Tate smiled, and his smile was still so full of good faith. I wanted to warn him. If there were spirits in the house, I wanted them to warn him.

‘It’s for my business,’ he said. ‘I’m a —’

But Bruce didn’t care what he was. ‘Business?’ he laughed. ‘You?’

Tate folded his arms, then unfolded them.

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘I studied enterpen… enrrepren… entrepreneurship,’ he finally managed to say, his professional self trying to steer over his drunkenness. ‘My idea is solid. I’ve researched the market.’ And then, because he couldn’t help himself, ‘I got the highest score in my marketing class.’

‘Good for you,’ said Bruce.

Tate smiled again. ‘I’d actually love to get your advice. Someday,’ he said.

Bruce seemed so much more sober than Tate. He seemed so balanced, and to be surrounded by a magnetic field to which we were all drawn, little iron filings, all equally insignificant.

‘You want my advice?’ said Bruce.

He went to the kitchen bench. He picked up an after-dinner mint – I’d set them out on one of the rosebud plates, ready to take to the dining room – and peeled away a ribbon of gold foil to free the half-melted pastille inside.

‘In all seriousness,’ he said, ‘I’d advise you to quit while you’re ahead.’

Tate’s smile was still there. He blinked. He didn’t seem capable of processing what Bruce had just said.

‘What?’

‘Give up,’ said Bruce.

I really wished Tate would stop smiling.

‘What do you mean?’ he said.

Bruce chewed the pastille and swallowed. He was in no hurry to reply. When he did, his voice was reasonable, even kindly.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘You’ve done well for yourself. Decent job. Pretty wife. A nice house.’

He crumpled up the foil.

‘What I’m trying to say is that business isn’t for everyone. It’s like singing, or football. You’ve either got it or you don’t.’

‘Coffee?’ I said. I said it too quickly, too sharply, like I was trying to parry Bruce’s blow – which I was – and like I knew it was already too late. Which I did.

To my amazement they stayed for coffee. And then sherry. At some point – my sense of time was getting hazy – we moved to the sitting room. Merry brought the Virgin Mary in and drank from it. I remember picking it up and being surprised to find it was empty. I remember Merry reaching out and stroking her nails through the length of my hair.

‘Shiny,’ she said.

All I really remember of Bruce and Tate’s conversation is its ending. This came when Tate, slurry and boyish and shimmering with temporary confidence, looked at Bruce and said, ‘How about an arm wrestle?’

Bruce chuckled, put his fists to his chest. ‘Challenging the silverback, eh?’

‘Why not?’ said Tate. ‘What do you have to lose?’