‘But what about you, Bob? Why did you put me on to Hugo? I saw you coming out of Breitner’s office the other day. You shouldn’t be helping Rep apply the coup de grâce.’

‘Between us?’

‘Of course.’

‘Jimmy is a tight-fisted “see-you-next-Tuesday”. He still owes me for some work I did for him last year and he’s trying to Jew me again on the Capital deal. So fuck him.’

‘Bob, you’re talking to a Jew.’

‘Ah. Yes. Sorry. As you know, most of my best friends are Jews.’

‘You don’t have any friends, you disgusting anti-Semite.’

‘True enough.’

There is an awkward pause.

‘Look, I’m embarrassed. Forgive me. I’m sure you know that I am a paid adviser to the Israeli government.’

Nothing would surprise me.

The phone drops from my hand as I frantically grab the steering wheel. A towering lorry – the kind that does removals, a pantechnicon – is swinging left into my lane. Apparently the driver can’t see me.

I pound my fist on the steering wheel, blaring the horn. High up in his cab, the driver is so close he probably wouldn’t notice me unless he stuck his head out of the window and looked straight down. But how can he not hear me?

Now I know what it feels like to be a beetle in the shadow of a looming human foot. Slowly, very slowly but relentlessly, the lorry squeezes against the right side of the car. The Peugeot shudders. I jerk the steering wheel, trying to turn away, but it’s locked tight. My wheels are hard up against the kerb and there are iron railings lining the pavement to stop silly tourists from meandering into the road. They are a deathtrap for me. There’s nowhere to go. Oh fuck! Is this it? Am I going to die?

The lorry is still coming. The right side of the car, my door and the roof, bends menacingly towards me. Against the lorry’s weight, the frame feels as flimsy as tinfoil.

I’m not going to make it. I scramble to undo my seatbelt, but the catch is dodgy and there’s a trick to releasing it. In my panic, I can’t. Even if I could, I’m not sure how I would get out. The door is bowing in towards my knee. In a moment, my femur is going to be snapped against the steering column. I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m dead.

I’m not. With a screech and the sound of crunching metal, both vehicles lurch to a stop. I’m thrown forward – and suddenly I’m grateful I didn’t manage to undo my seatbelt, because I’d have been thrown head first against the windscreen. Instead of which I’m just winded.