Rufus picked up the ball, squeezed it hard, then returned it to the tee where this time it remained.

“Fine. Yes. Fine. I didn’t realise we were taking it quite so seriously, but fine. Whatever makes you happy,” Rufus said, punctuating the sentence with an impressive array of passive-aggressive hand movements and facial expressions. “I mean, if it means that much to you…”

“Just playing to the rules,” the other man said, and even without looking, Rufus could picture his self-satisfied smirk. “You seemed to think it was so important on the ninth, when I—”

“I said I’ll take the penalty,” Rufus said.

The bastard was trying to get under his skin. That was it. Throw him off his game.

As if Rufus didn’t already have enough to worry about.

His watch gave a buzz, warning him of an incoming call. He glanced at the display, muttered below his breath, then unzipped the side pocket of his golf bag and retrieved his phone. “Sorry, I have to take this. Business-related.”

“Fire on, Boyley-ma-boy. No rest for the wicked.”

“Quite, yes,” Rufus said, stepping away with his finger hovering above the button that would answer the gently vibrating mobile.

In truth, he was quite grateful for the call. Ever since he’d mentioned to John, or Bob—Chris? Could it be Chris?—that his working day ended around ten in the morning, he’d been subjected to quite a lot of ribbing from the others at the club.

This largely took the form of him being called a lazy, workshy bastard, so there was a certain sense of satisfaction now that his leisure time was being interrupted due to a business matter at—he checked his watch again—nearly half past eleven.

Hopefully, once the other fellows at the club realised he was always on-call for business-related emergencies, they’d appreciate just how hard he truly worked.

He answered the phone and spoke in a slow, clear voice to the woman on the other end. “Good morning, Magda. I’m in the middle of something. Is there a problem?” he asked, not wasting any time. His cleaner wasn’t ringing him up for a friendly chat, after all. She knew better than to do that these days.

“Mr Boyle. It is are you good morning, yes?” Magdalena replied in what could generously be described as ‘broken’ English, and more accurately as ‘barely.’

“It was, Magda. What is problem? Why you calling?” he asked, simplifying the sentence structure and raising the volume of his voice, which was as close as he ever got to speaking any language that wasn’t the Queen’s English. “What you need?”

“Who the fuck are you talking to? Tarzan?” asked his golfing nemesis. Rufus already had his back to the man, but rolled his shoulders forward to further shield the conversation from his prying ears. Ears which, Rufus imagined, had not been cleaned behind in years.