Elaine knew when she was being shut up and her eyes took on the steely glint usually reserved for George. Turning away, she walked towards the swing doors and pushed them open with such force they crashed against the walls.

Joey Denellan watched her. No wonder the poor old sod looked so downtrodden. Being married to her must be like being married to Attila the Hun. Still Joey was puzzled. How did the old boy get the gash on his leg? What had she said? In a garden shed. How did that account for the semen, which it definitely was, in his underpants? He heard someone call him.

‘Joey, an RTA on the M25.’

‘How many involved?’ He walked towards the reception desk.

‘Four. Estimated time of arrival seven minutes.’

‘OK. Call Crash.’

Joey began to make arrangements to receive the casualties from the road accident. George Markham was pushed from his mind.

‘Are you coming, George?’ Peter Renshaw’s deep booming voice seemed to bounce off the walls of the office and hit George in the face.

‘Coming where?’ He peered at Renshaw.

‘To the do, Georgie. The bloody leaving do - for Jonesy.’

‘Oh, yes. Jonesy’s leaving do. Of course, of course. Yes, I’ll be going.’

‘Good on you. Got him a strippergram, the lot! Tell you what, Georgie, it will be a great do. Bl-oody great!’

Peter Renshaw had a habit of stressing some words by chopping them in two to get his point across. It drove George up the wall.

Renshaw was a salesman for the clothing company for which George worked. He towered over George in height and it was obvious he liked this. Peter Renshaw was in his early thirties and from what everyone could gather, he earned a lot of money. He was the number one salesman. He liked George for some strange reason and always made sure he was invited to any dos that were on the agenda.

‘I arranged the strippergram meself, Georgie boy. Biggest set of Bristols this side of the water. Can’t wait to see old Jonesy’s face.’

George smiled.

Old Jonesy . . . Howard Jones was younger than George himself. About forty-five was Howard Jones. George was fifty-one. He shuddered inwardly. Fifty-one. His life was nearly over. Peter Renshaw’s voice was still booming on.

‘It’s all arranged. The Pig and Whistle first. Twenty quid whip-round by the way. Then on to that new night-club - what’s it called? The Platinum Blonde, that’s it. Watch all the little birds stru-tting their stuff. Be a right laugh!’

George carried on smiling.

‘Well, I’ll let you get on then. Got a hot piece of pussy down in accounts who’s just dy-ing for it. See you Friday then?’

George nodded. ‘Yes. See you on Friday, Peter.’