The Drill.
It came too easily to his lips, he had realised, as he put down the phone. Steele was the name he answered to without thinking. He had started to think of himself as Steele. It was a danger sign.
So was the drawer in the kitchen, where a small collection of movie and theatre tickets and even a few photographs were silently testifying to a disturbingly sentimental side of this Steele character.
He looked in the mirror and they all looked back at him, Fabrini, Blaine, Chalmers, all of them and they raised a collective eyebrow.
"I can still walk away." he said.
"Prove it." said the little Daniel he kept in his head.
He smiled at his accusers in the mirror. "I could go today. No regrets."
"None?" said little Daniel.
"Well, maybe one." said Steele, "But there are other fish in the sea."
He sounded unconvincing, even to himself. He looked at the mirror again and nodded. "You want proof, I can prove it. I'm going to pack a case, call Laura and walk out of here. An exit drill."
Packing was easy, automatic, he just started with the most expensive stuff and put as much into the case as he could without crushing the fabric. He went to the shameful drawer and grabbed everything in it, intending to burn them. Then he smiled. He wasn't really leaving permanently. He could leave the stuff for now.
He collected the few items he kept by the bed and smoothed the already immaculate covers. "Criminal waste," he said, "A bed that big and no-one to share it with." There had been no shortage of volunteers, but it was like being offered cheap white wine when his thirst was for vintage champagne. In Europe, he would become accustomed to a more varied wine list again, but while that elegant bottle remained on the table, the lesser vintages would never appeal.
Inner Daniel was chuckling as Steele approached the phone. He decided to book the tickets first. Panama felt like a good choice. He'd spend a month there and then come home ... He froze. Home? That wasn't a word he threw around lightly. He sat down. He had to know he could leave. There always had to be a way out. He wasn't one of those people who could settle down in one life with one woman and one honest career. His lack of roots may make him vulnerable in life's storms, but it had always guaranteed that he could move on easily.
He had no home, no obligations, nothing to keep him from Panama or France or a trip to New Zealand if he fancied one. Los Angeles was a nice place to stay, but he wouldn't want to live there, with Laura, a couple of kids, a dog ... Inner Daniel was falling off his bar stool.
He booked the ticket out to Panama, no return flight. Maybe he would come back, maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he'd get a better offer. Any offer would be better than the non-offer he had from Laura. What was he hanging around for anyway?
He dialled Laura's home. The phone rang for a while. He wondered where she was and whether she was with someone.
"Mother, I'm trying to work." she said.
"Well, stop it at once." he said, "Haven't you colonials heard of the weekend?"
"Mr Steele?" she said, "Is something wrong?"
"Not with me." he said, "I haven't done a stroke of work all day and now I'm about to recover from all my lack of labour with a nice, chilled glass of California's best."
"Sounds lovely." she said.
He looked at the packed case, the scribbled notes about the flight and he tried to find a form of words that would say goodbye without slamming any doors. Little Daniel offered no help. His identity bracelet declared he was Remington and what would Remington do in this situation?
"It travels surprisingly well." he said, "Why don't I call Fred and bring it over to your place? I'm sure you have a couple of glasses and then I can explain, at length, why weekends are not for working."
"What would I do without you, Mr Steele?" she said.
He smiled. Only the worst cad in the world would walk out on her right now. "Give me half an hour." he said, "I'll bring dinner too."
The End.