Eventually, I abandon the piano and pace around the room. The summit is tomorrow, and I really need to practise my speech. The problem is that my speech is boring as fuck, which means practising it is also boring as fuck. At this time of day, my study buddies have worn off, meaning I’m in total ADHD paralysis. My therapist has explained that this happens when my sympathetic and dorsal nervous system states collide and oppose each other at full force. Whatever. All I know is that I’m full of pent-up energy and frustration and unable to channel it into something meaningful and productive.

Like practising my fucking speech.

I should probably record myself delivering it on my iPad. At least if I play it back it’ll put me straight the fuck to sleep.

With a frustrated sigh, I pick up my phone and see a message from Plain Elaine. She’s sent me a link to a research report one of the big investment banks has put out today ahead of the summit. Her message says that their estimates for our industry’s projected carbon emission reductions over the next decade are way more pessimistic than mine and suggests that I arm myself with more hard data to back up my numbers in case anyone challenges it during the Q&A.

Well, that’s very fucking helpful, thanks Elaine. Marlowe put those stats together for me. She worked with the strategy team to pare them down to the ones that would paint the clearest picture.

Jesus Christ. I have no interest in dealing with this, or any last-minute curveballs for that matter. I’m tired and cranky and nervous and sexually frustrated. My Beth Dutton tit wank fantasy didn’t cut it in the shower this morning, and I was forced—forced—to succumb to the memory of spreading Marlowe out on my desk and eating her sometime last week in order to get myself over the edge.

It was humiliating, and it wasn’t enough.

I glance at my watch. 7pm. Marlowe should be done with jury duty for the day, shouldn’t she? Courtrooms usually finish up pretty early. I’ll just call her quickly. I’ll keep it polite and professional and brief. I’ll explain the situation and ask her to send over more of the context for the stats she gave me. Then we can bid each other farewell like adults.

Yeah. I’ll do that. No big deal. I’m a billionaire wheeler-dealer in a bespoke suit. I pull off eight- and nine-figure deals without breaking a sweat. I can sure as hell speak to my assistant without pissing my pants.

I bring up her number and hit the speaker button. There’s a pause before it starts ringing. Weird. That doesn’t sound like a UK dialling tone. I’m frowning at my screen in confusion when the call connects.

Here goes.