In this myself, that I was perilously close to eye of the storm.

As the weekend progressed, however, and euphoria degenerated into numbness, and then anxiety, and then dread – my viewing patterns shifted. I cut down

drastically on news shows, and towards Sunday evening found myself skipping them altogether. Increasingly, it was easier to switch over to channels where there were

re-runs of Hawaii Five-O to be found – and Happy Days and Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea.

*

On the Monday I tried to stay sober, but didn’t do too well. I had a few beers during the afternoon, and then opened a bottle of vodka in the evening. I spent most of

the time listening to music, and eventually crashed out on the couch that night in my clothes. It had been getting steadily warmer over the previous week and I’d been

leaving the window open most nights, but when I jolted awake from a confused dream at about 4 a.m., I noticed immediately that the temperature had dropped. It was

a good deal chillier than when I’d fallen asleep, so I got off the couch, shivering, and went over to the window to close it. I sat back on the couch, but as I stared into

the blue darkness of the night, the shivering continued. I realized, as well, that my heart was palpitating, and that the unpleasant tingling sensation I had in my limbs

wasn’t normal. I tried to identify what was happening to me. One possibility was that my system needed more alcohol, in which case I quickly scrolled down through the

options – I could get dressed and go out to a bar, or I could go to a Korean deli down the street and buy a couple of six-packs, or I could just drink the cooking sherry

I had in the kitchen. But I didn’t really think booze was the problem, because the very idea now of going outside, to the street, to a neon-lit deli with other people in it,

struck terror into me.

So that was it, I thought – I was having a fucking panic attack.

I kept taking deep breaths, and hitting one of the sofa cushions beside me with the back of my hand. It was four o’clock in the morning. I couldn’t call anyone. I

couldn’t go anywhere. I couldn’t sleep. I felt like a cornered rat.

I sat it out, though – on the couch. It was like having a massive heart attack that went on for an hour but didn’t kill you, or even leave you with any physical after

effects, nothing that a doctor might find if he were to subject you to a whole battery of tests.

The next day, I decided I had to do something. I’d slipped too far and too fast, and knew that if I slipped any further I’d be in danger of losing everything – although

quite what ‘everything’ now meant was clearly open to interpretation. In any case, I had to do something – but the problem was, what? The most immediate and

pressing concern was the Donatella Alvarez situation, but that was out of my control. Then, of course, there was Carl Van Loon. But frankly, my whole association with

him was beginning to seem a little remote to me. I found it hard to accept that I had actually ‘worked’ with him, especially on something so improbable as the ‘financials’

of a corporate takeover deal. In memory, our various sessions together – in the Orpheus Room, in his apartment, in his office, in the Four Seasons – felt more like

dreams now than recollections of real events, and seemed, as well, to have the twisted logic of dreams.

But at the same time I couldn’t just ignore the situation. Not any longer. I couldn’t ignore the reality that leapt up at me every time I looked at my own handwriting on

Van Loon’s yellow legal pad. Remote as it all might seem now, I had been involved with him, and I had helped to shape the MCL–Abraxas deal. So if I wanted to

salvage anything from the experience, I would have to confront Van Loon, and as soon as possible.

*

I took a shower and shaved. I still felt fairly lousy as I went into the bedroom to get my suit out of the closet, but it was nothing to what I felt when I tried to put it on. I

hadn’t worn it in over a week and now all of a sudden I was struggling at the waist to get the trousers closed. It was my only presentable suit, though – so I had no

choice but to wear it.

I took a cab to Forty-eighth Street.

As I walked across the main lobby of the Van Loon Building and rode the elevator up to the sixty-second floor, a sense of dread grew within me. Stepping out into

the now familiar reception area of Van Loon & Associates, I identified this feeling, correctly, as the onset of another panic attack.

I hung around for a few moments in the middle of the reception area and pretended to be consulting something on the back of a large brown envelope I was carrying

– a name, or an address. The envelope contained Van Loon’s yellow legal pad, but there was nothing written on it. I glanced over at the receptionist, who glanced back

at me and then picked up one of her telephones. My heart was beating rapidly now and the pain in my chest had become almost unbearable. I turned around and

headed in the direction of the elevators. What had I been proposing to do in any case – confront Van Loon? But how? By returning the projections exactly as we’d left

them? By showing him I was on a crash diet of cheeseburgers and pizza?

It had been reckless of me to come in here like this. I obviously hadn’t been thinking straight.

The doors finally opened, but the relief of getting away from the reception area was short-lived, because I now had to contend with the elevator car, the interior of

which, with its reflective steel panels, its controlled climate and relentless humming, felt as if it had been custom-built to induce and fuel panic attacks. It was a physical

environment that seemed to ape the very symptoms of anxiety – the sinking feeling, the uncontrollable fluttering in the stomach, the everpresent threat of nausea.

I closed my eyes, but then couldn’t help picturing the dark elevator shafts above and below me … couldn’t help imagining the heavy steel cables snapping as the car

and its counterweights accelerated rapidly in opposite directions, the car naturally hurtling downwards, free-falling to ground level …

Instead it came to a barely perceptible halt near the foot of this concrete tube, and the door slid gently open. To my surprise, standing there – waiting to step inside –

was Ginny Van Loon.

‘Mr Spinola!’

When I didn’t respond immediately, she stepped forward and stretched a hand out to take me by the arm, ‘Are you all right?’

I got out of the elevator car and moved with her into the lobby area, which was crowded and busy, and almost as terrifying – though for different reasons – as the

elevator car. I was in a cold sweat now and had started shivering again. She said, ‘My God, Mr Spinola, you look—’

‘Like shit?’

‘Well,’ she replied after a moment, ‘yeah.’

We made our way across the lobby and stopped by a large copper-tinted window that looked out on to Forty-eighth Street.

‘What … what’s the matter? What happened?’

I focused on her properly now and saw that her concern was genuine. She was still holding on to my arm and for some reason this made me feel slightly better. Once

I acknowledged that, there was a knock-on effect and I managed to calm down considerably.

‘I was … up on sixty-two,’ I said, ‘but I didn’t—’

‘You couldn’t take the heat, right? I knew you weren’t one of Daddy’s business guys. Anyway, they’re nothing but a bunch of automatons.’

‘Automata. I think I was having a panic attack.’

‘Good for you. Anyone who doesn’t have a panic attack up there has something seriously wrong with them. And you can say automatons if you want.’ She paused.

‘You can say referendums.’

‘Yeah,’ I said, trying to catch my breath, ‘referendums, sure, but you wouldn’t say phenomenons, would you?’

She was wearing black jeans and a black sweater and was carrying a small leather doctor’s bag.

‘Not if I was talking to you, obviously. Anyway, one’s from Latin and the other’s from Greek, the rules are different, so fuck you. How are you feeling now?’

I took a few deep breaths and held my chest.

‘A little better, thanks.’

Aware, suddenly, of my newly acquired girth, I tried to stand up a little straighter and to breathe in.

Ginny studied me for a while.

‘Mr Spi—’

‘Eddie, call me Eddie. Jesus, I’m only thir—’

‘Eddie, are you sick?’

‘Hhn?’

‘I mean, are you unwell? Because you really look unwell. You’ve …’ – she struggled to find the right words – ‘… you’ve … since that time I saw you in the

apartment, you’ve put on some, well … some weight. And—’

‘My weight fluctuates.’

‘Yeah, but that was, what, only two weeks ago?’

I held up my hands. ‘Hey, can’t a fellah have a couple of creamcakes once in a while?’

She smiled, but then said, ‘Look, I’m sorry, I know it’s none of my business, but I just think you should look after yourself better.’

‘Yeah, yeah. I know. You’re right.’

My breathing was more regular now and I felt a good deal better. I asked her what she was doing.

‘I’m going up to see Daddy.’

‘You want to get some coffee instead?’

‘I can’t.’ She made a face. ‘Anyway, if you’ve just had a panic attack, I think you should probably be avoiding coffee. Drink juice, or something wholesome that

won’t exacerbate your stress levels.’

I straightened up again and leant back against the window.

‘Come and have a wholesome juice with me then.’

She looked directly into my eyes. Hers were bright blue – sparkling, cerulean, celestial.

‘I can’t.’

I was going to push it, ask her why not, but then I didn’t. I got a flickering sense that she was a little uncomfortable all of a sudden, which in turn made me

uncomfortable. It also struck me that feelings of panic probably came in waves, and that while an attack might abate, it might just as easily come back. I didn’t want to

be around here if that happened, even with Ginny.

‘OK, look,’ I said, ‘thank you very much. I’m really glad I bumped into you.’

She smiled. ‘Are you going to be OK?’

I nodded.

‘You sure?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine. Absolutely. Thanks.’

She patted me on the shoulder and said, ‘OK, so long, Eddie.’

A second later she was walking away from me across the lobby, her little doctor’s bag swinging by her side. Then – enveloped suddenly into the crowd – she was

gone.

*

I turned to face the huge window behind where I was standing and saw myself reflected in its bronze-tinted glass, people and cars outside on Forty-eighth Street

passing right through me as though I were a ghost. In addition to everything else, I now found myself in the inappropriate position of being disappointed that Van Loon’s

daughter apparently refused to see me as anything other than a genial associate of her father’s – and a pedantic, panic-stricken, overweight one at that. I left the building,

made my way over to Fifth Avenue and started walking downtown. Despite these grim thoughts, I somehow managed to keep things under control. Then, as I was

crossing Forty-second Street, something else occurred to me, and I shoved my hand out, on impulse, to hail a cab.

Twenty minutes later I was taking another elevator, this time up to the fourth floor of Lafayette Trading on Broad Street. This had been the scene of earlier triumphs

– days of excitement and success – and I figured now there was no longer anything to stop me from trying to re-create that. I didn’t have the advantage of being fullthrust

on MDT, OK, but neither did I care any more. My confidence had taken a bruising, and I just wanted to see how well I could do on my own.

There was a mixed reaction when I walked into the room. Some people, including Jay Zollo, went out of their way to ignore me. Others couldn’t help smiling and

doffing their baseball caps in my direction. Even though I hadn’t been there for a while and didn’t have any positions open, my account was still active. I was told my

‘usual’ spot was taken, but that others were available and I could start trading immediately if I wanted to.

As I took my place at one of the terminals and got ready, I could feel a curiosity growing in the room about what I intended to do. There was a definite buzz now,

with some people looking over my shoulder, and others keeping a close eye on things from the opposite side of the ‘pit’. It was a lot of pressure to be under and when I

found that I wasn’t quite sure how to proceed, I had to admit to myself that perhaps I’d been a little hasty in coming here. But it was too late to pull out.