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I left the office at around 4 p.m. and went to Tenth Street, where I’d arranged to meet my landlord. I handed over the keys and took away the remainder of my things – including the envelope of MDT pills. It was strange closing the door for the last time and walking out of the building, because it wasn’t just that I was leaving an apartment behind, a place I’d been in for six years – I felt at some level that I was leaving myself behind. Over the past few weeks, I had shed much of who I was, and even though I’d done this with considerable abandon, I think I’d unconsciously felt that as long as I was still living in the apartment on Tenth Street I would always have the option, if it became necessary, to reverse the process – as though the place contained a part of me that was ineradicable, some form of genetic sequencing embedded in the floorboards and the walls that could be used to reconstitute my movements, my daily habits, all of who I was. But now, climbing into the back seat of a cab on First Avenue – with the last few items from the apartment stuffed in a holdall – I knew for sure, finally, that I was cutting myself adrift.

A little over an hour later I was gazing out at the city from the sixty-eighth floor of the Celestial Building. Surrounded by unpacked boxes and wooden crates, I was standing in the main living area, wearing only a bathrobe and sipping a glass of champagne. The view was spectacular and the evening that lay ahead promised, in its own way, to be equally spectacular. And I remember thinking at the time that, well, if this was what being adrift was like, then I reckoned I could probably get used to it …

I got to Van Loon’s place on Park Avenue for eight o’clock and was shown into a large, chintzy reception room. Van Loon himself appeared after a few minutes and offered me a drink. He seemed a little agitated. He told me that his wife was away and that he wasn’t very comfortable entertaining without her. I reminded him that apart from ourselves, the dinner was just going to be Hank Atwood, Dan Bloom and one adviser apiece from their respective negotiating teams. It wasn’t some extravagant society bash he was throwing. It would be simple, casual, and at the same time we’d get a little business done. It would be discreet, but with far-reaching implications.

Van Loon slapped me gently on the back ‘“Discreet, but with far-reaching implications.” I like that.’

The others arrived in two shifts, about five minutes apart, and soon we were all standing around, glasses in hand, pointedly not discussing the MCL-Abraxas merger. In line with the casual dress-code for the evening, I was wearing a black cashmere sweater and black wool trousers, but everyone else, including Van Loon, was in chinos and Polo shirts. This made me feel slightly different – and in a way it reinforced the notion that I was taking part in some supersophisticated computer game. I was identified as the hero by being dressed differently, in black. The enemy, in chinos and Polo shirts, were all around me and I had to schmooze them to death before they realized that I was a phony and froze me out.

This mild feeling of alienation lingered through the early part of the evening, but it wasn’t actually unpleasant, and it occurred to me after a while just what was going on. I’d done this. I’d done the merger negotiations thing. I’d helped to structure a huge corporate deal – but now it was over. This dinner was only a formality. I wanted to move on to something else.

As if they somehow sensed this in me, both Hank Atwood and Dan Bloom, separately, discreetly, intimated that if I was interested – down the line, of course – there might be some … role I could play in their newly formed media behemoth. I was circumspect in how I responded to these overtures, making out that loyalty to Van Loon was my first priority, but naturally I was flattered to be asked. I didn’t know what I would want from such an arrangement in any case – except that it would have to be different from what I’d been doing up to that point. Maybe I could run a movie studio, or plot some new global corporate strategy for the company.

Or maybe I could branch out altogether, and diversify. Go into politics. Run for the Senate.

We drifted into an adjoining room and took our places at a large, round dining table, and as I elaborated mentally on the notion of going into politics, I simultaneously engaged with Dan Bloom in a conversation about single malt Scotch whiskies. This dreamy, distracted state of mind persisted throughout the meal (tagliatelle with jugged hare and English peas, followed by venison sautéed in chestnuts), and must have made me seem quite aloof. Once or twice, I even saw Van Loon looking over at me, a puzzled, worried expression on his face.