He then sat back, grinning slyly as though he’d just revealed a hitherto unknown secret of the universe.

‘Nomato? I’ve never heard of that.’

His grin grew. ‘That’s because I’m ahead of the game.’

‘So… what is it?’

‘A substitute for tomato sauce, innit? Only without any tomato.’

‘Of course!’

‘Cheaper, tastier, one hundred per cent laboratory manufactured, so no need to rely on natural ingredients once the environment’s gone whack. No stress about tomatoes going rotten, stuff like that. Don’t need to keep it in the fridge or nothin’. And it lasts for years.’

‘Wow. Did you invent this yourself?’

‘Nah. A gaming mate told me about it. He’s sold bucketloads where he’s from, in Russia. People can’t get enough of it. Raking it in.’

‘And it tastes better than actual tomato sauce?’

He pulled out a tiny jar, like the type a hotel might use for individual jam pots, and reverently placed it on the table. ‘Tasting is believing.’

‘Um. Thank you. But we aren’t allowed to consume our own food or drink in the library.’

I could see Irene’s nostrils twitching from here.

‘Take it home, try it later. You can use it on anything – pizza, pasta, stick it in a curry. Use it as a dip, or in burgers or wraps – literally anything tastes better with a dollop of Nomato.’

I took the sample. ‘There’s no list of ingredients or nutritional information.’

‘Nah, that’s just a prototype, innit. Most of the ingredients people here wouldn’t understand anyway.’

‘I think you still need to list them, by law. There’s quite a lot of regulations involved with importing and selling food.’

Jaxx winked. ‘That’s where you come in, so I can figure all that out before I invest any more capital. Get my website set up. And I need to read the fine print when I’m making serious deals. I don’t want no one taking advantage because I was too busy developin’ my social game in school to bother with books.’

I dropped the jar into my bag. ‘Have you considered any useful qualifications, like studying business?’

Jaxx shook his head, laughing. ‘Nah. I’m all about business in the real world. Alan Sugar didn’t need no qualifications, did he?’

Jaxx did his best to portray himself as some kind of gangsta-boy. However, piercings, gold chains and an accent couldn’t disguise his white, middle-class upbringing in the posher end of Bigley. His mother, a physiotherapist, had been the one to call me. His father, a senior manager at a computer software company, offered to pay an extortionate amount if I could ‘sort him out’. Both parents referred to him as Jack.

I nodded, pretending to make a note on my pad.

‘Though my old man says he’ll stop paying for my phone unless I do this.’

‘Shall we get started, then?’