He is making the decision to buy a trench coat. It’s a process. There is some nervousness, quite a bit. It is potentially embarrassing surely, and he’s leaving himself open to mockery. He imagines his colleagues at work – actually, Therese – he imagines Therese sneering behind the photocopier, cracking wise about it, asking whether there are boiled lollies in the pockets. Whatcha got on underneath there, Jack? A class act, is Therese. Therese is a dickhead, and she shouldn’t be running this show. Deep in Menswear he takes it off the hanger, puts the trench coat on. It’s taupe or camel or something like that and it makes him feel swift. He feels the quality of the rainproof cotton, admires the details on the cuffs, revels in the depth of the pockets. He likes the way it fits his shoulders, the way it covers him almost-but-not-quite to the knee. He pulls the collar up against the air conditioning and imagines getting into a black Dodge to drive into the Valley following a lead. He feels like Marlowe, heroic and flawed, and that’s worth $195.00 for sure. Therese be damned, and all your kind.