“Keep it,” she said. Her fingertips touched his hand for a moment longer, then they were gone. He put the strawberry back in his pocket. Vic came in, his face baggy and crumpled, his thinning hair tousled. He frowned when he saw Donald looking at Ellen. She dropped her gaze and slid silently from the room. It was an effort for Donald to drag his attention back to Vic.

“So?” Vic barked.

The affable philosopher of his first visit had vanished, and here was Vic’s true face: a tired angry frightened man, catapulted to uncomfortable heights before he was really ready. Wordlessly, Donald held out the envelope. Vic glanced inside and grunted.

“Didn’t see nothing in the papers,” he said. “How’d you do it? It ain’t wrecked, is it? Don’t want it shut down. Not when it’s turning profitable.”

Donald took out the Polaroids. Vic peered at them, turned them around, peered again. Finally saw what he was looking at and recoiled faintly. When he looked at Donald, it was with respect.

“You sure he can still do business like this?”

Donald put the photos away. “He doesn’t cook the food himself. He has a chef.”

“He ain’t going to die or nothing?”

“I called the ambulance myself.”

“You called the ambulance yourself!” Vic laughed raucously. “Nice touch, my son.”

“Thank you.”

Vic folded the envelope in half, making a fat unwieldy wedge, and stuffed it into his front trouser pocket. “So. I s’pose we should talk about what happens next.”

Donald waited.

“I can find regular work for a lad like you, Donald. Come by my office Monday morning to meet Charles. We’ll set you up with a position. You know where my office is?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Course you don’t. Okay, ask Harry. He’ll bring you. Be polite to him. He’s going to be your new boss.”

“I won’t be working for you, then?”

“Oh, you’ll be working for me all right. Because Harry works for Charles. And Charles works for me. But you, Donald, will work for Harry. Do you see how that works?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Vic’s amusement had dissipated, leaving a glowering resentment. Reluctantly, he took the envelope back out and peeled off a stack of notes. “Here. With thanks for your trouble.”

“Thank you very much.”

“By the way,” said Vic, as he shepherded Donald out of the living room, “please don’t speak to my daughter again. If you don’t mind.”

The correct answer was Of course not. I understand.

“Donald?”

He swallowed hard and made himself say it.

“Of course not. I understand.”

“Glad to hear it.” Vic opened the door. “Now bugger off and I’ll see you and Harry on Monday.”

“So you’re Victor’s new boy.” They sat across from each other in the café, drinking builder’s tea from heavy mugs. Harry had a face that always looked mournful – something that stood him in good stead when making an investment. ‘I’m sorry about this,’ he would say, and occasionally the other party would temporarily lose their mind and tell him, ‘It’s all right, I know you have a job to do,’ as if they were both professionals stuck in a tricky situation imposed by their respective bosses. “Apparently you did a decent job the other week.”