Paper Money by Ken Follett

you, and I fuck like . . . like . . .”
    “Like a bunny.”
    “What?”
    “Fuck like a bunny. This is the correct English expression.”
    She opened her mouth and laughed. “You old fool. I love you when you’re being all Prussian and correct. I know you only do it to amuse me.”
    “So: we meet, and we fuck like bunnies, and you don’t think it can last.”
    “You can’t deny the whole thing has an air of impermanence.”
    “Would you have it otherwise?” he asked carefully.
    “I don’t know.”
    It was the only answer she could give, he realized.
    She added: “Would you?”
    He chose his words. “This is the first time I have had occasion to reflect upon the permanence or otherwise of our relationship.”
    “Stop talking like the Chairman’s Annual Report.”
    “If you will stop talking like the heroine of a romantic novelette. Speaking of Chairmen’s Reports, I suppose that is what Derek is depressed about.”
    “Yes. He thinks it’s his ulcer that makes him feel bad, but I know better.”
    “Would he sell the company, do you think?”
    “I wish he would.” She looked at Laski sharply. “Would you buy it?”
    “I might.”
    She stared at him for a long moment. He knew that she was evaluating what he had said, weighing possibilities, considering his motives. She was a clever woman.
    She decided to let it pass. “I must go,” she said. “I want to be home for lunch,”
    They stood up. He kissed her mouth, and ran his hands all over her body with sensual familiarity. She put a finger into his mouth, and he sucked it.
    “Good-bye,” she said.
    “I’ll call you,” Laski told her.
    Then she was gone. Laski went to the bookcase and stared unseeingly at the spine of The Directory of Directors. She had said, I only hope it can last, and he needed to think about that. She had a way of saying things that made him think. She was a subtle woman. What did she want, then—marriage? She had said she did not know what she wanted, and although she could hardly have said anything else, he had a feeling she was sincere. So, what do I want? he thought. Do I want to marry her?
    He sat down behind his desk. He had a lot to do. He pressed the intercom and spoke to Carol. “Ring the Department of Energy for me, and find out exactly when—I mean what time— they plan to announce the name of the company that won the license for the Shield oil field.”
    “Certainly,” she said.
    “Then ring Fett and Co. for me. I want Nathaniel Fett, the boss.”
    “Right.”
    He flipped the switch up. He thought again: do I want to marry Ellen Hamilton?
    Suddenly he knew the answer, and it astonished him.

TEN A.M.

13
    The editor of the Evening Post was under the illusion that he belonged to the ruling class. The son of a railway clerk, he had climbed the social ladder very fast in the twenty years since he left school. When he needed reassurance, he would remind himself that he was a director of Evening Post Ltd., and an opinion former, and that his income placed him in the top nine percent of heads of households. It did not occur to him that he would never have become an opinion former were it not that his opinions coincided exactly with those of the newspaper’s proprietor; nor that his directorship was in the proprietor’s gift; nor that the ruling class is defined by wealth, rather than income. And he had no idea that his ready-to-wear suit by Cardin, his shaky plum-in-the-mouth accent, and his four-bedroom executive home in Chislehurst marked him plainly, in the jaundiced eyes of cynics like Arthur Cole, as a poor boy made good: more plainly than if he had worn a cloth cap and cycle clips.
    Cole arrived in the editor’s office on the dot of ten o’clock, with his tie straightened, his thoughts marshaled, and his list typed out. He realized instantly that that was an error. He should have burst in two minutes late in his shirtsleeves, to give the impression he had reluctantly torn himself away from the hot seat in