Bloke. It was one of her English words that once upon a time he found attractive but now just thought were low rent. Lance could hardly be expected to know the distinctions of the English class system, but even he was aware that the Norton family were not ‘posh’ in the accepted English sense of the word. Charles Norton might have died a knight of the realm, but he was a man who had come from nothing, and in England it barely mattered how much you had in your account or even what letters you could put before and after your given moniker. What mattered was your heritage. Your lineage. Your family name,

She was right, though. It was indeed a job for a bloke. It was a job for Lance, and he had taken to it like a duck to water.

Montana sat on the sofa, staring at the black mirror of the flat screen TV in front of her as she engaged in one of her favourite activities, which was admiring her own reflection. On this occasion, however, she took little pleasure in it. All she could think about was the challenge ahead.

The thing was that it had always seemed to her something of a foregone conclusion that she would inherit Daddy’s business, and had he outlived Mummy, then that is surely what would have happened.

Charles and Juliet had tried for more children after Montana; indeed, Juliet had lost two, one of them almost at term, at which point she had told Charles that one would have to be enough. So Charles, who had always dreamed of a large family, had poured all his affection into Montana, while she in turn had revelled in her status as the ultimate daddy’s girl. Meanwhile, Montana’s relationship with her mother had been altogether more complex. Which is to say, a bit shit. No wonder her father had found himself unable to choose between them.

And now, because of his indecision and torn loyalties, or maybe just because he was delighting in being a pain in the ass from beyond the grave, they were stuck with this stupid game.

Lance returned with drinks. He passed one to Montana and then flopped down into a beanbag that he used for gaming, only instead of facing the TV as usual, he turned to her. ‘Your visitor is here,’ he said, but only after a good long gulp of his Cosmopolitan.

‘What? You didn’t say.’

‘Well, now I have.’

‘Where is he? Bring him in.’

‘Come,’ called Lance over his shoulder, and then to Montana, ‘his name is Sergei.’