The man tried to open his eyes, but the splitting headache fought back.

“Lord, I’m never drinking again,” he said, struggling to sit up. “Ugh.”

The sudden need to use the bathroom urged him to push through his killer hangover and finally sit up; he staggered to the loo and managed with difficulty, the heavy headache pressing down on him.

Finally, he rested his elbows on the sink and turned the tap on. The cold water touched his heated up skin and stimulated a moment of mental clarity. He had a meeting at noon and judging by his expensive wristwatch, that was in less than an hour. He needed to come to his senses and make himself presentable.

In the mirror, his face looked in urgent need of a shave, and he noticed he had slept in yesterday’s clothes.

“Bloody young thugs,” he muttered under his breath before bending over the sink and splashing his face with cold water.

Feeling slightly more awake, he proceeded to undress and step into the shower, then shave and change into fresh clothes. Once again in a decent form, the man patted himself down for his cigarette pack before realising he forgot it in his old clothes.

Grunting and muttering, he went back into the bathroom and fished his trousers out the laundry basket. He found the pack, but he also found a folded piece of paper.

It was a dirty napkin from last night’s pub, neatly folded into a square, with a phone number and a name on it.

Jake 07700900262

The man frowned, trying to remember who this Jake was and why he had his number.

“Oh, bloody cheek!” He finally remembered the young, dubious looking lad with whom he had spent most of the evening drinking.

Jake and his friends had gathered around him shortly after he had arrived at the Royal Rooster and a most unlikely friendship had been born. By all his intentions, the man wanted that friendship to end when the drinking night ended, but Jake didn’t appear to agree, having slipped him his number.

“I wonder…” the man said, tapping some cigarette ash in the dirty tray.

The coffee machine beeped loudly; his coffee was ready. He had made it especially strong, he needed to wake every part of his mind for today’s meeting. A young painter, a sort of small celebrity, had been recommended to him by a friend. He was all about signing up a new client, since he was in dire need of money lately, but the cheeky little brat had requested a special meeting in person, for compatibility he said. He wanted to see if he “clicked” as agent. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

“Fucking Allan,” the man muttered, lifting the big double espresso cup from the machine. If he hadn’t stuck his nose in those financial records, he would’ve never known. What difference did it make, anyway? It wasn’t like he skimmed too much of the top, the bastard had enough as it was.

That bugger needed to be thought a lesson for sure.

The thought brought a memory from the previous night back to the forefront. He suddenly knew why Jake had left his number. The boy seemed open to his suggestion that Allan needed to be dealt with.

The man chuckled. “That moron. Lads these days.”

His spirits somehow lifted, he drained the coffee cup and proceeded to fill his flask with the next batch of strong espresso. Then he consulted his wristwatch, and realised he was most likely going to run late.

“Nope, not today!” He exclaimed and hurried to the door. He needed that client badly, especially if Allan decided to pursue the matter of the missing money in court.