When Henry Shepherd peeled crab for his young assistant, Tamara Lee, who’d “lost her appetite”, everyone at the table glanced awkwardly at me.

Just a minute earlier, I’d proudly told the investors, “His hands are insured for millions. He won’t even hold a dinner knife to protect them.”

To salvage the situation, I downed three shots of whisky in one go. The metallic tang of blood rose in my throat, but I forced it down.

Before tensions could ease, Henry announced that he was leaving early to take Tamara to eat what she wanted.

He even fought an investor over it.

I took the slap meant for him.