I whistled at that penthouse, a twenty-fifth floor massive apartment about five times the size of my house in a prime location right on the business end of The Thames. The estate agent smiled at me. ‘Would you like a viewing?’ he asked. ‘Can’t afford ten million,’ I replied. ‘Well, we can take 50% deposit if you’d prefer.’ It didn’t take much consideration, I had the five million necessary to have the keys by dinnertime, and if I signed up on a low-interest high-payment mortgage deal, I could be in full ownership in just months. ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Yes, I’d like a viewing.’ Forget dinnertime, it was half four when I was making the wire transfer for five million direct to the estate agent who had re-possessed the house from a vendor who wasn’t keeping up repayments and was selling it for 90% of market value. I got the keys, and arranged to put up for sale my current home near my spot for two hundred grand — a slight profit on what I bought it for. The arrangement was that I paid off. Most of them alone. In the not-alone times, I’d had seven lovers ranging in age from nineteen to fifty-five. But most of them had been for only a night or two.What was the point?A Year and a Half Ago: It’s About the JourneyI remember the first night I moved into my trailer. Maddie came out of the house in her pajamas and robe with fluffy slippers and knocked on the door. It was easy. For a few days, until I got the trailer stocked and everything moved into it, it was parked in the carport. She brought hot cocoa packets and a carton of milk. The first thing I’d moved into the trailer was my coffee mugs.“So, Dad,” she began. She was using her most mature voice—the voice of reason. “What’s your goal? Are you out to discover yourself? Do you have a quest to see all the states? The National Parks? Old girlfriends?” We laughed. I pulled a bottle of crème de menthe out of the drawer that I’d designated as my liquor cabinet, although there was only a bottle of wine and half a bottle of.
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