‘They can’t. That’s true. But . . . it means we got a leak somewhere. We need to tighten up.’

‘I’d better get down there,’ said Charlie.

But there was nothing to find. All the dock workers and Customs men in his pay pleaded their innocence. He kicked a few about just to make sure, applied pressure – but there was nothing. No clue as to how this had happened. It pissed Charlie off.

While he was down on the south coast, trying to find out what the fuck was going wrong, Charlie decided to cheer himself up by chasing a long-held dream of his. The Southampton Boat Show was on and he was walking up and down the pontoons – which moved a little as the tide lapped them – not eyeing up the ordinary yachts, the ones any fucker could afford, oh no – he wanted a superyacht. A huge beast of a thing with every modern convenience on board. He wanted it all.

Terry, who was accompanying him, was sceptical of the idea of Charlie on the open waves. Charlie, bobbing around on the water in a dinghy, tugging at sails, wearing a lifejacket over his beer belly and a sailor’s hat? Unlikely.

‘Yeah, yack it up, arsehole,’ said Charlie, when Terry laughed at the idea.

You wouldn’t laugh so much if you knew I’d shafted your missus, would you? thought Charlie, grinning back at his mate.

But this wasn’t an actual yacht – these things were massive floating palaces.

They walked around the deck of one. There was a swimming pool on board, and a jacuzzi. Thirteen crew were needed just to sail the thing. There was a helicopter perched on the upper deck.

‘I’m going to learn to fly, too,’ said Charlie. ‘One of them things. Always fancied it.’

Terry said nothing. He’d heard an old, old saying: there are old pilots, and there are bold pilots. But there are no old bold pilots. Charlie came into the bold category. He’d be lethal to himself and others, flying a helicopter. ‘Sure, Charlie,’ he said.

An hour later, Charlie was shaking hands with the salesman and the deal on the yacht was done.

‘I’m gonna call her Lady of the Manor,’ said Charlie.

‘After Nula?’

‘Yeah,’ said Charlie, feeling a stab of guilty disappointment at mention of his wife’s name.

Nula was a bit, well, mental these days, and he had no patience with it. He didn’t like it. Then he thought of Terry’s old lady and wondered if he might one of these days take another bite out of that apple. It was tempting. Really was.

Forbidden fruit.