I kick the stand on my bike and climb off outside the office complex: a squat building of shining steel and shinier glass. As I walk toward reception, I think about the men. Irish had come right up to me as I was leaving and patted me on the back. He wanted to say something; I could see it on his face. But in the end, he’d just laughed. “I’ll still see you around, eh, Boss?” All of the men had called me Boss when I left, despite me telling them that they didn’t need to anymore. They’ll get used to it eventually.

 

At reception, a tall, sleek woman wearing a business suit with an open white collar greets me. Her hair is blonde and tied back in a ponytail, and stylish glasses perch on her eagle’s nose. “Mr. Owens!” she squeaks.

 

“You must be Miss Andrews,” I say.

 

I hold out my hand. We shake. And then she turns on her heels and leads me through reception toward the elevators. The floor is marble, and towering plants sit in the corner.

 

She presses the call button, and we wait, Miss Andrews tapping her foot. “I bet you’re excited. This is very coveted office space, you know.”

 

“I am excited,” I agree.

 

“What do you plan to do with it?” She looks at me uncertainly. I’m not wearing my leathers—it makes the split seem more final—but what I’m wearing instead doesn’t exactly make me look like a high-flying office-buying businessman. A denim vest, jeans, and workman’s boots. “A biking business, perhaps?”

 

I laugh. “It’s not for me,” I say. “I’m looking it over for a friend.”

 

“Oh, so are you not the buyer—”

 

“I’m the buyer,” I say. “But I’m not the one who’s going to be using it.”

 

“Ah!”

 

We get into the elevator, and Miss Andrews presses the button for the third floor. Awkward elevator music plays. I look over at Miss Andrews and see that she’s biting her lip nervously. This one’s no Eden, I think. Terrified by my presence. But can I blame her? Look at me. I smile to myself. Eden—I’ve finally found someone who isn’t scared of me, who doesn’t see me as some kind of trophy, and who wants to spend the rest of her life with me. People often say: I’m the luckiest man alive! But, dammit, I really do feel like the luckiest man alive.

 

The elevator doors slide open revealing a wide open office. The desks and chairs have been moved, but the office space is large. Miss Andrews skips in and I walk after her. “As you can see, you have a lovely view of the hills.” She waves to the left window, where the Hollywood Hills sit. “There is complimentary internet access, of course. And power outlets in the floors and walls. Will there be many staff?”

 

“Two, at first,” I say. “But then it’ll grow, in time. A video game company.”

 

The question is in her eyes, so I answer it for her.

 

“Ooh, a video game company, how lovely!” She claps her hands together. “Well, there is no better place than this. Lovely natural light and ample room for terminals. Internet access—oh, and there are some lovely restaurants around here. Italian, Chinese, pizza . . . anything you like!”

 

I walk around the studio, feeling the space of it. It could easily hold fifty employees. I imagine Nat and Eden here, sitting in the corner, tapping away at Angels of Death. Over time, they’ll hire employees, and soon this place will be a bustling office. Every so often I’ll take a look at the code and help out. And any tax-deductible mumbo jumbo The Miseryed needs to magic up, they can use the office.

 

“I’ll take it,” I say.

 

“Ooh!” Miss Andrews cries. “How brilliant!”

 

“I’ll be by with the payment tomorrow,” I say.

 

“All of it?” Miss Andrews says. Maybe she had expected some bargaining of payment-plan negotiations.

 

“All of it,” I say. “Cash. Does that suit you?”

 

“Suit me?” She giggles. “That suits me amazingly!”

 

“Glad to hear it.”

 

The next day, Socrates deposits the money into my account. I go into the bank as a Mr. Clive Hitchens, withdraw the money – after security checks, all of which I pass – and then I return to the office space.

 

I’m carrying a briefcase like someone in one of those gangster films. As I approach the office, I imagine myself screaming: Say hello to your little friend! And then I flip open the suitcase to reveal a machine gun, goons jump from the windows, and I pepper the air with bullets.

 

I must be excited; I haven’t let my mind wander in such a childlike way in years.

 

Miss Andrews leads me through to an office. On the wall hangs a picture of a man walking down a lonely, dark road. The caption reads: Never give up! Similar posters hang all around the room, their captions invariably telling you to keep going, never give up, don’t stop, etc.

 

“Here are the deeds,” Miss Andrews says, sliding them across the table. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a lawyer?”

 

“Of course not.” I smile at her. “You’d never screw me over, would you, Miss Andrews?”

 

A chill runs through her. It starts at her face – she winces – and goes down her body as she taps her fingers against the desk and I hear her feet tap against the floor. “Never,” she says.

 

I sign the deeds and then slide the briefcase across the table. Miss Andrews opens it with wide, Christmas-morning eyes.

 

“That’s it, then?” I say.

 

“That’s it! You can move into the office whenever you like!”

 

I fold the deed and slide it into the pocket of my jacket.

 

I can’t wait to show her, I think. It’s morning; two hours ago Eden and I woke to each other’s passion and fell upon each other like hungry animals.

 

I wonder if she’ll still be naked when I show her the deed.