The Review consisted of four full-time writers, one advertising exec, one secretary and one tea lady. There was Jin, short for Eu Jin, who was sullen and smelt of whisky in the morning. He wrote all the features on finance—business, investment, property. The boring stuff, except he was a whiz at it. Harvard Business School. Dropped out in his final year. Reasons unknown. He pissed off his mum and dad who practically disowned him; he was forced to live in a room in his uncle’s mansion in Damansara Heights. Drove a beat-up white Proton Saga. Had terrible dress sense, but I’d heard that he was a great fuck from the girl who sometimes helped with the audits. He could go all night and was apparently hung like a horse.

Then there was Imran, who’d left a job with Barclays in London to come back to KL because of his father’s dementia. He wore a battered Savile Row blazer—wool and silk combo—to work, every day without fail. How he survived the tropical heat in that thing was nothing short of miraculous. He persisted, as it was part of his desired image of being Malay-born but British-educated.

Fuck off, wankers! A shout followed by a loud thump on the desk. That happened at least once a day. We’d look at each other and roll our eyes. Imran was a stickler for details, and if or when anything, or anyone, contradicted his research, he would fly off the handle. Or he’d just swear, for no reason at all.

Imran and Fairman were drinking buddies, and would often disappear at 5pm on the dot to go to the Bulldog round the corner from the office. They’d start with a dry ale and end the night raucously with Guinness.

Imran was stocky and a little wide in the hips, with pert buttocks which sometimes looked odd at certain angles, but he had a smile that could slay you. Every time he talked to you, he’d lean in and you’d get a whiff of his cologne and you’d melt. Penhaligon’s. Found only at Harrods and other exclusive shops. Sandalwood and orange. He rolled it off his tongue once when he was drunk. Pen-ha-li-gons. Four syllables. Very posh.

One night, as I was coming out of the ladies in the pub, he threw his arm around me and crushed me against his chest. I’m drunk, Del, take me home. I’m yours.

He kissed me. Hard. Then it was urgent, probing. Too much tongue, too wet. He slathered my mouth with beer. I pushed him away. He stumbled back, laughing, wiping his full lips with his right hand. Prissy, that’s what you are, he slurred and stumbled into the men’s toilet.