“… Because if it was a threat,” she went on in that calm, flat voice, “I’d better call Gini and delay my appointment with her. I should be meeting her in about an hour, and, of course, I’ll be late.”

“Late? Late? What are you talking about?”

“Gini will have to wait. If it’s of any interest to you, which it probably isn’t, so will my mother, and my son, and the shopping and the plumber—”

“Plumber? What plumber?”

“So will the garage and the damn shop where they might, just might, have one last pair of the size twelve football cleats my son Tom says he desperately has to have. So will all the many tedious, trivial matters I have to deal with in addition to my work, which—in case you’re wondering—is finalized for this week. They’ll all have to wait, Rowland, because I’ll still be upstairs, in this building. I’ll be talking to Max. I won’t work like this.”

Lindsay, pleased with the controlled sarcasm and dignity of this speech, moved to the door. She felt she was timing the exit well; McGuire coughed.

“Soccer or rugby?” he said.

Lindsay stopped. She turned and gave him her most withering look.

“The football cleats,” he repeated. “Soccer or rugby?”

“Soccer. And don’t try to ingratiate yourself with me. It’s too late.”

“Size twelve? He must be tall.”

“He’s six feet two. He’s seventeen. Does that help your calculations?”

“I wasn’t calculating, but I am surprised. I thought you were around thirty. Thirty-one, maybe.”

“Too late for flattery,” Lindsay, who was secretly gratified, said. “Too late to extricate yourself. I—”

“It wasn’t a threat,” McGuire interrupted, now speaking rapidly and rising to his feet. “I’ve approached this wrongly. I didn’t ask you up here to threaten you, or criticize you. I don’t like fashion. I don’t pretend to understand fashion…” He suddenly gave her a broad smile of great brilliance, and took her arm. “I don’t like Aston-Martins much either. Or two-hundred-pound lunches. I’m compromised. I admit that.”

Lindsay stood still. She looked down at McGuire’s hand, which was large, tanned, and beautifully shaped. She wondered distantly if she was experiencing arrhythmia, if the peculiar flutterings beneath her Cazarès carapace were the result of overwork, anxiety, poor diet, and stress. She was later to wonder if it was at this point in her relationship with McGuire that she made her first, and crucial, mistake. She could, after all, have detached his hand and continued her brave exit, but she did not Instead, she met that amused glance, and she started to relent.

“Why did you ask me up here, then?” she asked, and allowed McGuire to lead her back to his desk.

He picked up the green file again, undid its ties, and handed it to her.

“Because I need your help,” he said, “with this.”

The directness and simplicity of the appeal surprised Lindsay. She searched his face for further signs of duplicity and guile, but failed to see them. It occurred to her that McGuire, when not in the ascendant, might conceivably be a man she could like.