we move on to the spectacular offering of a matching pair of Ming moon flasks, please take a moment to evaluate this latest lot, which will be auctioned just prior to the flasks."

Everyone is looking startled and a swell of consternation arises as this is not how auctions are run. Out of the corner of my eye I see Lin heading towards me at swift canter, suppressed panic writ large across her face. I hold my breath and push a button in front of me and suddenly the lights dramatically dim. One by one the huge screens suspended around the auction room spring into life. Each one depicts a detail from a painting. If I tell you that the screens are 8' x 12', you can fully understand that the view of an 8' tall phallus in all its glory causes a collective gasp and _frisson_ of delighted shock. There's nothing like a giant penis to get everyone in the party spirit, eh?

I push another button and, just as Lin reaches me, a spotlight trains on the wall behind me and to my right where the Te Te Ting scroll hangs. Thank god for Mai-ling. Lin's hissed question is lost under the sound of a million gold pennies dropping as I hear everyone say 'Ting' soberingly loudly; the temple chimes of Mammon. The lights come back up, and looking out over the sea of excited faces I glimpse Lo Fang in the second row. It's quite an unpleasant surprise as I didn't expect to see him here. In fact, I had rather counted on him not being here. Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound; I look directly at him and he holds my gaze as I continue deliberately,

"J&J are indebted to Mr. Lo Fang for consigning this quite remarkable piece of Imperial history to this auction."

The audience breaks into spontaneous applause and Mr. Fang stands up. He bows to the crowd, turns to the podium and bows to me and then nods, once, at Lin. James strides back on stage and, catching the cresting excitement of the crowd, he snatches the microphone from me. He's read and absorbed the details of the scroll that I'd written and pressed into his hand, and moves swiftly into an assured patter.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, what am I bid for this superb Imperial scroll, number seven of a series commissioned by the Emperor from Master Qi, and bearing three Imperial seals? Do I hear one million? Thank you." The phone banks light up like the skies over Beijing on New Year's Eve and pandemonium ensues.

Much as I'd like to avoid what is bound to be an uncomfortably tense confrontation with Lin, I take the bull by the horns, and seek her out once the auction is over and the aprés sale party is underway.

" _Ni Hao,_ Lin."

"You had the scroll all the time." Lin's basilisk stare doesn't faze me; my strength is as the strength of ten for I have Right on my side.

"Yes. Bernard told me that you and your Uncle Fang planned to sabotage J&J's success here in China so that he could seize political power. I decided that I would take steps to stop that happening." I am calm and composed. I am the ice queen. I've been planning this for a long time, and I'm rather pleased with myself.

There is a long silence broken by Lin exploding,

"What? _Bernard!?_ What _exactly_ did Bernard tell you?"

Crumbling a little around the edges in the face of Lin's anger, I repeated everything Bernard had said to me, adding "and I'd done a lot of provenance research on the Ting scroll and once I knew Mr. Fang was your uncle, I figured it had to belong to him. I knew that Mr. Fang's _de facto_ endorsement of J&J's auction would ensure our success in China. I have to say I was quite chuffed he took it so well. And the bow to the crowd, that was nice" I reflected.

Lin stares at me in speechless wonder.

"Your naivety is just.... I'm speechless. _Bernard_ wanted you to fail, Louise, not anyone else. Lo Fang needs J&J to succeed so he can take credit for opening China to Capitalism, _that's_ how he's going to leverage being the next Premier. I told you all this before you went to China! Didn't you listen?"

"Yes. Of course I did. Well, sort of. I mean you weren't precisely crystal clear. But Bernard also said you had old scores to settle," I added unhappily.

"And you believed Bernard? That _Bernard_ had your best interests at heart?" Lin says in wild disbelief. "My restoration of the Ting scroll to Lo Fang was so I could guarantee his future influence for J&J. I have absolutely no desire to see J&J fail. Apart from anything else, for example, my large amount of company stock, I've been with Patrick forever. He's... I would never do anything to hurt him."

She stops to take a deep breath and shakes her head. "Bernard should have been the obvious choice for head of the prestigious Beijing office, Louise. Not only did it get offered to you, whom he dislikes intensely, but it automatically assures you of the next open place on the Board, something Bernard has coveted for a long time. You pissed on his chips and he was punishing you, that's all. Thank god your gamble paid off and you didn't do any irreparable harm.

"But. Don't go off piste again, Louise. Not without asking me first anyway."

I'm a bit stumped for something to say in mitigation so I cast about my extensive vocabulary and come up with,

"Spleen!"

Davis' moon flasks sold for a record-breaking $34.7 million USD to the British Museum. The Porn Painting (as it has been dubbed by the media) sold for a quite staggering $17.3 million USD to an anonymous Chinese private collector. The whole sale amassed some $350 million and everyone at J&J is quietly triumphant. To begin with, anyway. As the evening wears on, they get louder. My phone pings almost constantly with messages of congratulations. Among them is a message from an unknown number.

Congratulations on a successful sale. Do stay in touch. JB

Jeremy Barton. I'd rather hoped he'd forgotten me. No doubt he expects me to reveal some brilliant insights into China and the secrets of International Art Dealing that I'm clearly not privy to. He'd be better off recruiting Lin for that sort of thing as I'm going to turn out to be a huge disappointment to him judging by my performance in intrigue so far.

Jeremy's message is followed by a reassuringly self-absorbed one from my mother,

Why aren't you answering your phone I've been trying to call you

And I take a unilateral decision to delete it. Almost immediately after her message comes one of a picture of a bridge in Paris festooned with padlocks and underneath it says,

Congratulations! Locks of Love. E

I'd rather hoped Emma had forgotten me too. Despite, or maybe because of, our brief interlude at the party I had decided that I was done with Emma. She wasn't going to leave Duncan and I needed to move on. Specifically with Mai-ling. I text her back,

We have a saying in China. Hua you chong kai ri, ren wu zai shao nian

Roughly translated, it means: Life's too short to dance with fat chicks. Emma's not fat. But you get the point.

Circulating through the party talking to people and congratulating buyers, I've studiously managed to avoid Lo Fang (for obvious reasons), but inevitably he stands in front of me preventing my access to the bar. Weirdly, he's smiling.

"Louise."

"Mr. Fang."

"I've always admired you, Louise, as I think you know, but even more so now. I have no idea why you and Linda chose this course of action, but it was inspired. I have my scroll and have purchased an inestimable amount of face for a trifling sum. As an added bonus, I was thrilled to hear you say that J&J are indebted to me, because I do have a little favor to ask."

I certainly didn't expect Mr. Fang to be impressed with me, or to be the anonymous buyer of his own scroll, or to have to make good on my indebtedness quite this quickly, so I'm just on the way to having a gaping open mouth when he continues:

"You are aware of the delicate political situation between China and Taiwan?"

This seeming non-sequitur seals the deal on my gaping maw. Depending on who you talk to, Taiwan is either a strong, individual nation on the verge of declaring independence or a wayward child who given enough time and rope will see the error of its ways and return to the parental fold. I visit Taiwan quite often because during the Chinese Civil War, Chiang Kai Shek sent crates and crates of the finest artworks from the Imperial palace to Taiwan for safe keeping where they can be viewed in the National Museum (much to mainland China's irritation). I'm on the side of Nationhood, and Lo Fang is clearly on the parental side.

I pull myself together and say, "yes, of course."

"Excellent. I would like J&J to both facilitate and insure the loan of the Taipei National Museum's collection of _Ru_ ware to the Palace Museum in Beijing for a joint exhibition."

My jaw drops open again. Holy moly. Taipei has fifteen pieces of _Ru_ ware and Beijing, eleven. There has never been a joint exhibition between the two museums because China would like its art treasures returned to the mainland and Taiwan has no intention of letting there be any chance of that happening. Much as in the same way that having given your teenage son a car, you can't ask for the keys back because you think he's a bad driver without provoking a massive family row, you don't; because there's always the chance that a) he'll say no, and b) he'll never talk to you again.

If successful, this would be a triumph of unimaginable proportions for both Lo Fang and J&J, promoting him into the political stratosphere, and giving us enormous commercial influence. If something were to go wrong though, if there was a theft, or a breakage, or worse, if China refused to return the collection, it could trigger the sort of Diplomatic Incident that leads to World War Three.

I go cold and my jaw snaps shut as a crystalline memory of a small North Korean room comes back to me. I have a bad feeling about this. I manage to smile and force an answer of sorts,

"Yes. No. Absolutely."

There is a saying in China: _Zhòng guā dé guā zhòng dòu dé dòu._ Plant melons and you will harvest melons; plant beans and you will harvest beans.

In other words, you reap what you sow. I hear the distant sounds of a fat lady singing.

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Thank you for reading my book. If you enjoyed it, please leave a review.

About the author: FCJ Lloyd lives on ranch in Colorado, far away from the madding crowds. She is loved by all those who know her only slightly.
