Free The Next Best Thing by Sarah Long Page B

bells-and-whistles parties that
people gave to show how well they’d done. His business partner Richard had also hit forty this year, and had chartered a large ship to convey three hundred close friends in a Disco
Inferno-themed evening to the Thames barrier and back. He always did things properly. He already had a wife and four kids flourishing on a country estate in Kent where he reared organic venison and
hosted quiz, nights in his spare time. Rupert had a country pile too, but his was unfairly inherited rather than earned through his own talent and energy. It was unavailable anyway, having been
leased to a Saudi prince for eight years. And even if he and Lydia started a family right away, he knew he’d never catch up with Richard.
    The cab dropped him outside his office in Mayfair. They had chosen St James Street because London’s most successful hedge fund was based here, and it was hoped that this success might rub
off on them like gold dust. To Rupert, it felt increasingly that they were rats on a sinking ship. He climbed the stairs, trying to work himself up into a positive frame of mind. It was easier in
New York where the money-making ethic ran through the streets and was contagious, like a happy plague. Plus he had been there during the late Nineties boom, when everything you touched turned to
gold. Not like now in this age of uncertainty, beneath grey British skies and a bear market and the rebellious British public rising up against fat-cat salaries. Rupert sympathised, he always
considered himself grossly overpaid compared to real people who did real jobs. It’s just that he couldn’t really think what else to do.
    Richard was already at his desk, which was festooned with photographs of himself surrounded by his large family. Having ten photos of yourself on display might be considered vain, but for some
reason this was not the case if your kids were in the frame with you. Richard’s wife was there, too, beaming out confidently, candy-striped pink trousers cropped beneath the knee, white shirt
with upturned collar, headband and gold earrings. She was one of those girls from a comfortable background who seemed entirely fulfilled by her role as homemaker. Rupert couldn’t quite see
Lydia in that vein, nor would he necessarily want her to be hovering with a C and T the moment he stepped in the door.
    Richard greeted him with a hand upstretched, like a policeman stopping traffic. ‘Rupert, sound fellow!’
    The hand was square and strong, confident of a lifetime’s success and happiness, emerging from a thickly folded double cuff from one of those swanky Jermyn Street tailors that were so
square they were hip. Richard’s smile was unfairly dazzling for someone who got up each morning to catch the 6.59 train, and his skin was the colour of caramel.
    Rupert’s skin was fair and freckly and he hated it. When he caught the sun, or drank more than a few pints, it turned bright red, which he hated even more. Among the photos on
Richard’s desk was a picture of the two of them celebrating the launch of their business, in a pub in Shepherd Market. Richard looked like Mel Gibson, small and dark and sexy, while Rupert
loomed behind him like an ungainly beacon, his ginger-blond hair clashing violently with his beetroot complexion. He wanted to ask Richard to take the picture down, but everyone knew that Rupert
didn’t care two hoots about his appearance and he didn’t want to rock the boat.
    He waved a hearty greeting to Richard, who then returned to his phone call. Rupert took off his heavy coat and settled at the opposite desk, fixing his face in an expression of purposeful zeal
as he focused in on the screen.
    It was awful being in partnership with a friend. When he’d worked for the bank, he used to complain about it: the hierarchy, the red tape, always being accountable to someone else. Now he
was only accountable to himself, and to Richard. And to the investors who had entrusted them with