Free The Triple Goddess by Ashly Graham

old-fellow me, old horse. I seem to remember I had the better of you at tennis last week, notwithstanding my few extra pounds.’
    ‘That’s a bit thick. You know I had a strained hamstring.’
    ‘And I’d a broken string on my racquet, didn’t have a spare.’
    ‘Well, there it is. “More haste, less speed,” is the gist of what this chappy’s saying, I gather.’
    ‘Counter-productive. Do it faster, make mistakes.’
    ‘Bad form, I call it. “Haste makes waste.”’
    ‘Lets the side down. He mentioned tortoises. The tortoise won the race, not the hare.’
    ‘He’s lost most of his. None of our clients have complained, have they?’
    ‘Not that I’m aware.’
    ‘I dare say he’s feeling the strain of haring about too much himself.’
    ‘Best to ignore him, then.’
    ‘They all burn out sooner or later.’
    ‘Perhaps he’ll go away in a moment.’
    ‘I don’t know. He’s a stubborn cove, this one.’
    ‘Where will we have luncheon?’
    ‘What’s today?’
    ‘Wednesday. No, Thursday.’
    ‘Then the Lime Street Club. It’s roast lamb.’
    ‘Perhaps old Buffy Broadstairs’ll be in. Haven’t seen him in a while.’
    ‘Fancy a few overs at Lord’s this afternoon?’
    ‘Splendid idea. We’ve not much on at the moment.’
    ‘At least this one won’t be there.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Chap talking to us.’
    ‘Football man, no doubt. “Soccer.”’
    ‘Not the sort who would be interested in...’
    ‘...the Gentlemen versus the Players? Hardly. Look at his neckwear.’
    ‘Rabbit wearing a bow tie. What school’s that?
    ‘It’s not Downside.’
    ‘No Old Gregorian he.’
    ‘...’
    ‘...’
    ‘Well, I was right.’
    ‘About what?’
    ‘The chap who was here. He isn’t any more.’
    ‘Good show. Come on, let’s get up to the Room.’
    Long after Cholmondeley and Barrington-Knightley had left for the day, the younger ambitious generation was still hunkered down over their telex pads, and nipping out to traipse down the executive corridor, known as the Golden Mile, on the pretext of needing to see their bosses, who were on the telephone to North America, so that they could show them how late they were working.
    At seven o’clock a group of them would cab it to the Carlton Towers to meet some already well-oiled buckaroo from Houston, take him to Daphne’s for dinner, and pour him into a taxi back to his hotel. Then they would head to Raffles nightclub on the King’s Road, where they would frolic on expenses—the snoring client was allegedly still with them—before hitting the blackjack table at the Connoisseur Club before calling it a night.
    While the scions of aristocracy and braying Sloane Rangers with their Blue Pomaded centre-parted hair styled at Trumper’s did not give a damn, because they had money and nothing else to do with their time except practise dry-casting on their parents’ lawns for the Scottish grilse they hoped to catch that weekend, it was worrisome to the middle-class penurious university graduates who had joined Chandlers as management trainees, at negligible pay, that the Essex brigade—comprising youngsters who had not attended university, and who were employed at salaries only a little less than their own—proved such an obstacle to what turned out to be a pie-crust promise of swift advancement.
    Despite the graduates’ age seniority of several years, they had no experience of the world and how to get on in the school of hard knocks, unlike these sharp-elbowed upstarts with their lamentable accents and polyester suits.
    “The Chimp” was an East Ender, a loyal and enthusiastic individual who communicated by means of whoops and grunts. He worked like a slave for the most meagre of salaries, was pathetically grateful if anyone took the trouble to speak to him, and expressed his pleasure at the smallest kindness with Smike-like effusiveness and much appreciative chattering of teeth.
    Since the Chimp was known to live in reduced circumstances, and to