“You think I’m joking? Come on, Terry, you work with cars all day, every day, you must see I’m right.” He flicked a speck from the cuff of his jacket. Armani, of course. “Take a look at that muscular roadster. A mean machine, if ever I saw one. When that beast growls, you’d better watch out.”
I laughed. Same old Patrick. People always laughed when he was around. He never needed encouragement and now he was in full flow.
“And the model with lissom lines over there? Chic and elegant, but beware. You can’t put your trust in her.”
“Like Olivia Lumb,” I said, joining in. Out of the blue, our old friendship was being rekindled. “Remember warning me off that night at the Bali, telling me I’d do better with Sarah-Jane? I wonder whatever happened to Olivia.”
Something changed in Patrick’s expression, as if suddenly his skin had been stretched too tight over his cheekbones. But he kept smiling. Even as a teenager, I’d envied the whiteness of his teeth, but now they shone with all the brilliance that cosmetic dentistry can bestow. When he spoke, his voice hadn’t lost a degree of warmth.
“Matter of fact, Terry, I married her.”
“Oh, right.”
My face burned for a few moments, but what had I said? Olivia was beautiful, he’d fallen on his feet. As usual. Years ago, his nickname was Lucky Patrick, everyone called him that, even those who hated him. And a few kids did hate him, the sour and bitter ones who were jealous that he only had to snap his fingers and any girl would come running. Olivia Lumb, eh? After Patrick himself told me that she was bad news, the night of the leavers’ disco?
Frankly, I’d always thought she was out of my league, but that night a couple of drinks emboldened me. When I confided in Patrick that I meant to ask her for a dance, he warned me she was heartless and selfish. Not that she cared so well even for herself. She went on eating binges and then made herself sick. She’d scratched at her wrists with her brother’s penknife, she’d swallowed her mum’s sleeping pills and been rushed into hospital to have her stomach pumped. She dosed up with Prozac because she couldn’t cope; she was the ultimate mixed-up kid.
Afterwards, I spent the evening in a corner, talking nonstop and cracking jokes to cheer up Sarah-Jane, whose crush on Patrick he’d encouraged, then failed to reciprocate. Six weeks later I proposed and she said yes. I owed so much to Patrick; his words of warning and his playing hard-to-get with Sarah-Jane had changed my life.
I mustered a man-to-man grin. “Lucky Patrick, eh?”
“Yes,” Patrick said. “Lucky me.”
“She was the most gorgeous girl in the class,” I said quickly. “Obviously I never had a chance. You did me a favour, it avoided any embarrassment. So you finished up together? Well, congratulations.”
“Know something, Terry? You really haven’t changed.”
“You don’t think so?” I took it as a compliment, but with Patrick you could never be quite sure. Even at seventeen, at eighteen, his wit used to sting.
“’Course not,” he assured me. “A snappy mover, always smart and reliable, even if your steering is a bit erratic, lets you down every now and then.”
I wasn’t offended. No point in taking umbrage with Patrick. You could never win an argument, he shifted his ground with the speed of a Ferrari. Besides, he was right. Occasionally I do try too hard, I suppose. I go over the top when I’m trying to close a difficult sale. I take corners too fast when I’m trying out a new sports car. I’m one endorsement away from losing my licence; I know I ought to take more care.
“It’s great to see you again,” I said.
I meant it, and not only because he fancied buying our top-of-the-range executive saloon. The sale would guarantee enough commission to earn the award for representative of the month and win a weekend break for two in Rome, no expense spared. Just the pick-me-up Sarah-Jane needed. More even than that, I’d missed Patrick. We’d hung around together at sixth-form college. Both of us were bored with the academic stuff, neither of us wanted to doss around at uni for another three years, simply to help the government massage the employment figures. We yearned to get out into the real world and start earning serious money. I learned a lot from Patrick, he was like a smart older brother, although there were only six months between us. He talked about going into sales and that’s where I got the idea for my own career. But I didn’t need telling that he’d climbed the greasy pole much faster. The Swiss watch and the cream, crisply tailored suit spoke louder than any words.
Fixing on his Ray-Ban Aviators, he nodded at the forecourt. “Let’s have a closer look, shall we?”
“You’ll love her.”
We strolled into the sun, side by side, just like old times. Showing Patrick the features, and as he put the car through its paces on the test drive, I felt confidence surging through me, revving up my engine. This was what I did, it wasn’t just selling cars, it was selling dreams. I knew the brochure by heart, the phrases came spinning out as if I’d just thought of them.
...The style is very emotive... good looks based on clear reasoning... touch the sports-mode console button for a yet more spirited ride... sensuous curves of the door panels and dashboard... suspension, chassis, and engine all operate in perfect harmony... the precise synergy... the fifteen-speaker premium system wraps your senses in rich, true-to-life, beautiful surround sound with concert-hall acoustics... intelligent thermal control seat heating... ultra-sonic sensors for the science of perfect parking... real-time enabled DVD-based satellite navigation... twin tailpipe baffles lend a sporting accent... potent, passionate, state-of-the-art... blending priceless power with complete control... not so much the finest car in its class as a definitive lifestyle statement.
They are the poets of the twenty-first century, in my opinion, these men (or maybe women?) who script the luxury-car brochures. When I borrow their words, for a few minutes I feel like an actor, declaiming Shakespeare on the stage. And guess what Shakespeare would be writing if he were alive today? Not stodgy plays about tempests or Julius Caesar, that’s for sure.
“So what do you think?” I asked as we pulled back onto the forecourt. “Isn’t it simply the smoothest ride you’ve ever known?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Patrick’s long fingers grazed the leather upholstery. For some strange reason, a picture jostled into my head, an image of him stroking Olivia’s pale face while he murmured to her. “Lovely mover. So what sort of deal are we talking for cash up-front?”
I clasped his arm. “For you, I’m sure we can sort out something very special.”
He smiled at me in a hungry way. Like a fat man contemplating an unwrapped chocolate bar.
“You’ve made a good salesman, Terry, one of the best. I can picture you with other customers, teasing them like an angler with a fish on the line.”
His words cheered me as we discussed figures. I knew Patrick was a skilled negotiator and I did my best to show him how much I too had learned. Working in tandem with Bernard, my sales director, like a comic and a sad-faced straight man, I utilised every — I nearly said “trick in the book” — stratagem to avoid taking too much of a bite out of our profit margin. It wasn’t exactly a success, because half an hour later we were signing up to the biggest discount I’d ever agreed to. The commission was much less than I’d anticipated, but even Bernard was no match for Patrick. I could see why my old friend was no longer in sales. He’d made enough to set up his own business. Financial services. While Bernard was making a nervous call to seek head-office authorisation, Patrick whispered that he could give me a fantastic opportunity with tax-efficient shelters for my investments. He’d be happy to design a personal balanced-risk strategy for me, as a sort of thank-you for my candour as well as the flexibility on the price of his car.