slept like a baby that night and bounced into the office feeling refreshed and full of energy. I shouldn't have. I should have felt guilty and depressed and worried - after all I'd just spent an afternoon fucking the teenage daughter of my most important client. But somehow I couldn't give a fig.
"My, you're full of beans this morning," Mary remarked.
"I feel great. I wonder if I've been fighting some sort of virus and I've now shaken it off."
Mary gave me a strange look. "Could be. There's a lot of it about. How did your meeting go, yesterday."
"Meeting?"
"With Mr Gilbert."
Ohmigod, I was supposed to have been at a meeting with George, not screwing his daughter. "Very well. He hasn't exactly said so, but he's hinted very heavily that he'll be putting more business our way. I wish he wouldn't keep demanding meetings, though." I laid it on a bit thick. "We didn't discuss anything that couldn't have waited. How's the sale going?"
"Sammy wants to see you about that."
The sale was proceeding nicely. Three potential buyers were interested and Sammy wanted to play one off against the other to see if we couldn't get an even better price.
"Sammy, you're the salesman so I'll leave it to you. Just remember three things. One, don't get greedy - Quentin was the success he was because he knew exactly when to stop - when to leave the buyer feeling he'd got a bit of a bargain. Two, Mr Gilbert is satisfied with the price. I'll talk to him but I think he'll be satisfied if we make the original price. Three, remember your words to me on the first day?"
He looked at me and grinned. "Don't blow it," we chorused together.
He stopped as he was about to leave. "Can I say something, Don?"
The look on his face said it was serious. "Say away."
"When Quentin, er, passed away, we were all a bit worried about what would happen. Don't get me wrong," he hurried on, "we all knew you were the financial brains but this business is about selling and Quentin was the salesman. Well, to be frank, we wondered if you'd cope. We thought perhaps you'd just throw in the towel, so to speak. Sell the business."
He paused for breath and I nodded for him to continue, wondering where he was leading. Was he about to threaten to resign?
"But you've stuck with it. It must be tough, I know. I just wanted to say that me and all the others appreciate that. And appreciate that you're giving us the chance to step up and show what we can do. We won't let you down. Sinclair & Evers is going to be the best damned estate agents in the country." He stopped and looked sheepish. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."
Revelation struck like… like all the usual clichés. I had been so obsessed with Julia that I'd completely forgotten the dilemma I'd been in for the past weeks. I also realised that the decision had been made without any conscious intervention on my part. 'Sinclair and Evers, Estate Agents' was back in business!
I don't know what the expression on my face was like but I suddenly realised that Sammy was looking very nervous and concerned. I grinned at him.
"Sammy, I'm very glad you did," I said with conviction. "I confess I did wonder whether we'd survive with Quentin gone. Now I know we will. In fact we'll more than just survive, we'll thrive. And I do mean 'we'. Without your support, all of you, we wouldn't have made it this far and with your continued support - who knows? Thank you. Now, haven't you got some houses to sell?"
He grinned and ducked out of the doorway and I heard him say to the office at large, "The boss is back."
I leaned back in my seat suddenly relaxed and at peace. Sammy's outburst was surprising but pleasing. It was good to know that I was doing something right and that my inner turmoil had not been spilling over into the business. Perhaps I was worrying unnecessarily. Perhaps I wasn't the pervert I believed I was. Julia didn't think so. She didn't question the fact that I was almost twice her age. She seemed to find it quite natural. I, obviously, wasn't her first lover and, I thought ruefully, I probably wouldn't be her last. Perhaps I should just relax, take things as they came and stop worrying about whether it was right or wrong. So I get turned on by young girls? So what - so long as they know what they're doing and they're not being coerced.
I wondered if I should try and contact Julia. No. Too complicated and, anyway, I could only get her through George and that would complicate matters no end. Better let her contact me. The association of George and complications set off another train of thought. What had Julia been on about when she said that things were now complicated and I'd have to let George explain. Come to think of it she'd admitted that George knew she was at the house. My God, George knew! That must mean he knew she was going to seduce me. Did he ask her to? Was that want she meant by 'complications'?
But why would George send his teenage daughter to seduce me? He knew I fancied her for he'd commented on it that first time. And he'd made a point of pointing out her age. Why? Was she some kind of reward? Some kind of trap? My thoughts were going nowhere and I was starting to feel paranoid again. The good mood of earlier had been driven away. I gave a deep sigh and turned to the pile of paper in my in-tray.
Julia, however, did not call or write or e-mail. That day, or the next or the day after that. I began to worry again. Perhaps it had all been an act all along. Perhaps she had just been playing with me. Perhaps she really couldn't stand me and George had made her seduce me. I dismissed these thoughts as silly. That had been no performance. We had fitted. We felt right together. Patience, Don, patience I scolded myself.
Then the invitation arrived. It was very formal. A piece of stiff expensive-looking card. In cursive script it invited Mr. Donald Evers to a private function at the residence of Mr Philip Chatford-Green (never heard of him - oh, wait a minute, George had mentioned him as a close friend and associate) in the evening three days hence. There was a page of instructions and a map. The instructions were very explicit. I was to tell no-one of the invitation. I was to dress formally. I was to bring the invitation with me but destroy the instructions and the map once I had memorised them.
I read them with mounting astonishment. A private function - a secret one at that. My initial reaction was to throw it away. It must be some kind of hoax. Some prankster was playing a practical joke on me. A private function? It sounded like a meeting of the Freemasons. Was that it? Was I going to be invited to join some secret society? Did I want to get involved with all that kind of malarkey? I'd never been the joining type. I joined the Boy Scouts in my early teens and hated it. I think I lasted two months. Still, if it wasn't a trick, it could be an entry to more and better business.
I decided to reserve judgement. I did some trawling on the internet and made some discreet enquiries. I discovered Mr Chatford-Green was certainly well connected and had a reputation as a regular and congenial host. Like George Gilbert he seemed to have a great many very long fingers in a large number of pies. One of my contacts hinted, without any prompting, that his success came from the contacts he had made through some sort of club he was a member of, the Carlton or something like that. Intriguing. I swithered all day then suddenly said to myself, 'To hell with it,' and went to hire a dinner suit.