You can probably guess the rest. We argued like crazy as my dreams, held for so long during those long-drawn-out days in the office, steadily fell apart. I was selfish. I kept threatening to up sticks and head home. One day, Yvonne decided she'd had enough and told me I was welcome to go. We agreed to have a three-month trial separation. I returned to England, staying in Dom's spare room, hoping that the change of scenery would provide the inspiration I needed for Conspiracy. But it didn't. Instead, just as I was about to ask to move back in with Yvonne, having finally realized that living without her and Chloe would only make me unhappy, she announced that she'd met someone else. His name was Nigel, and he was another ex-pat. She and Chloe are still living with him, except now they've moved south, to Montpellier.

And my high-octane page-turner set in the murky world of high finance?

'No,' I told Jenny, a rueful smile on my face. 'I never did finish it.'

'That's a pity,' she said, looking disappointed. 'After all the work you put into it.'

'Sometimes you've just got to know when to quit.' I took a decent gulp of the vodka Red Bull. 'But,' I added, keen to keep her interest, 'I'm not the kind to give up. I'm writing another one now, and guess what?'

Her face brightened. 'What?'

'I've got an agent, a guy who thinks he can sell it. I sent him the first ten chapters and he took me on on the basis of them.'

'Can you tell me what it's about?' she asked, leaning forward in her seat, sounding genuinely interested.

So I told her all about Maxwell.

Maxwell was something of a legend in north London underworld circles, a former loanshark and enforcer now in his fifties who was reputed to be as strong as an ox and possessed of the highly useful loansharking talent of being able to punch open doors. In other words, not the kind of man you wanted to cross. I'd met him a few months back at a party in Hoxton hosted by one of Ramon's salsa students. Maxwell was standing around dealing coke and generally looking menacing, and somehow I'd ended up talking to him.

When I told him I was a writer (which strictly speaking was true, even though I'd never been paid a penny for it), Maxwell had suddenly become very interested. 'I've got plenty of stories to tell,' he growled, following this revelation with the immortal line 'you could turn my life into a book', which, even as a rank amateur in the literary world, I must have heard a hundred times before, usually from people whose lives would have made a bloody awful book. But in Maxwell's case, I'd seen a degree of potential.

By this time, Conspiracy was already pretty much down the pan, so I'd gone to the cottage in Berkshire where Maxwell had retired on his ill-gotten gains to interview him, not entirely sure what to expect. What I got was a friendly charismatic guy who was a hugely gregarious storyteller with a never-ending stream of original anecdotes, who'd clearly lived the kind of life that would make a perfect book. I envisaged it as a kind of British riposte to Goodfellas: a thug's journey through Britain's seedy underbelly from childhood to middle age, encompassing the crimes he'd committed along the way, and adding in a few he hadn't, including a couple of murders, just for good measure.

Maxwell hadn't taken much persuading. Since he loved talking about his exploits it stood to reason that he'd jump at the chance to make some money from them. And so, a couple of months earlier, we'd finally got down to work, and I'd produced the first ten chapters, focusing on his early life, which was the part that got me my agent. Since then I'd been ploughing slowly through the rest of it, trying to ignore the fact that what little money I had left in the world was rapidly running out. I'd even contemplated tapping Maxwell for a loan, but had quickly thought better of it. My front door was flimsy and I didn't think he'd grant me any special favours if I didn't pay him back.

When I'd finished talking, having thrown in a couple of choice Maxwell anecdotes, Jenny shook her head in amazement. 'God,' she said, draining the last of her second spritzer, 'it's incredible to think people like that exist.'

'I can promise you they do.'

'He sounds awful,' she said with a mock shudder, but I could tell from the look in her eyes that a part of her had found hearing about him exciting.

'He's like a lot of criminals,' I answered, trying to sound authoritative. 'They can be great fun right up until the minute you piss them off. Then they're not very nice people at all.'

She looked at me and smiled, and I was sure there was something suggestive in her expression. The pub was shutting and, apart from the barman who was collecting up the glasses, we were the only ones left.

I suddenly realized that I didn't want this evening to end. I hadn't been out on my own with a woman for months, and I was enjoying her company. 'Do you fancy going on somewhere?' I asked, trying to sound as casual as possible. 'I know a couple of wine bars round here where we can get a late drink.'

'I would do, but I've got work in the morning and I could do without the sore head.'

Jenny got to her feet, and I followed suit. I was disappointed, but I didn't show it. It was probably for the best: she was Dom's ex-girlfriend and it didn't feel right being too interested in her.

But as we stepped out of the pub and into the chilly night air, she surprised me by asking if I fancied popping round to hers for a nightcap. 'I'm only a five-minute taxi ride from here.'

It was difficult to tell from her tone and demeanour whether she meant the invitation as an extension to our chat or something more, but either way I forgot my earlier inhibitions, hesitating for all of a second before answering, 'Sure, that'd be great.' After all, it could do no harm. Just a drink. See what happens.

How wrong I was.

Jenny lived in a flashy-looking new-build apartment block in one of the nicer parts of north Islington which, with its bright lights and reliance on tinted glass, looked more like the head office of some trendy management consultants than the kind of place anyone in their right mind would want to live. It also looked extremely pricey, and I remember thinking that I ought to become a web-based travel agent if it paid that much, but knowing at the same time that it didn't.

As the taxi pulled up outside, she reached into her handbag to pay the driver but, chivalrous to the last, I gave him my last ten-pound note, which, with London cab prices being what they are, only just managed to cover it.

'There's something I ought to tell you,' she said when we were standing on the pavement.

The last time I'd heard that line it was followed by my ex-wife dropping the bombshell that she'd fallen in love with a man called Nigel. Trying not to let that bother me, I adopted the most neutral expression I could manage and asked Jenny what it was.

She put a hand on my arm, and fixed me with those big brown eyes. I noticed she was a little unsteady on her feet. 'You know me and Dom broke up a while back?'

'Uh-huh,' I said, conscious that I was wobbling too.

'He's been trying to get back with me recently. Phoning up. Calling round. Things like that.'

I had a sinking feeling. I'd thought the two of them were history. Dom hadn't been mentioned all evening, and now, hearing his name spoken out loud, I experienced a sudden rush of guilt.

'I know you and he are very good friends,' she continued, 'so I thought it was fair to tell you that. He's really interested in us starting up again. But I'm not.' She moved closer so our faces were only a few inches apart. 'That's why you're here.'

I wasn't sure what to say, so I plumped for saying nothing. Nor did I resist as she took me by the hand and led me up to the front entrance of the building, although I now knew this was going to be more than just an extension to our chat.