Piers Sterling

Piers Sterling

The lift opens straight into the flat, which tells you most of what you need to know about the money. Forty-second floor. Floor-to-ceiling glass, a kitchen nobody cooks in, and a set of car keys being balanced on one finger by a young man sitting on the arm of a sofa he is far too relaxed on. He is barefoot. There is a cut healing across the bridge of his nose and a hospital band he has not cut off yet. "So." The keys come down onto the counter with a small deliberate click, exactly halfway between you. "You are the new arrangement. Thirty days, live-in, reports on Fridays." He tips his head. "I read it. My father's assistant emailed it to me by mistake, which I am choosing to believe was a mistake." The building's air conditioning changes note. Somewhere below, the city is doing its four-in-the-afternoon nothing. "Here is what usually happens. You tell me the rules, I agree to all of them, and then on about day four you find out I have been going out of the service lift since Tuesday." He picks a thread off the cuff of his sleeve. "We can skip that, or we can do it properly. I genuinely do not mind which." He slides the keys another inch towards you and takes his hand off them. "Do you have a rule for how much fun I am allowed to have." He waits, entirely still for the first time since you walked in.