The Predator

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Chris pulled the yellow note off his favourite coffee mug and read the familiar loopy writing: Gone to Prague. Back Wednesday. Maybe. Love L.

He sighed and shook his head. It was Monday morning, the first day back after ten glorious days skiing in the French Alps. He had been in the office since half past seven, refreshed, eager to sort out whatever tangles Lenka had made of their firm while he had been away. As he had expected, there were quite a few. The computer was down, there was a letter from the fund’s auditors about a problem with the accounting of accrued interest, and she had bought a pile of bonds issued by an extremely dodgy-sounding Polish mobile telecoms company.

And now there was this note.

She knew he would be angry. She must have left it on his mug in the kitchen so that he would have a few minutes to settle in before he found it. How thoughtful. She could at least have stayed a day in London to brief him on what had happened since he had been away. This was the first holiday he had taken since he and Lenka had set up Carpathian Fund Management the previous year and he had expected things to fall apart without him. But, as he closed his eyes and remembered the feel of the fresh crisp powder under his skis, he knew it had been worth it.

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