I still had half a face full of shave gel when Susie called. We talked about nothing much, other than the baby, for about ten minutes; the second half of my shave wasn't quite as smooth as the first.

By the time I had showered, dressed and eaten a healthy breakfast of whole meal toast and black coffee, it was close enough to nine o'clock for me to take a chance on phoning Torrent to set up a meeting.

My call was picked up on the second ring, then I had to sit through one of those really annoying automated multiple choice responses. I didn't want to rent office equipment, nor did I want to buy it. I didn't want to buy specific items of office furniture, nor did I want to take advantage of their space-planning service. I didn't need any other office supplies, and since I didn't have any of their equipment, I didn't need their technical help-line either. However I did have a miscellaneous enquiry; I pressed button seven.

They must have had a few of those that morning, for I was told that I had been placed in a queue, without the option of listening to Lou Vega singing "Mambo Number Five', or those two old geezers doing the Macarena. The Trio Los Bravos performing their only hit, "Black is Black', were at the point of doing my head in completely when finally I heard a real, female voice on the other end, but by that time I had begun to work something out about Mr. Torrent.

I asked for his office. "In connection with what, sir?" the operator asked.

"His new suit," I told her. "This is his tailor speaking."

I don't know if she believed me, but she put me through anyway. "Mr.

Torrent's office," said another woman; she pronounced the name with the emphasis on the second syllable. "How can I help you?" Her voice was slow and cultured; for some reason she reminded me of an ad for Galaxy chocolate.

"By making an appointment for me to see your boss; this is Oz Blackstone speaking."

There was a silence, of a sort I'd experienced before. "The Oz Blackstone?" she asked, in a tone which implied doubt.

"There's only one of me, as far as I know. I'll be carrying Oz Blackstone's driving licence when I come to see your boss. That'll mean either that I really am me, or that I've killed me and stolen it.

Oh yes, and I'll also look remarkably like me."

"What would you like to discuss with Mr. Torrent?" she asked, without as much as a chuckle. This woman had no sense of humour.

"That's something I'd prefer to discuss with Mr. Torrent," I told her.

"I am his executive assistant," the woman said, humouring the mystery caller.

"But you're not mine. Now do I get to see the man or not.. ." I paused for effect. '.. . Or do I have to pursue other means?"

She thought about that one for a moment or two, then, clearly having decided that she didn't want to know what I meant, she told me to hold on. Finally, at least fifteen minutes after I'd dialled the number, she came back on the line and announced that Mr. Torrent had a meeting in Glasgow that afternoon, but that he could fit me in at ten-thirty, for half an hour at the very most.

"That suits my schedule," I told her, then hung up.

I was fairly chuffed with myself at getting in there without having to spill any beans, so much so that I almost forgot the reason why I was going there in the first place. Remembering, I called Ricky, to check that Alison hadn't done a runner in the night, and to let them both know that I was going to see the man.

She sounded more nervous than ever when I spoke to her, she was still waiting for the lab to report to Morrow, and Ross had warned her not to expect good news.

"You did tell me the truth about Torrent, Alison, didn't you?"

I half expected her to be offended by my question, but she wasn't.

"Yes, honest," she said. Her tone took me back a few years. I guessed that the last of her carefully constructed image had been ground away by the pressure of the last couple of days. I wondered whether she'd be able to rebuild it; I should have known better.

I was about to call a taxi to take me to see Torrent when I remembered that I'd bought a bloody car... it's an everyday occurrence for us rich folk, see ... so instead I had it take me down to Willowbrae.

The Merc was ready and waiting, shining in the morning sun. It seemed to have a personality of its own; I took to it at once, more than I had to Susie's M3. Say what you like, there is a difference between a Mercedes and a Beamer. I mean could you imagine Janis Joplin singing, "Oh Lord won't you buy me a 3-series BMW?

Once Simon had finished his delivery run-through, I headed off, following the signs for the Al, then picking up the by-pass and heading for Edinburgh Park, following the directions that Alison had given me.

The car handled like, like .. . like a pram; fatherhood was having its effect on me, right enough.

She had told me I wouldn't have any trouble spotting the new Torrent headquarters, and she was right. It had a bloody great red "T' on a pole in front of the main entrance, high enough and garish enough to be seen a mile away.

The visitors' car park was full, but I spotted a space in the directors' area and slid carefully in there, right in the middle of the bay to cut down the chances of my shiny car being bumped by one of its neighbours opening a door in a hurry.

The brand new, ready-to-be-opened office was a four-storey building of fairly conventional design. It looked as if it had been built out of solid stone blocks, and it shouted "Money!" at me as I approached.

There was a man in uniform standing just inside the big marble-clad atrium; I could see him as I trotted up the steps, and as he swung the heavy glass door open for me. Some job; still, it was better than being a traffic warden. "You know you can't park there, sir," he said.

He had the same instincts, though.

"Yes," I answered .. . one of my finest lifetime moments was being sick over one of those guys .. . and headed for the desk which was positioned in the centre of the hall, under the high glass roof. "Oz Blackstone for Mr. Torrent," I announced, loudly. The receptionist was Chinese; a plastic card clipped to her blouse identified her as Anna Chin. She had a very nice one too, with a dimple that deepened as she smiled at me. On her desk, there was a big wooden bowl, full of red cherries, and beside it a small ceramic dish for their pips.

"Good morning, sir," she said, in an accent which might have been honed at Mary Erskine or St. George's School, then slid a thick folder across the desk. "If you'd just like to fill in your details there."

She pointed. "And sign alongside ... a Health and Safety requirement."

"Sure," I told her, flashing her a quick twinkle. "I'm pretty healthy, and relatively safe." I filled in the form, and signed it; she ripped it from the pad and tucked it inside a plastic holder, then produced a small book from beneath the desk. "If you could sign here, too, I'll let Mr. Torrent's chief personal assistant know you're here."

I couldn't help it; I hesitated. I think I probably frowned as well.

Doesn't matter how often it happens, I reckon I will always be just a wee bit embarrassed when someone asks for my autograph. She misunderstood me; Anna's Chin seemed to fall and her dimple almost vanished. "I'm sorry," she began.

"Don't be," I reassured her. "I'm flattered, honest. I'm just a dentist's son from Anstruther."

Her smile returned, even brighter this time. "Not any more," she said, firmly. "You're a film star now.. . and I'm still just a doctor's daughter from Barnton."

I shot a quick glance at her left hand as I took the autograph book from her; no ring. "Stop it, Blackstone!" I told myself, and signed the blank page she offered me. I flicked through some of the other pages; it's always good to know whose company you're in. In the few pages back from mine, I recognised the careful signature of Scotland's First Minister, the flamboyant scrawl of my friend Scott Steele, the names of two members of Texas, augmented by a tiny cartoon guitar, a well-known Edinburgh novelist with a noughts and crosses trademark, a football manager who had printed his name below his signature to make sure that everyone knew who he was, and a couple of others which were just plain indecipherable. Of these the least decipherable was one that looked just like the picture on the screen of a heart monitor. I wondered whether, over time, the signature would get flatter and flatter, until one day, it was a straight line.

"Where did you pick all these up?" I asked her, as I handed back her book, and helped myself to a couple of cherries.

"I got all of them here," she told me. "Mr. Torrent has been running a series of cocktail parties for celebrities. You won't tell him though, will you? He might think I was abusing my position."

"I couldn't imagine you abusing anything." I almost added, '... except me'; old habits and all that, but I stopped myself.

Anna picked up her phone and pushed a button on her console. "Mr.

Blackstone," she said, her accent still impeccable, without a hint of an oriental 'r' .. . even though she was from Barnton. She nodded into the handset, replaced it then turned and pointed to two glass-walled lifts behind her desk. "Please take the one on the left," she told me.

"It goes directly to the top floor."

I jerked my thumb in the direction of the guy in the uniform. "Does he get to open the door for me?"

She gave a quick tinkling laugh. "No, it's automatic," she answered, quitetly, as if we were sharing a secret. I liked that; I gave her a wave through the glass as the lift started to go up.

It went fast; I counted off the floors as I rose. I assumed that it would stop at the fourth, but to my surprise it kept going.

James Torrent's office suite was on the roof of the building; out of sight from the car park, surrounding the glass panel of the atrium.

Like the capsule that had brought me up, it appeared to be built almost entirely of glass, although part of it was smoked to the point of blackness. The back wall of the reception area was not. Through it, I could see the tops of the two Forth Bridges, and the hills of West life beyond.

A woman approached me, hand outstretched. "Mr. Blackstone." I felt as if she was telling me who I was, not welcoming me. The Galaxy chocolate voice, and more imperious in the flesh; somehow I knew that this woman was not going to ask for my autograph.

She looked me up and down as we shook hands, so I gave her the same treatment. She was tanned and tall, with legs that seemed to be reaching for her armpits; I touch six feet and I was barely looking down on her. Her dress matched her voice; it was a warm brown colour, in a clinging fabric that could have been cashmere. It fitted from her throat to just below the knee, and she looked as if she might have been poured into it. There were no visible lines; if she was wearing anything under it, then it was even sleeker than the dress. What she definitely was not wearing was a label, like Anna Chin's or like the one she had given me. I glanced beyond her to an empty desk; there was a triangular metal bar on it, bearing the name "Natalie Morgan'.

"Natalie Morgan," she said. "I'm Mr. Torrent's chief of staff

"That makes him sound like a general," I murmured. She wasn't smiling, so I didn't either. A while back, a woman like her could have eaten me for breakfast; I think I must be less digestible now.