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outstanding commissions, and so on. It was apparent to both of us that we were waiting to see how we felt. I think he may have thought that Berkowitz and/or the place would wear me down, and I would come back home keen to resume things on their former basis – which would naturally be a significant moral victory for him. I was determined that wasn’t going to happen. I sent a boxed crate of things off to Hong Kong by sea – projected journey time six weeks – and was travelling, if not light, then not heavy: clothes, survival essentials, Premier League frocks, laptop, a few books and CDs. My plan was to restock my wardrobe in the Shopping Capital of the World. Berkowitz had fixed me up somewhere to live in Mid-Levels, wherever or whatever that was.
    Michael and I said goodbye at the kerb, by prior arrangement, rather than have a Brief Encounter moment in the terminal.

Chapter Three
    I lost my virginity that day. It was my first time in business class.
    ‘You’ll be turning left, of course,’ Berkowitz – who had a case of Harrods champagne delivered to my flat when I told him I was accepting his offer – said.
    ‘Of course,’ I said, not having a clue what was meant, until the actual moment when, as I clutched my business-class Cathay Pacific boarding card, the Chinese stewardess beamed at me and gestured to her right, my left, towards the front of the 747. Of course: turning left. This was not something I had done before. A Chinese man in a suit nodded politely at me as I sat on the armchair beside him after jamming my scruffy carry-on bag into the overhead locker. Another stewardess presented me with a valise of variably useful gifts (socks, goggles, distilled-water face spray, comb, tiny toothpaste and toothbrush, compact mirror, miniature parachute – though perhaps my memory errs on this last point) and followed it up with a glass of champagne. There is no other way to fly. I had not realised before that this was no more than the literal truth. Only a few feet away were the unimaginable splendours of First Class. What could be going on in there? Colleagues who had been upgraded by the random benifices of airline press departments spoke tearfully of the experience, which spoiled them permanently for terrorist class in the back.
    ‘You’d don’t understand,’ tubby Rory said, after BA had upgraded him to and from the Oscars. (He had filed a borderline anti-Semitic piece about the backstage workings of The Industry. Headcase loved it.) ‘It’s ruined me.’ And I had thought he was joking.
    Once we were in the air, the Chinese man, who had kept his eyes closed during take-off, opened them, looked across at me, and smiled.
    ‘That is my favourite part,’ he said in impeccable English. He went back to his copy of Business Week . I settled down to watch Legends of the Fall . It was a crock. Then I had a meal and some wineand tried to sleep. The thing about sleeping on planes, I find, is that you get only one crack at it. Unconsciousness visits just once. It’s always a nerve-racking moment when you come round and sneak a peek at your watch: is it six hours later, or fifteen minutes? On this occasion, I didn’t do too badly. We were about halfway through the flight. The Chinese guy was playing a computer game on his laptop. When he saw me watching, he turned it off.
    ‘I hope I did not wake you.’
    ‘Absolutely not.’
    We chatted for a bit – not, I now know, something one often does in business class. I’ve since flown many thousands of miles without speaking to the man in the seat next to me. This guy had a pleasant, mobile face, and perfect English. His name was Matthew Ho and he ran a company which made air conditioners in Hong Kong and Guangzhou, with plans to expand into China and generally take over the world. The parent company was German, but the subsidiary company with which he mainly dealt was based near Luton.
    ‘You must spend a lot of time on aeroplanes.’
    ‘It’s called astronaut