Roland Seaward poured himself another generous measure of Hennessy from the cut-crystal decanter on the sideboard, returned to his armchair and slumped heavily into it with a deep sigh. He was alone in the large and tastefully cluttered living room of the comfortable London home he shared with Georgie, his wife of nineteen years, spending the evening much as they always did. The soft, soothing piano tones of a Satie Gymnopédie were playing in the background. The rain pattered gently on the windows outside. Roland would normally have been winding down nicely by this time of the evening and getting ready for bed, but he was feeling uptight and restless.

Sinking back into the plush leather wing chair and nursing his cognac he murmured to himself, for the hundredth time that day, ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know. What the hell is that stupid sod up to?’

Georgie glanced up distractedly from the book she was reading. Force of Circumstance by Simone de Beauvoir. Georgie was a voracious reader who devoured two books a week and could have written lengthy critical essays on each and every one of them. Literature was a big part of her life, as it was her husband’s. She asked, ‘Hmmm? What’s that, darling? What’s who up to?’

Roland shook his head and waved it away, not wanting to bother her with his troubles. ‘Oh, never mind. I’m sorry. I was just thinking out loud.’

Georgie shrugged and returned to her reading. Roland savoured another sip of cognac and went back to brooding about the argument he’d had that morning with his business partner, Andrew Laverack. He hadn’t been able to think of much else all day.

It wasn’t like Andrew and Roland to argue. The two men were generally evenly matched in temperament, were of a similarly sanguine disposition and shared the same sort of background in the publishing industry. At times, they even regarded one another as friends. Disputes had been a rare thing during the nineteen years since they’d set up the Seaward & Laverack Literary Agency together, its offices housed within a handsome Victorian building off Leonard Circus. They had a large client list of authors whom they represented, specialising mostly in autobiography, political memoirs, and just the very occasional mainstream celebrity bio, on a selective basis. Georgie was the agency’s highly efficient administrator. When new prospective clients came along, whether it was with a completed manuscript, a patchy work-in-progress or just an idea for a book, Andrew and Roland would both assess the project and discuss whether or not they thought they could negotiate a deal with a publisher on the author’s behalf, for their usual 15 per cent cut. Their decision-making process was easy and laid-back.