“This has got nothing to do with ‘good’ or ‘bad.’ Nothing whatsoever.”

“It could only be a client of hers. She hasn’t got that kind of money.”

“I didn’t say she was directly responsible. We’ve got to find out on whose behalf she was acting.”

“I’ll give her another call,” Ali said, talking to himself. “It may be a good idea to bring round a bottle of wine. In a relaxed environment, face-to-face, just the two of us… it’s no good talking on the phone…”

“Well, she’s your friend, and you doubtless know the most effective way of dealing with her…”

Ali may have appeared to be ignoring me, but he caught my little dig. Our eyes met. I smiled wickedly, the all-knowing big brother or sister.

“Alright then!” he burst out. “I’ll suck it up again and sacrifice for the team!”

“Oh, I see! A real sacrifice, was it? And all for a little profit!”

“She’s not much to look at, but she’s sharp as a tack. Well brought up, cultured…”

“Sounds like the perfect business prospect. Is that how they reeled you in?”

“You could say so, I guess.”

He’d managed to overcome the genuine sense of embarrassment real gentlemen feel when talking about their conquests. We’d strayed into new territory, and he seemed relieved that we’d broached the sensitive subject for the first time ever.

“Try to create an opportunity to thank her. Without delay. I think you should call her now.”

“You mean right this minute?”

“Yes, of course.” I said. “And I’d like to come, too, unless you think I’d be a distraction.”

We arranged to meet at the rooftop bar of the former Sheraton, a place I hadn’t visited or even thought of for many years, ever since it had changed hands and become the Ceylan Otel. When I remembered the stunning view, I could have kicked myself for not having paid a visit earlier.

Less than an hour remained before our rendezvous. Evening traffic is always horrendous, and we’d have to leave almost immediately. I wouldn’t be able to stop at home for a shower and change of clothes, so I phoned Ponpon, just to ensure that she wouldn’t have a panic attack at my absence. She must have been busy with God knows what, for she didn’t pick up. In soothing tones, I left a message informing her I would be late, and that there was no need to worry.

Ali and I got into his two-seat sports car: a dark red Aston Martin DB5 like the one he’d fallen in love with as a child watching a James Bond film. At around the same time Ali was transfixed by fast cars, I would have been having a huge crush on Sean Connery, or enviously admiring a Bond girl. I remembered the gadget-laden vehicles, but I couldn’t recollect an Aston Martin like the one in which I was now sitting. I suppose that’s what sets boys apart from girls. Ali had been ordering spare parts and working on his car for years, but it still wasn’t to his liking. Doubled over in our seats, and likely to end up in each other’s laps at any moment, we proceeded through heavy traffic toward Taksim. As always, Ali exuded Calvin Klein One.

“Forgive me for saying so,” he said, screwing up his face, “but you smell a bit funny.”

I wasn’t pleased by the unexpected comment.

“Bad?” I asked, instinctively opening the window.

“Not bad, really, just… different,” he said. “Sharp and sour. Not an odor I’d associate with you. It’s familiar, but strange. Anyway, you don’t have to open the window in this weather. I’ve got some aftershave in my bag, if you like.”

When I finally realized what was behind the smell, and remembered how much fun I’d had, my body was once again flooded with sweet warmth. That mysterious odor is, of course, familiar to all men. Swollen with a contradictory mixture of pride and shame, I kept my mouth shut for the rest of the ride. Ali whistled along to a CD. He only whistles when he’s tense.

By the time we made it to Taksim, it was time for our meeting.

Stepping out of the elevator into the roof bar, we took a couple of chairs in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was late enough for me to order a Virgin Mary; Ali requested a neat whiskey, specifying that it not be J &B. Like anyone claiming to know his whiskey, he has only contempt for that particular brand. The panoramic view was just as breathtaking as I’d remembered: to one side, the green valley of Maçka and the Bosphorus Bridge brought to life by a glittering red and white stream of flowing traffic; to the other side, beyond the rooftops of Taksim Square and the Golden Horn, the domes and minarets of the old city. We seemed to be hovering over Taksim, the heart of the city, as it pulsed with a rhythmic surge of cars and people.

The sound of approaching footsteps reached my ears even before the drinks had arrived. To be more precise, coming up behind me was a woman totally inept at walking in high heels, as evidenced by the clacking racket she made. A woman not possessed of grace or elegance. Someone who now had a black mark against her.

Ali, who was facing the door, rose to his feet to greet the stomper. My feminine side paid no mind to the men’s clothing I was wearing, and I remained seated and graciously ladylike. Had I been riled by the approach of a rival? I gracefully swiveled my head slightly to one side.

The woman approaching our table wore what she took to be fashionably pink sunglasses, but I still recognized her. Yes, it was the lawyer from dear Haluk’s office, the nosy creature who’d peeked in at me when I was in the waiting room. The phony smile on my lips froze. I had no idea what to do.

A thousand images ran through my mind. A chain reaction of interconnected conspiracy theories, each more dire than the last! I hadn’t played chess for years, but my skill at forward strategic planning was undiminished.

She had never seen me in a “civilian” getup. The person she’d met was a girl, dressed to the nines and formidable. Sitting here before her now was an unshaven man in a V-neck sweater and black jeans, the occasional flourished hand a dead giveaway only to the astute eye of an experienced observer. It was unlikely, but still possible, that she would recognize me. But so what if she did? There was no reason to panic. She was the one with a problem, and in much deeper than me. The only thing was, she might not have realized it yet.

We were introduced and she took a seat. As she pretended to chat nonchalantly with Ali, she kept an eye trained on my every move and gesture, trying to place me. It was, of course, quite an undertaking: Even if she thought she recognized me, she couldn’t openly ask me if I was “she.” I was determined not to make her task any easier. Every once in a while, I’d join in the conversation with a subtle riposte or jibe, then fix her with a compassionate stare, looking directly into her eyes and effortlessly winding her up. For some reason I was finding it impossible to warm to our Sibel. Nor did I have any intention of doing so. Isn’t it enough that she spends every day in close proximity to the divine Haluk?