Fat Charlie wanted to explain that there was no water on his side of the bed, and that there was, in fact, no water closer than the bathroom sink, if he disinfected the toothbrush mug first, but he realized he was staring at one of several bottles of water, sitting on the bedside table. He reached his hand out, and closed fingers that felt like they belonged to someone else around one of them, then, with the sort of effort people usually reserve for hauling themselves up the final few feet of a sheer rock face, he rolled over in bed.

It was the vodka and orange.

Also, she was naked. At least, the bits of her he could see were.

She took the water, and pulled the sheet up to cover her chest. “Ta. He said to tell you,” she said, “when you woke, not to worry about calling work and telling them you were ill. He said to tell you he’s already taken care of it.”

Fat Charlie’s mind was not put at rest. His fears and worries were not allayed. Then again, in the condition he was in, he only had room in his head for a single thing to worry about at once, and right now he was worrying about whether or not he would make it to the bathroom in time.

“You’ll need more liquids,” said the girl. “You’ll need to replenish your electrolytes.”

Fat Charlie made it to the bathroom in time. Afterward, seeing he was there already, he stood under the shower until the room stopped undulating, and then he brushed his teeth without throwing up.

When he returned to the bedroom, the vodka and orange was no longer there, which was a relief to Fat Charlie, who had started to hope that she might have been an alcohol-induced delusion, like pink elephants or the nightmarish idea that he had taken to the stage to sing on the previous evening.

He could not find his dressing gown, so he pulled on a tracksuit, in order to feel dressed enough to visit the kitchen, at the far end of the hall.

His phone chimed, and he rummaged through his jacket, which was on the floor beside the bed, until he found it, and flipped it open. He grunted into it, as anonymously as he could, just in case it was someone from the Grahame Coats Agency trying to discern his whereabouts.

“It’s me,” said Spider’s voice. “Everything’s okay.”

“You told them I was dead?”

“Better than that. I told them I was you.”

“But.” Fat Charlie tried to think clearly. “But you’re not me.”

“Hey. I know that. I told them I was.”

“You don’t even look like me.”

“Brother of mine, you are harshing a potential mellow here. It’s all taken care of. Oops. Gotta go. The big boss needs to talk to me.”

“Grahame Coats? Look, Spider—”

But Spider had put down the phone, and the screen blanked.

Fat Charlie’s dressing gown came through the door. There was a girl inside it. It looked significantly better on her than it ever had on him. She was carrying a tray, on which was a water glass with a fizzing Alka-Seltzer in it, along with something in a mug.

“Drink both of these,” she told him. “The mug first. Just knock it back.”

“What’s in the mug?”

“Egg yolk, Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco, salt, dash of vodka, things like that,” she said. “Kill or cure. Now,” she told him, in tones that brooked no argument. “Drink.”

Fat Charlie drank.

“Oh my god,” he said.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “But you’re still alive.”

He wasn’t sure about that. He drank the Alka-Seltzer anyway. Something occurred to him.

“Um,” said Fat Charlie. “Um. Look. Last night. Did we. Um.”

She looked blank.

“Did we what?”

“Did we. You know. Do it?”

“You mean you don’t remember?” Her face fell. “You said it was the best you’d ever had. That it was as if you’d never made love to a woman before. You were part god, part animal, and part unstoppable sex machine—”

Fat Charlie didn’t know where to look. She giggled.

“I’m just winding you up,” she said. “I’d helped your brother get you home, we cleaned you up, and, after that, you know.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t know.”

“Well,” she said, “you were completely out cold, and it’s a big bed. I’m not sure where your brother slept. He must have the constitution of an ox. He was up at the crack of dawn, all bright and smiling.”

“He went into work,” said Fat Charlie. “He told them he was me.”

“Wouldn’t they be able to tell the difference? I mean, you’re not exactly twins.”

“Apparently not.” He shook his head. Then he looked at her. She stuck out a small, extremely pink tongue at him.

“What’s your name?”

“You mean you’ve forgotten? I remember your name. You’re Fat Charlie.”

“Charles,” he said. “Just Charles is fine.”

“I’m Daisy,” she said, and stuck out her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

They shook hands solemnly.

“I feel a bit better,” said Fat Charlie.

“Like I said,” she said. “Kill or cure.”

Spider was having a great day at the office. He almost never worked in offices. He almost never worked. Everything was new, everything was marvelous and strange, from the tiny lift that lurched him up to the fifth floor, to the warren-like offices of the Grahame Coats Agency. He stared, fascinated, at the glass case in the lobby filled with dusty awards. He wandered through the offices, and when anyone asked him who he was, he would say “I’m Fat Charlie Nancy,” and he’d say it in his god-voice, which would make whatever he said practically true.

He found the tea-room, and made himself several cups of tea. Then he carried them back to Fat Charlie’s desk, and arranged them around it in an artistic fashion. He started to play with the computer network. It asked him for a password. “I’m Fat Charlie Nancy,” he told the computer, but there were still places it didn’t want him to go, so he said “I’m Grahame Coats,” and it opened to him like a flower.

He looked at things on the computer until he got bored.

He dealt with the contents of Fat Charlie’s in basket. He dealt with Fat Charlie’s pending basket.

It occurred to him that Fat Charlie would be waking up around now, so he called him at home, in order to reassure him; he just felt that he was making a little headway when Grahame Coats put his head around the door, ran his fingers across his stoatlike lips, and beckoned.

“Gotta go,” Spider said to his brother. “The big boss needs to talk to me.” He put down the phone.

“Making private phone calls on company time, Nancy,” stated Grahame Coats.

“Abso-friggin’-lutely,” agreed Spider.

“And was that myself you were referring to as ‘the big boss’?” asked Grahame Coats. They walked to the end of the hallway and into his office.

“You’re the biggest,” said Spider. “And the bossest.”

Grahame Coats looked puzzled; he suspected he was being made fun of, but he was not certain, and this disturbed him.

“Well, sit ye down, sit ye down,” he said.

Spider sat him down.

It was Grahame Coats’s custom to keep the turnover of staff at the Grahame Coats Agency fairly constant. Some people came and went. Others came and remained until just before their jobs would begin to carry some kind of employment protection. Fat Charlie had been there longer than anyone: one year and eleven months. One month to go before redundancy payments or industrial tribunals could become a part of his life.

There was a speech that Grahame Coats gave, before he fired someone. He was very proud of his speech.

“Into each life,” he began, “a little rain must fall. There’s no cloud without a silver lining.”

“It’s an ill wind,” offered Spider, “that blows no one good.”

“Ah. Yes. Yes indeed. Well. As we pass through this vale of tears, we must pause to reflect that—”

“The first cut,” said Spider, “is the deepest.”

“What? Oh.” Grahame Coats scrabbled to remember what came next. “Happiness,” he pronounced, “is like a butterfly.”