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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.