Philip Tooting sat back in his leather recliner and smiled. He placed the tips of his fingers together and rocked back and forth. He had never been a looker, but money and status had left the indelible mark of success, and it proved irresistible to gold-diggers like Miranda.

‘I’ve told you before, everything is accounted for; you just need to hold your nerve. If you haven’t got the balls, then maybe I’ll have to take someone else to the Ritz next time.’

‘Are you threatening me?’

Philip laughed. ‘Good God, no. That’s not how I operate.’

‘Has this got anything to do with those poor fuckers in the neurocellular section? Because if it does, I’ll make your life hell. I’ve got receipts, I’ve got photos, I’ve got—’

Philip sat up, the smirk wiped off his face.

‘Are you threatening me?’ he asked. He stood up and walked to his desk, perching on the edge. He was a tall man and towered over Miranda. He looked her up and down with a snarl. He’d bedded a hundred women like Miranda Cooper, and he had just signed off her cash cow. Suddenly he didn’t find her attractive any more, and the implants he’d paid for looked sluttish. He studied her face and realised that she was ageing badly. He’d only fancied her because of the thrill of bending her over the desk, watched by screaming primates: it was high risk, and that was the turn-on. The woman who cowered before him now had outgrown her worth.

He used to quite like her temper and her demands for more funding for the primate section, as long as his accounts department could make it work. Now he saw the panic in her eyes as she realised she would have been better off not mentioning blackmail. He could tell that she was trying to find a way to retract what she’d said, at the same time as knowing it was too late.

‘I’ve got meetings, Professor Cooper; put your complaint in an email and send it to my secretary.’

‘But—’

‘That’s all, Professor.’

Her shoulders sagged and she turned and walked to the door, holding her coat around her chest.