Benjamin straightened his tie, then ran his hands over his hair. Pulled at his crotch, adjusting his trousers to better accommodate himself. He was still a bit tender after the going over he’d given Kendra. He had to hand it to her, though, she was definitely better at calming his nerves than just a quick hand shandy in the office loos.

This meeting was a big deal. He needed to land this account. But he could do it. Why? Because he was The Man. Comprendez? He only had to remember Kendra’s desperate cries of ecstasy to know that.

Yeah, you’ve still got it Ben, my boy.

Benjamin had it all: the incredible career, the trophy wife and gorgeous kids, an impressive home. Inevitably, he also had the mistress. She was a good kid; he was fond of her. And thanks to her, he felt young and invigorated again, ready for his meeting with Vladimir Tarkovsky.

All he had to do was get the Russian businessman to sign on the dotted line, and Ben would be able to get away with everything. No one would ever find out the truth.

The internal line on his phone rang. It was his PA, announcing that Mr Tarkovsky had arrived. Benjamin crunched a couple of Rennies antacid tablets, rolled his seat back, so he could stand easily. Wait for it, wait for it…

In came the Russian. Benjamin counted a beat before looking up from what he was pretending to peer at on his computer screen. Gave a slow but wide smile of welcome that he had practised enough in the mirror to know it oozed confidence and charm.

Tarkovsky was an intimidatingly large man, with a waistline that had to be equal to his height. His black hair was dead straight, and looked strangely solid on his head, like Lego hair. He sported a moustache that reminded Benjamin of a 1970s porn star, though it was handy to disguise the fact he constantly breathed through his mouth. He may not have film star looks but, from the cut and cloth of his suit to the watch he wore, he dripped wealth. Benjamin was determined to show Tarkovsky that he was at that level, too.

After pleasantries came the pitch. Benjamin’s accountancy company was small enough to guarantee personal services and complete discretion, but big enough and experienced enough to be able to handle all of Tarkovsky’s business ventures, from oil to rail.

As he spoke, Benjamin leaned back, gesturing expansively. He was a man in control.

Tarkovsky gave a rumbling laugh that set the apron of flesh tucked into his trousers jiggling. Even the best tailors in the world can only disguise so much.

‘You want to represent all my businesses? No, no, no, Mr Thomas, you have misunderstood me. You are pitching only for you to take on my building company here in the UK.’

‘Pitching? I thought you’d made up your mind you wanted us,’ he said disingenuously.

The Russian gave the tiniest of gestures with one hand, turning it palm upwards. ‘There are no decisions made yet. The building industry here can be a colourful affair sometimes, and I need to know that my accountant has creative flair as well as efficiency. You understand me?’

Benjamin moved slightly, feeling the sands of his confidence shifting beneath him. He fiddled briefly with the cuff of his shirt. Adjusted it until his watch was visible. That was better.

‘I understand exactly the kind of business you could put our way, and I can assure you that Thomas & Bauer are more than up to the job. Another benefit of this company is that we can move swiftly when required, and I’m sure you would find our flexibility an asset. Let me grab a pen and make some notes on what you want,’ he added, and looked around. ‘Oh, it’s over by you, just let me get it.’

‘I am out of time – or rather you are,’ Tarkovsky said. Despite his words, the Russian picked up the silver fountain pen and passed it over.

Benjamin prayed he knew quality when he saw it; that he would realise it was a Montblanc. He reached for the pen with his left hand, his eyes never leaving Tarkovsky’s as he thanked him. The men broke eye contact at the exact same moment, and glanced down together to make sure their fingers didn’t brush awkwardly. Benjamin saw the man’s glance linger briefly on his Rolex Datejust II; that was seven grand well spent.

Oh, yeah, he knew how the big boys rolled.

A watch like that spoke for itself, and for its owner – it screamed taste and money. It yelled that Benjamin was a winner.

Nothing attracted success more than success.

‘If you have to leave, Mr Tarkovsky, then I won’t detain you. But… if I may extend an invitation to you…’

Minutes later, the Russian swept from the building. But not before arrangements had been made for he and Benjamin to go clay pigeon shooting together that Sunday. It was a typical British country sporting event that Benjamin hoped would impress him. After the door had closed, he let out a huge breath and nodded to himself. It had been touch and go, but his charm had won out in the end. He was getting there. He gave a delighted chuckle. He really was going to pull this off – and get away scot free.