'You're too fucking tasteful, Liz,' he said. 'I'm not throwing a party to attract BBC types, anglophile Yank pop singers and anorexic Oscar winners. I'm throwing a party for money. Big money, bankers on a spree. Americans and Russians. Particularly Russians. They want a bit of bling. They like a lot of pretty girls and what's more, they want nice girls with tits, not silly skinny poshos with diplomas in Fine Arts. They want pink marquees, limos from the helicopter pad and Rod Stewart at midnight. What's more, they don't want to have to scrape lemon grass and alfalfa sprouts off their roast beef canapes. They want meat, pure and simple. You, Lizzie, are the patron saint of good taste and minimalism, I recognize and respect that, but when I pay a million quid for a party I want MAXimalism.'

As it happened, not only did Lizzie understand but she was mightily relieved. For her the vast parties that Rupert (or to be more precise, the Royal Lancashire Bank) had begun to throw in the mid-noughties had nothing to do with the appreciation of fine food and exquisite ambience which was her particular forte. They were simply a celebration of excess.

'It's like planning D-Day, darling,' she used to moan to Robson. 'Honestly, the helicopters. It was all about the helicopters. Russians in bloody helicopters. I'm a caterer, not an air-traffic controller. Much more fun not to have the responsibility of it all and just go along and get pissed with my mates.'

The purpose of these parties was supposedly to facilitate communication and business within the financial world, but Rupert and Amanda always invited their old friends.

'I think the corporate purse can stretch to me buying a drink or two for my chums,' Rupert would say. 'Considering how rich I've made the shareholders it's the least they can do.'

'Yes. You all have to come, it's going to be divine,' Amanda would add. 'We have Cirque de la Soubrette bouncing all over the place in the various catering tents and I'm longing to introduce you to Tony and Cherie. He's promised to try and bring Bill Clinton, who's over here doing something for his foundation, but secretly I hope he doesn't because it means providing lunches for about three hundred secret service and it becomes all about him.'

So there they all were again, Jimmy and Monica, David and Laura, Henry and Jane and Lizzie and Robbo, enjoying a nice day of free food, wine and stellar entertainment at the expense of the Royal Lancashire Bank.

'Actually, I think Rupert was right to sack my Liz,' Robbo said, quaffing contentedly on his pint. 'I mean there's a place for class and this ain't it, is it? Don't tell the old girl, will you, but I prefer it this way. I mean you never got Thruttocks Old Ale when she had the gig, did you? If you could find a beer among all the bloody New World white wine, it was Japanese or "ice" beer, whatever that is.'

'No,' David agreed, 'and you never got to stare up the crotch of a Mongolian contortionist while you were drinking it either.'

The four friends glanced up and there was indeed a female trapeze artist in a tiny leotard suspended above them just as another descended from the roof of the marquee into the midst of the oyster-shucking bar on a skein of twisted and unfolding silk scarves.

'I saw Kylie talking to Simon Cowell,' Robbo said, plucking a mini New York roast beef bagel from a passing lovely. 'I mean that's great, isn't it? That's proper celebrity. You know, big-in-America celebrity.'

'Just as a matter of interest though, what do you think Kylie and Simon Cowell have got to do with banking?' Henry asked. 'I mean I don't want to be the moral partypooper here, but this party is about a bank.'

'Yes it is,' Jimmy replied, 'and what Kylie and Cowell have to do with it is making everyone here who is a banker feel great about themselves.'

'And that's important, is it?'

'In terms of New Britain I think it is. If you don't believe in yourself you're not going to believe in your deal, are you? Besides which this kind of stellar social networking is sending out the message, isn't it?'

'What message?'

'The message of who we are. A couple of generations ago banking was boring and mundane. Today the people who work in money need to be creative, which is why it's important for a top player like Roop to introduce his people and his clients to creative people.'

'Simon Cowell?'

'Exactly. This is about cross-fertilization and it's also about letting the world know that money is at the heart of everything that happens. Without money, or more importantly new money, there'd be nothing. No property development. No rapidly expanding leisure market . . .'

'No American Idol,' Robbo put in.

'Well, you can laugh,' said Jimmy, 'but believe me, Lizzie wouldn't be able to charge what she does for an olive if it wasn't for what's happening here. It's astonishing the way people have had to be re-educated about their attitude to the financial sector but they're finally getting it, I think.'

'Re-educated?' David enquired. 'Pardon my French, but what the fuck are you talking about?'

'It's obvious. Culture has changed and people need to catch up. Like these days we all know that an accountant is a player, right? If he's with a decent firm he's a hot sexy guy. He'll get the best girls and be dealing in vast sums and will be making life or death decisions every minute of the day.'

'Life or death?' Henry queried. 'I mean I'm not saying you're entirely wrong, Jim. We in government certainly recognize the importance of banks and the markets to the economy, but life and death?'

'Well, profit and loss certainly. If you have a good accountant you can save millions. The law is incredibly complex and it makes my head spin just to think about it, which is why I admire these guys so much. They are cutting edge. In terms of tax rationalization . . .'

'That would be tax avoidance,' Henry butted in. 'I mean just to be clear.'

'Which is entirely legal. These guys are artists. Every move they make is a sexy, creative act. But do you know, forty years ago people actually used to think accountants were boring. It's incredible. Can you believe it?'

'You've got a point,' said Henry, smiling. 'Here we all are, surrounded by glamour, money and bouncing circus acts, and we're here to celebrate the successful working of a bank. Nobody could deny there's been a cultural shift.'

Just then Jimmy's parents joined them. It had been rather mischievous of Jimmy to cadge an invitation for his parents but he had been unable to resist it. Derek Corby was now, after all, an employee of the RLB, as it had taken over the National City for which he had worked for thirty years.

'Hello, boys,' said Nora Corby. 'This is absolutely astonishing. Have you seen that there's a marquee which only dispenses champagne? They must have thirty or forty types. I didn't twig and asked for a gin and tonic. I felt such a silly!'

'I'll get you a G and T, Nora,' Robbo offered. 'This tent's got a normal bar.'

'Normal apart from the fact that there's a waterfall running down it and contortionists all over it,' Derek Corby observed drily.

'Would you, dear? But just a single, for goodness' sake!' Nora grinned. 'With this sun I shall have a hangover before I get tiddly. Haven't they been lucky with the weather?'

'I thought you knew Rupert, Mum,' Jimmy joked. 'Luck had nothing to do with it. He'll have had the Russian air force seed the clouds.'

'A pint for you, Derek?' Robson asked. 'It's bloody good ale and actually not too strong. Three point nine.'

Robson was an expert on the exact strength of alcoholic drinks. It was perhaps his greatest skill and a cracking party piece. People would call out the names of obscure Finnish vodkas and strange country beers and Robson would rattle back their exact percentage proof.

'Well, Dad?' Jimmy enquired as Robson headed for the bar. 'What do you make of it?'

'I like the little beef roll things,' Derek Corby replied.

'Oh come on, Dad. You have to admit it's fun.'

'Yes, it is fun,' Derek admitted. 'The circus people are clever and Nora thinks she saw Posh Spice. Personally I wasn't sure. All these skinny girls look the same to me. I just don't really understand why a bank would throw a party like this.'

'Oh God, don't get him started on that, Derek,' David pleaded. 'Jimmy thinks Rupert's a capitalist version of Chairman Mao running his own Cultural Revolution.'

'Also,' Derek continued, 'what business do two Cabinet ministers have being here?'

'What do you mean what business, Dad? It's a party. Why shouldn't they go to a party?'

'Because they are responsible in Cabinet for the laws and regulations that govern this bank's activities.'

'Actually I was wondering about that a bit myself,' Henry admitted. 'I mean I know I'm here, but only because Rupert's an old friend. The fact that there's people from the Treasury here could be spun to look dodgy.'

'Oh come on, guys, you're sounding like journalists,' said Jimmy. 'If you could buy Cabinet influence with a few drinks and a chance to see Rod Stewart in a private marquee then the financial sector would have a lot more influence than it has.'

'How much more influence could it have?' Derek Corby asked. 'It seems to me that it's already managed to arrange things so that it's virtually unregulated and free to go its own way.'

'Which is a good thing, Dad,' Jimmy said. 'That's why it's successful. Do you think politicians know how to make money? Of course they don't. If they did, they'd be doing it themselves instead of being politicians. If Britain's position in the world's money markets is to remain dominant, the last thing we need is government stepping back in like it used to and screwing things up.'

'So why are there politicians here then?' Derek asked. 'If they're irrelevant? Why did your lot give Rupert a knighthood, Henry?'

'He was knighted for services to banking, Derek,' Henry replied with a hint of embarrassment. 'Not saying I'd have done it myself but that's what Tony decided. Finance is Britain's most successful industry now, so I suppose honouring its major players is no different to honouring an industrialist a hundred years ago.'

Robson returned with the drinks.

'You won't believe it,' he said, 'there's a girl on the bar who's so bendy she can stick her head right through between her legs and rest her chin on the back of her bum. I mean fuck me! Sorry, Nora. But really, that is a senior talent.'

'That's all right,' Jimmy's mum said. 'I'm slowly getting used to the way people swear these days. Not that I don't think it's a shame. Language is losing its power. The F-word used to be a linguistic exclamation mark, now it's barely a comma. You'll all have to make up a new word for when you want to be extra rude.'

'I just can't help wondering,' Derek Corby said, almost to himself, as he glanced around the great tent. It was one of five great tents, each brimming with braying, shiny-faced men shouting at stick-thin women, all of whom made him and Nora look like the provincial branch manager and his wife that they were. 'I can't help wondering how many more years Brenda and Sean could have worked if Sir Rupert hadn't thrown this party but had spent the money on retaining their services instead.'

'What's that, Dad?' said Jimmy, leaning closer in order to hear his father above the growing din.

'Your father's been a bit upset recently, dear,' Nora confided. 'He's had to let quite a lot of staff go. Roop the Boot, you know.'

'First it was the school leavers,' Derek said. 'That was bad enough, awful to have to deny young people with decent grades a start in life. I always used to love it each year when we took on a youngster or two. It brought eager faces and fresh smiles into the bank. I used to watch them grow up, taking their place in the community. Now we don't take on school leavers any more. I often wonder where they all go. They can't all be hoodies, can they?'

'Derek,' Henry said, 'it's hardly a bank's duty to promote eager faces and fresh smiles.'

'Isn't it, Henry? That's certainly the impression that they give in their adverts. In fact it seems to be nothing but eager faces and fresh smiles in the bank adverts, but none in my actual branch.'

'Internet banking.' Jimmy shrugged. 'It might seem sad but the truth is people are much happier going online at home than trudging down to the High Street for a fresh smile.'

'Are they? Are they really?' Derek asked. 'They might think they are, particularly now that they have no choice, but do you honestly think they're happier for it?'

'Yes, Dad, as a matter of fact I do,' Jimmy assured him. 'I love internet banking and so does Mon. And Jodie, our nanny, is always tinkering with Aussie dollars in the night. Everyone's a banker now.'

'Jodie is such a lovely girl,' Nora chipped in.

'It started with not taking on school leavers,' Derek continued, 'but now we've moved on to getting rid of who we've got. You remember Brenda, Jimmy? You met her sometimes when you were a teenager and Nora and I used to throw those open evenings for the staff. She bought you an Easter egg.'

'Yes, of course. Brenda,' Jimmy said, with no idea who his father was talking about.

'Yes, Brenda. She leaves next month after eighteen years. And Sean who came to us from school. He's thirty now and he'll be unemployed in a few weeks too.'

'Dad, please,' said Jimmy. 'Shit happens. They'll have all got their redundancy payments.'

'They wanted their jobs.'

'Well, I'm afraid they can't have their jobs, Derek,' Henry said firmly. 'I'm sorry but those jobs have gone, just like coal miners' jobs and the men who used to go around lighting the gas lamps. It's nobody's fault, but capitalism readjusts. New industries emerge. That's what this party is celebrating.'

'As far as I can see,' Derek replied testily, 'Brenda and Sean might still be in their jobs if their employer hadn't spent so much of their bank's money on this party.'

'You're being ridiculous, Dad. The two issues are totally separate. For a start, even if this party cost a million quid the money wouldn't keep more than twenty Brendas in their jobs.'

'Which actually would be very nice. Particularly if it was my Brenda. I don't think anyone would honestly miss this party, do you? I shall miss Brenda.'

'Well, the bar staff would miss it,' Henry pointed out, 'and the circus performers. And Rod Stewart. I mean, be honest, this party is also generating work.'

Derek Corby clearly wasn't convinced that the trickle-down advantages for the hospitality and entertainment industries were worth the human wastage at his branch of the Royal Lancashire, but he didn't comment further. Instead he confined himself to a moody swig of beer.

Later on, at dinner, sitting on an outlying table which he and his wife had been squeezed on to alongside guests from the growing financial services industries of Romania and Serbia, Derek Corby switched from moody swigs of beer to moody swigs of wine and then Scotch.

'Just because Jimmy's insisted on giving us a car and driver,' his wife whispered, 'it doesn't mean you have to get drunk.'

'I'm not drunk,' Jimmy's father replied, but he knocked a glass over while he said it. Not one glass but a whole set, since it would have taken a very sober man indeed to knock over only one glass on that table. Each place setting was supplied with a plethora of them: champagne flutes, a white-wine glass, an enormous red-wine glass, a water glass, a dessert-wine glass and a cognac bubble you could have kept a goldfish in. Derek dominoed the lot. Had he been playing ten-pin bowling it would have been a terrific effort.

Just then, far away on the top table, Rupert rose to speak and so Nora Corby's embarrassment was partially covered by the general scraping back of chairs and last-minute refills.

After thanking the politicians and Rod Stewart and Penny Lancaster for attending, Rupert went on to cover a great deal of the same ground as his friends' conversation earlier. He extolled the virtues of the creative new banking sector and its massive contribution to the current pre-eminent position Britain held in the financial world. Indeed, anyone listening might have imagined that Rupert and his colleagues laboured principally in order to make Britain great again. The senior politician who had spoken earlier took much the same view and even went so far as to quote the Chancellor, Gordon Brown himself, when he spoke of the 'courage' that bankers and traders showed in their innovative and ground-breaking activities.

Rupert conceded that it was not merely the nation as a whole which was benefiting from the RLB's extraordinary success. His first duty as chief executive officer was of course to his shareholders, and in that stern task he had not been found wanting. Indeed, if anything the shareholders had done better than the nation as a whole, seeing their individual share price jump from 3.50 to 9 in just four years. Rupert hoped his audience would not think him conceited if he pointed out that when he had taken over as CEO the share price had been just 2.50. These figures were greeted with waves of applause, as well they might since there were many shareholders present and Sir Rupert had effectively trebled their wealth.

This, however, was not the end of the man's achievements. Sir Rupert also wanted his audience to be aware that he was proud to be at the helm of such an august and ancient institution as the Royal Lancashire Bank. It had been trading for over three hundred years, although never (he could not help but mention) as successfully as it was doing currently. Sir Rupert then chose to illustrate the longevity (and egalitarian nature) of the institution that he now had the honour to lead by pointing out that there was present at the dinner a local branch manager who had been with the bank all his life, having served with the RLB subsidiary the National City ever since leaving school.

It took Derek Corby a moment to realize that his son's old university friend was referring to him, and that a spotlight had swung over the heads of the important diners at the front and was illuminating him and half of Nora.

'Derek Corby,' Sir Rupert continued, 'is the father of one of my oldest friends. I've known him for fifteen years. I never imagined that I would ever be his boss, but after masterminding the takeover of the National City I find that I am. And I would like to thank you, Derek, for a lifetime of service to the industry we both love.'

Then a pretty young woman in a tiny black dress approached the table holding a magnum of champagne and an exciting-looking envelope.

There was applause. Derek Corby seemed somewhat frozen. Frozen like a shy bank manager in a spotlight. So much so that Nora had to reach forward and accept the gifts from the pretty girl.

The applause did not last long and was about to die altogether when Derek rose to his feet.

'Sir Rupert,' he said, blinking in the bright light and pausing for a moment to gather his thoughts, 'you are a vandal and a first-class bastard!'

Derek swayed slightly but he did not fall. Instead he took a swig of Scotch from the glass in his hand and continued.

'Let me tell you something,' he said, pointing a finger across the marquee. 'Your first duty is not to your shareholders. That is a modern idea which is trotted out whenever a job is cut or a service reduced. Business was not invented solely for the profit of shareholders. Your first duty and the duty of any employer is to your staff and to your customers, not to the bloody shareholders! Shareholders are sleeping partners. Their fortunes should rise and fall together with the fortunes of those who actually make the business in which the shareholders have chosen to invest. You and your like, Sir Rupert, have created a situation where shareholder profit is created at the expense of the staff and customers. They have become enemies. This is obscene! It's madness! It's completely barking! You have forsaken your duty, Sir Rupert, and I don't want your bloody champagne!'

It was a stirring speech.

A brave and noble effort.

Unfortunately nobody heard it. Derek did not have a microphone and people had begun talking to each other the moment Rupert sat down. Even Nora Corby caught only the odd word in the babble that arose after Sir Rupert had taken his seat.

Watching from a table much nearer the front, Jimmy beamed with pride and Monica got quite teary.

'Can you believe it?' Jimmy said. 'Dad getting honoured like that? Wish I could hear what he was saying, he looks really emotional.'

'Yes,' Monica replied, 'that was nice of Rupert, wasn't it?'

School leaver Abbey Hall School was situated on Kensington High Street, along which Jimmy and Toby were crawling when Monica called.

'Are you on hands-free?'

'Yes,' Jimmy lied, struggling with the phone and watching out for cops.

'You must be on hands-free!'

'I am on hands-free! What is it?'