It was my show. My prestige.

We went to The Obsidian Room near the river to celebrate closing the Lisbon project.

No pricing anywhere. Dark wooden panels. Thick white tablecloths. Metal-sleeved menus. Everything was heavy.

Hugh was there with a few others from the team. My team. A couple of the finance lot joined. The rest were clients who’d flown over from the States.

There was champagne on arrival. Everyone shook hands, swapped cards, patted backs. All smiles now it was over and I’d made them look good.

When we sat, one of the Americans started a speech in my honour. I bowed my head. Humble.

He raised his glass. “To Lisbon.”

Caught Hugh watching me, just for a second. I was on top. He knew it. Everyone knew it. He didn’t like it.

I stood, “They said it couldn’t be done. But I didn’t listen.”

A few cheers.

“You’ve still never beaten me on the courts, though!” Hugh was grinning over his glass.

A few polite chuckles. His way of getting one over me.

“No,” I grinned back, “but you’ve never beaten Lisbon.”

Raucous laughter. That shut him up.

I clicked my fingers and ordered two bottles of Malbec before the sommelier could speak. From somewhere I’d never heard of. Listed right at the bottom of the page.

A waiter in a dark suit carves a thick côte de boeuf steak on a silver platter under warm, dim lighting. The steak is cooked medium-rare with a rich pink centre and seared crust, while elegant restaurant tables and soft lamps glow in the background.

Don’t remember the starter, but I got the côte de boeuf for my main. Had the waiter carve it tableside. Present it. So everyone could enjoy my show.

We lingered long after dessert. Cheese board, port, another bottle. No one checked their watches because we didn’t need to. The whole night was earned.

After the clients peeled away, we went for a nightcap at The King. Talked a bit about the office. Promotions. Politics. The usual circling.

That was when Hugh brought her up.

“You need to back off the stranger, mate,” he said.

I shook my head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re not seeing clearly.” He tapped his temple.

“There’s nothing going on,” I shrugged.

“I know,” he quipped.

Snidey prick.

“You don’t know, mate. Is this because I got the Lisbon credit?”

“I know enough.” He pointed a finger at me. “About both.”

I stared him down. Laughed.

“Is this coming from Simon?”

He didn’t laugh back. Took a long sip of his pint, eyes on the back of the bar.

“Doesn’t matter who’s saying it. Don’t make it another thing.”

He glanced around. Pretended to check the time on the old broken clock above the fruit machine.

We both knew it hadn’t worked for years.

“People talk, Hugh. That’s how they meet. That’s how they close deals.”

He didn’t bite. Drained his pint.

“Alright, Jolon. Whatever you say. My round.”

I smiled as if that settled it. It did settle it. He’d realise soon enough.