A Good Year Read Free

living? It’s business, that’s what it is. Business. Nothing personal, no hard feelings. And I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ve had a tip about a little engineering firm, but I won’t have time for that now. You can take it over.”
    A memory came back to Max from many years ago, when his uncle Henry was giving him a lecture about life:
Better to die on your feet than live on your knees.
Max came to a decision. “I can take it over, can I? I can work it up, and then, when it’s all set, I can get screwed again. Is that what you’re saying?” Max leaned across the table. “Well, you can stuff your little engineering firm, and you can stuff your job. I’m not going to work for a thieving prick like you.”
    Amis felt a glow of satisfaction as Max pushed back his chair. Lunch had gone according to plan; in fact, it couldn’t have gone better. He’d received a detailed, up-to-date brief on the deal, and, since Max had resigned, there wouldn’t be any severance to pay. Perfect. “Suit yourself,” he said. “Your decision. Make sure your desk is cleared out by this evening, OK?”
    Max stood up, but Amis hadn’t finished with him. “Aren’t you forgetting something, my friend? The company vehicle?” He held out his hand. “I’ll have the car keys, if you don’t mind.”
    Max took the keys from his pocket and hesitated for a moment before dropping them carefully into Amis’s half-eaten crème brûlée.
    Amis watched him go. He reached for his cell phone and punched in Tracy’s number.

    During the walk back to the office, Max’s emotions were a mixture of apprehension at what he’d just done and elation at having done it. This was a bad moment to be out of a job, it was true. But the thought of life without Amis and his constant needling was something of a consolation; unfortunately, it was not nearly enough to make up for the lost bonus. He was in trouble, and he needed to find something else. He decided to spend his last afternoon at Lawtons making a few calls. Might even try New York.
    When he got back, however, he found he could barely squeeze into his cubicle. Tracy and two security guards were waiting for him.
    “Jesus,” said Max. “What do you think I’m going to do, nick the carpet?”
    “Standard termination procedure,” said Tracy. She turned to the guards. “Stay with him until he’s finished, and then report back to me.” She stopped in front of Max as she was leaving the cubicle and smiled sweetly. “How was lunch?”
    Max looked around the space where he had spent most of his waking hours over the past eighteen months. What did he want to take with him? What would he be allowed to take? His diskettes? Certainly not. His official Lawton Brothers desk diary? God forbid. What else was there? Nothing much. He shrugged at the guards. “Help yourselves, boys.”
    Out on Threadneedle Street, he saw an empty cab throwing up a miniature bow wave as it came toward him through the rain. He raised an arm to hail it, remembered that he had just joined the ranks of the unemployed, and waved it on. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been on the London Underground. This was going to be a novel experience. He splashed toward the Bank station, feeling the moisture soaking through the soles of his shoes.
    There was no solace to be found in his apartment. Max kicked off his shoes and peeled off his socks. A leaden afternoon light, more like winter than summer, seeped through the windows. The answering machine blinked its red eye.
    “You bastard! Where
were
you last night? I’ve never been so humiliated in my life. All those ghastly men trying to touch me up. Don’t bother ever . . .”
    Max winced and shut off the diatribe before it had finished. Working late the night before, he’d completely forgotten that he’d arranged to meet his caller in the bar of the Chelsea Arts Club. Knowing some of his fellow members, he could imagine that their desire to make a pretty stranger feel