I threw on some clothes, an old jumper and some jeans, and edged quietly past Jessica’s still sleeping body. She sensed me in the room, turning and mumbling at me, but did not wake. Perhaps she thought I was her boyfriend, but I entertained the idea that she knew it was me and trusted me enough to remain asleep. I was going to cook her breakfast in bed, but there was nothing in my fridge except champagne and ice cream, so I needed to make a run to the shops. I swung open the door of my apartment building. The smell of the snow filled the air, a clean mineral tang. I took a deep breath and the cold chased away the last remnants of sleep. Invigorated, I closed and locked the door. I heard the engine of a motorcycle gunning behind me, and when I turned back to the street it was to find an outrider in black leathers pulling up at the kerb and springing his kickstand. I nodded to him, and he nodded back. The effect was a little unsettling, as his features remained hidden behind a layer of black glass. I waited on the doorstep to let him pass on the pavement, but instead he walked straight up to me and stood there as if expecting to come into my building. As I looked at my reflection in the dark curve of the visor, I began to feel uneasy.

‘Can I help you?’ I said.

The man, to my great relief, lifted his helmet to reveal a squat bald head. ‘You live here?’ he said, politely despite the abruptness.

‘Yes.’

‘You know a James? James Walker?’ He looked at me expectantly.

‘What if I do? Who wants to know?’ I said, and immediately wished I hadn’t. The words sounded ridiculous in my plummy lawyer’s accent, like a bad impression of a gangster movie. The biker laughed in surprise.

‘I’ve got an offer he can’t refuse. Look, mate, I’m just here with a package for him; do you know him or what?’

I looked at the man’s bike again and saw the case over the back wheel with a laminated list of addresses strapped to the top. ‘Oh Jesus, look, I’m sorry, I’m him, I’m James Walker.’

He went around to the back of the bike and produced a slim brown envelope from the interior. He snapped the elastic strings up and pulled out his list of addresses. ‘Allright, Dirty Harry, sign here,’ he said, spinning the clipboard towards me in a practised motion. I was so relieved that I let the joke slide.

‘Is it something from the office?’ I asked. He didn’t look like one of our couriers, but I couldn’t be sure.

‘You a lawyer?’ he asked.

‘That’s right.’

‘You look like a lawyer. Yeah, it’s from your office. Cheers, mate, have a good one.’

He fixed his helmet back on and swung his leg over the saddle. He kicked the engine into life with a galvanic spasm that made rider and bike bounce on the suspension, and pulled away from the kerb with a roar. I slid the package under my arm and walked to the shops. I usually relished the intrusion of work on the weekends, a fact that had seen me rise faster in the firm than many of my contemporaries, who had wives, husbands or children. Today though, whatever it was, it would have to wait.