‘Well done, Jack.’
I easily succumbed to his pushing now, like a suitably chastised child. ‘Well?’
‘Well what? If that’s casting Driesler from your mind I’d hate to be around when you actually think about him. What the hell were you thinking of?’
‘The man’s a fuckwit. You know that and I know that and it’s time someone said so instead of all this pussy-footing around.’
‘Driesler is many things, but he’s not a…what you say. The company will take care of him, but when the time’s right. Jack, you shouldn’t underestimate him. He can damage you, and all you do with these kinds of comments is draw attention to him and show that you’re worried about his claims. Think about the Nobel, Jack. Comments like you’ve just made won’t win you any friends with the committee—you know how they hate disputes.’
Typical Bebe: he was so good at playing the guilt card and he was even better at knowing my appetites. He knew that, despite my indifference to the world, there was still the burning desire to win the Nobel. I might not care for my colleagues but I did care about the one accolade that meant real and not false recognition. Bebe was right, what I’d said was not good news for the committee. Now I regretted my childish outburst. ‘And I don’t suppose the company guys will be too pleased either.’
Bebe smiled that smile of his. He had no children: if he did, this smile would have been for them, but he saved this gift for me. ‘I’ll handle them. I’ll tell them you’re tired after the UK shows, you know, stressed. You’ll get a telling off, they’ll increase the security, then it will be forgotten.’ He saw the continued worry. ‘It’s all right, they won’t stop the parties.’
‘Is there anything I should do?’
‘No, leave it to me. I’ll write an apology and talk to some of the committee. You still have a lot of friends there, a lot of friends.’
There were a hundred and fifty guests already gathered in the Orchid Room, which pulsed with music and talk. Before the inevitable crush engulfed me, Bebe placed a full glass of tequila and ice into my hand. ‘Here’s your lemonade, Jack,’ he shouted in a more exaggerated manner than was necessary, but it gained the ear of the nearest five people. Instantly those standing close were sucked closer by my mere presence and those on the outer stepped forward to fill the void. I was a social magnet. Many of the people I recognised: they were always at these parties. They represented either Taikon or the myriad of other smaller companies who are allowed a piece of my pie in return for some corporate favours to Taikon. I’m continuously told how I rely on these people, but I know and they know that they actually rely on me.
I have learnt the art of navigating these parties. It is a kind of charisma autopilot. Push the button and I’m set on a weaving course through the throng, spinning the same old lines, placing the same old pat on the back; an ear to a conversation, a smile and a laugh at the appropriate moment. One eye, though, is on the women. It appraises arses, thighs and the delicious curve of a stocking-covered calf. I know so many of these women are available to me. The mere sight of my entrance places them on heightened alert, ready to meet me. Well, meet may be a distortion of the truth. I never just meet women at parties any more. Any flirtatious movement of an eye or brush of the shoulder is intended to gain an introduction or a favour. Some are here simply to sample sex with the famous, some to advance themselves, some to surreptitiously gain advantage for another—and then there are the girls Bebe has paid to be here, to broaden horizons and ensure choice. Whatever the motive, nothing is left to chance; there’s nothing involuntary or spontaneous at these parties. I miss the innocent times, the genuine and uncertain meetings, the anxiety of wondering if this might be the lucky night. I’ve given up on women with consequences. More often than not I gravitate to Bebe’s dubious girls—definitely no consequences there.
I saw two women who went straight on the A-list. Both were dark-haired, early thirties, wearing dresses that hugged slender hips and revealed silky black calves—shining paths to hidden treasure. One was a genuine guest, accompanying George Mason, but she has caught my eye twice; the other had been invited by Bebe.
‘George, how are you?’ We shook hands vigorously, but I ensured that my attention was saved for his companion. She was quite gorgeous up close. No heavy make-up needed to cover facial blemishes. Her skin was perfect.
‘Good, Jack, good. Great show tonight, fucking dynamic.’
‘Thank you, George.’ George Mason was one of the important men at the party. Vice-president of Taikon’s European division, he’s the man who signs the cheques and, more importantly, signs my cheques. Shagging his woman would be an insane decision. ‘It means so much to me to hear you say you enjoyed the show, George. You know how much I value your comments.’ I moved closer to his companion until my thigh touched hers.
‘Likewise, Jack, likewise. We value you very, very highly and you’re doing a wonderful job.’ I wondered what he might think of me when he heard about the impromptu press conference just half an hour before. Or just what was in my mind for his woman. George’s temper was legendary. Bebe said he was a thrower and that whenever George was angry anything on his desk was at risk. ‘Let’s hope this little spat with Driesler can be sorted out before things get into a slanging match. We don’t want him fucking up everything we’ve worked so hard for.’
Whoops. I smiled bravely—poor George was behind the news. ‘No, we don’t. He’s just a little prick anyway.’
‘Quite. Still, he needs to be put to rest.’ He smiled at me. ‘We wouldn’t want to diminish our investment, would we?’
‘No, George.’
‘Too much money spent on you to find out you might be wrong.’ Despite his nervous laugh the seriousness of the comment wasn’t lost. Clearly there had been discussion on the subject at the highest levels in Taikon. I could just imagine the frenzied email and memorandum traffic between Taikon’s various global offices as every scenario was considered and played out to possible end games. Nothing would be left to chance. It occurred to me that George already knew my fate if my theory was proved wrong. In fact he was probably responsible for implementing any plans.
‘I’m right, George, Superforce is the real deal, you can trust me.’
‘Oh I do, Jack.’ He spoke with some menace to remind me of his authority.
‘Now, George, enough of work. Are you going to introduce me to your friend?’
Obviously, from the degree of his wince, he could think of nothing worse. He hopped from one foot to the other. After all, George knew better than anyone what went on backstage. ‘Of course, how rude of me.’ His voice was edged with fear. ‘Jack, let me introduce Lucy.’
‘Lucy, delighted.’ I kissed her hand, an old-fashioned gesture I know, but one I felt she might appreciate. Poor George positively bristled. The perfume on her wrist was fresh and expensive. Her fingers lingered on mine as she slowly withdrew them. ‘Tell me, Lucy, who’s your favourite, John Lennon or Paul McCartney?’
‘Sorry?’
‘If you had the choice of either Lennon or McCartney, which one would you like to spend the evening with?’
She giggled. ‘Oh, I see. I think it would be McCartney.’
Pretending to catch the nod of someone across the room, I made my excuses, to the amazement of an open-mouthed Lucy and the relief of a sweating George, and left. Bebe replaced my empty glass with another filled with tequila and ice before I approached the second woman on my list. I swallowed half the drink in one long gulp. My head was entering a familiar grey zone and I was feeling mellow. She was standing alone. ‘Hi, my name is Jack Mitchell.’