Damian and Lars were sitting nursing beers with whiskey chasers on brown leather upholstered chairs at the Stone Street Tavern, a spit-and-sawdust bar that was, most evenings, packed with secretaries trying to pick up bankers. In the daytime, it was frequented pretty much solely by those made recently unemployed by Wall Street. As Lars had said to Damian, on a jollier occasion, ‘It’s when you see your former CEO here that you really have to worry for the economy.’

Now he said, seriously, ‘Man, you must give her a chance.’

‘She’s had enough chances: I gave her a chance when I took her back, I gave her a chance when I fucking married her, I gave her a chance when she was canoodling in the toilets with Jack fucking Meadows, I even gave her a chance after she said she’d like to have a fucking threesome with the two vain cunts!’

‘I think maybe you put the words in her mouth that time,’ said Lars mildly, taking an enormous swig of his beer and trying not to let his belch involve schnapps-flavoured vomit. He had heard a slightly different version of the story from Poppy.

‘Makes no fucking difference. You saw the article. She didn’t have to go back with the two of them. Why did she go back with them, Lars? Why did she do it?’ His voice was different all of a sudden, pleading like a little boy’s. Then it hardened again. ‘Anyway, maybe she should be with them. They are both much more her type anyway. How did the article describe me again? An unemployed journalist who lost his job on a failed magazine earlier this year … A recluse who resents his wife’s success … A loser … Yeah, that pretty much sums me up.’ He took a large swig of his whiskey and blinked back the angry tears that had sprung into his eyes.

‘Man, you must pay no more attention to that cocksucking bitch of a journalist.’

Damian laughed drunkenly. It hadn’t taken a lot to top up the previous night’s alcohol intake.

‘It was definitely written by a woman, wasn’t it? Fucking cunts, the lot of ’em.’

‘That journalist, yes. And my little whore from Romania. Yes, she loved the banker more than the man. That is true of them, and many more of them. But I do not think it is true of your Poppy, Damian. I think she loves you …’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t tell me even you are taken in by her? Her big green eyes …’ He opened his dark eyes wide and shook his head about, putting on a horrible gooey impersonation of either Poppy herself, or the men who were meant to be falling at her feet, Lars wasn’t sure. ‘Whose side are you on, mate?’

‘If it must be sides, then I am on yours, of course. But surely you should speak to her?’

‘No. If I do, I know I’ll let myself be fooled – yet again – by that angelic fucking face. Or voice. Or whatever.’