No sign of De Chauncey. He must still be here, surely, this would be his element, his chance to hand-sell apartments by the dozen. I deviated towards the bar, looking for something to eat, regardless of the silly shape it came in; stripped back to its lining, my stomach was growling and writhing like an injured animal. But the food had been taken away. I took a glass of red wine instead – just the one, I needed to be more careful – and moved to the side of the room. My head throbbed. The throng was thick and noisy and I could feel its contempt for me. I hated them. I didn’t belong here, and I feared that it had become obvious – and I considered Quin’s chicanery in getting me through the door, and De Chauncey’s mention of Bunk. Why was I even surprised? Bunk was everywhere else, worming its way through the city, plugging itself into system after system. It made complete sense that it would have a tie-up with a firm like Wolfe / De Chauncey, edgy, cool, app-using Wolfe / De Chauncey … What was strange was Bunk’s enduring interest in me, Quin’s seeming fascination with my life and the steady progress of my collapse. Just as he had been interfering with Pierce as well – were failing writers his kink?

Not that losing my free will was much of a threat – I was barely able to exercise it. Keeping control of the most basic functions was more and more of a challenge. My insides felt crushed, and the wine I sipped tasted bad, though it was undoubtedly excellent. I knew I needed food, but I didn’t feel hungry, just weak, as if I might simply crumple to the ground. Seeking greater obscurity, better cover, I headed over to the corner of corners, the display of samples from kitchen, bathroom, hall. I could part-hide there, look busy and interested and purposeful. But it was not the refuge it had been before the presentation – people were there, looking at the taps and carpets and plug sockets as if they were priceless artefacts in the British Museum. And going that way took me closer to the windows. I could not resist looking out, trying to see if the cockatoos were still there. A bright security light had come on across the road, drowning out everything else, making falling raindrops into welder’s sparks. It was not yet 5 p.m. and outside it was grimmer than midnight. No chance that Pierce would want to go out roaming in this foul weather – not even he could be so determined, and I would have to put my foot down if he tried to insist. I only hoped that he did have some kind of proof or confession for me, whatever it was. It seemed implausible, that he would just sign up with an incriminating sheet of paper, but maybe he would, and I would have evidence of my triumph to take into the meeting – my great achievement, which had fallen into my lap and I had done everything to throw away.