Half Plus Seven (28 page)

Miles wore the metaphorical yellow jersey, dressed head-to-toe in white Ralph Lauren, blonde hair swept back and just so, looking to all the world as if he was on holiday in Mustique. Which he often was. He sat on the bike at the peak of the formation, driving his men forward from the front like an Ivy League captain parachuted in to lead a ragtag platoon deep into the jungle of Iwo Jima.

‘In a hope-less place.'

‘Okay, people, time for just one more 5 minute sprint…' said Andrei.

‘You've got to be fucking kidding,' screeched Jill, a furball of cusses, curls and sweat.

‘Oh come on, Jillian,' pleaded Andrei, his wry smile planted across his chiselled chin, ‘I am joking. Maybe we sprint some more next time. Just me and you. I joke, Jillian, I joke!' Jill had her back to me but I could feel the heat from her scowl through the back of her head.

‘Okay, people, take it down to eighty, ease up now, people. And then down to sixty…' Rihanna now jarred with the pedal revolutions, like hard house at a tea dance.

‘Slow it up, people, you're nearly home…'

As we warmed down, my mind wandered on how to warm up the existences of the people around me, the people who, like it or lump it, I spent the majority of my waking hours with.

Jill, Pete, Trent, Carol, Miles.

And Christy.

And those not here; Craig, Connie, Mum, even Barry.

And Christy.

To misappropriate Spinal Tap's Nigel Tufnel, it was time to turn it up to eleven.

‘Great job, people. Great job. I will see you all next week.'

Chapter 27

‘We can't eat an elephant whole,' was one of Miles' most well-worn edicts. Perhaps for the first time in my professional life I was about to follow the Big Dog's advice.

As with most things at Morgan & Schwarz, it came back to one man. If we could find a pot at the end of the rainbow for Pete the perennial virgin, surely salvation could be grasped for all of us damned souls. Despite what old wives would have you believe, the route to happiness for the modern man wasn't through the stomach. Pete was still rather traditional. We'd gone for lunch.

Being particular with his pennies, he jumped at the mere suggestion of a free lunch, albeit suspiciously.

‘You know what they say don't you, Bill?' he said as we walked the two blocks to the restaurant, squeezing our way through the rest of the suits.

‘They say lots of things, Pete.'

‘Yes, I know that, Bill,' he chuckled, ‘but I meant what they say in relation to our current little escapade.'

‘No, what do they say, Pete?' I humoured him.

‘They say there's no such thing as a free lunch.' He winked and nudged me in the best bawdy fashion, pushing me into a pinstriper who broke his stride to tut in my direction.

‘Look, Pete, can't a man take his fellow man for some Dim Sum, friend to friend?' Because like it or not, that's what Pete had become. Sure, in my fantasies I envisaged myself rolling around town with Keith Richards and Baudelaire, dressed as dandies, stinking of sex and dripping in drugs, gadding about on the guest list and living life as one long, continuous hangover-free party.

But I didn't.

The reality was if I had a friend at all it was Pete, and he told me not to scrimp on tyres because it was a false economy, or to always check the rate with at least three Bureau de Changes before committing to a currency exchange, and I told him to shut up or I didn't listen and we stood there or sat there drinking beer, and not even that now.

I'd picked this spot specifically for lunch for its waitresses. It was a Dim Sum place that had flirted with the lower reaches of the hot list around three years ago (or twelve seasons if you counted like that, which on the culinary scene in this town they very much did). It was now very firmly not hot. Still, though, despite the best efforts of the chef, the broads who brought the dumplings were, the ones in the know knew, the wrong side of smoking, the right side of willing and with a grey area over their legality. Pete was not in the know.

And before you get all high and mighty with me, I do know what you're thinking. Pete was better than these girls, Pete deserved to meet someone nice, someone to share interests with and settle down with. Believe me, if I knew those kind of girls, Pete's would have been the first hand I'd offer to them.

‘Oh, hi, this is Pete. He loves hill walking too, I can't believe I've not introduced you guys before.' But I didn't know those kind of girls. You had to stick to what you knew. If I'd got out of my comfort zone on this kind of gamble, all hell could have broken loose and that was the exact opposite to what we were trying to achieve here.

So what were we trying to achieve here? Well, ultimately for Pete to get his rocks off, so to speak. Sure, love was the end goal but love could wait. Pete needed to get on the scoreboard first. Otherwise the minute he did meet someone who shared his passion for comparison websites and car boot sales, he'd shoot his load within seconds of black lace (or, if we're being more realistic, white cotton). This was purely an itch-scratching exercise. Fortunately the girls waiting the tables had very long nails.

We'd take a table for two by the service hatch in order to optimise our options with the hired help. The waitresses were a smörgåsbord of the second world. A little rough around the edges but that only served to make them more fuckable.

‘What would make you happy, Pete?' I took the lead.

‘You mean besides this free lunch,' he half-joked.

‘Yep, that's already in the bag. What would make you truly, deeply, happy…?'

He paused for a moment, lifted the teapot and poured us both a green tea. Bad Chinese covers of current pop hits played in the background. The corners of Pete's mouth dropped from their smile.

‘Oh, I don't know, Bill, that's quite a question isn't it? A bit like what's the meaning of life?'

‘42,' I replied. Pete stared blankly before laughing again.

‘
Hitchhiker
, very good.'

I even made sci-fi jokes for Pete. We must be friends.

‘As I say, Bill, it's quite a question.'

‘But isn't it the only question worth answering?' I cupped my green tea and took a sip. Lines furrowed on Pete's brow.

‘Shall I get you started?' I offered. ‘What about a tidy lawn, compliance with the Countryside Code, low interest—'

‘High interest rates,' he broke in. ‘I've got a fixed rate mortgage and it's better for the savings.' We both laughed this time. He took a deep breath and blew out against the backdrop of a Cantonese
X Factor
re-imagining.

‘The usual things I suppose, Bill. The arms embracing you when you awake, the kiss on the cheek before the commute, the packed lunch, the warm welcome home, the dinner on the table, the love of a good woman. Even the odd weekend away in a country house hotel on a Groupon deal…'

‘Peter White, you old romantic, you!'

He looked victorious.

‘I bet you never knew I had it in me, did you?'

‘I always suspected you had it in you, just not that you'd ever had it in anyone else…'

‘Bill!' If he hadn't already drunk his green tea, it'd have been a hat-trick of regurgitated hot drinks.

‘Well excuse the tawdriness, Pete, but you've got to start somewhere.' He smiled in resignation now. Mandarin interpretations of the sounds of the Sixties played on.

‘Sadly I think you're right, old boy.' And with that, she appeared. Short, black hair, knockout hazel eyes, full red lips with just the slightest suggestion of downy hair above them. She had Latin features; that was the thing with this town, the girls never matched the cuisine.

‘You guys ready to order?' she asked, her accent barely out of the swamp.

‘May I?' I motioned to Pete. As more of a meat and veg man, he was accustomed to me ordering for him.

‘Okay, we'll go for Char Sui Bao, some Cheung Fun, a portion of Har Gow, the same of Gow Gee, some sparkling mineral water and your phone number for my friend here.' Pete looked on in horror. I expected a kick under the table but he froze to his seat. Yolanda – or that's whose name badge she was wearing today – chewed her gum a full rotation, turned to Pete and weighed him up.

‘Sure,' she said. She wrote down some digits on the paper placemat in front of Pete, blew a bubble until it popped, and sashayed away. Her sway suggested she'd have Pete for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

‘Bill, what the hell are you doing?'

‘Roll with it, Pete.'

‘I appreciate it but I just don't need your help.'

‘Oh Peter, I think we both know you do.' My eyes seemed to bore through to his soul.

I took a sip of my green tea and leaned back in my chair. He nodded in acceptance. I felt like a Chinese sage. Well, this was a new high.

Pete.

Tick.

Chapter 28

There is something in the Code of Conduct of the APPR (Association of Practitioners of Public Relations) which states that, ‘it is the duty of the practitioner to both respect the confidentiality of information relating to a client's business that they become party to through the course of the working relationship and to work with the client's best intentions to the fore at all times'.

Now this something – clause 3aii to be precise – isn't quite the Hippocratic Oath but it's as good as we've got in the PR world. In many instances, it maybe wouldn't be remiss to refer to my peers as opportunistic toads, but credit where credit is due; once we were on the payroll, the clients could get away with everything from environmental neglect to sexual misdemeanours and we'd have their backs. In another life our collective loyalty and ability to keep the beans in the can would have made us excellent lower level mafia hoods.

That's not to say there weren't kickbacks, benefits in kind. There were. And I was about to put my equivalent of the mink coat for my moll to very good use. The platform had presented itself by the most modern of methods; the errant email.

From: frank.hatcher@hatcher&son.com

To: bill.mcdare@morgan&schwarz.com

Subject: Your Faithful Servant

Master,

I have been a very bad boy. Very bad. Master would be very cross with me. I wore the leather pants to the board meeting like you requested. The metal clamps hurt my balls. Hurt my balls real good.

But I couldn't help myself Master. I know you ordered me not to touch myself but I couldn't help it. I tried to resist Master. But I couldn't resist.

When the board had left the meeting I shut the boardroom door, sat back in my chair, took off my trousers and touched myself through the leather.

I made a mess Master.

I know I did wrong Master.

I await my punishment.

Your faithful servant,

Frank.

Frank Hatcher of Hatcher & Son's was a family man. He ran a successful family hardware business that now, thanks to his no-nonsense pricing policy and honest hardworking persona lovingly crafted by Morgan & Schwarz, had a store in six out of ten retail parks across the country.

Frank Hatcher loved his wife, June Hatcher, his childhood sweetheart and company secretary, and he loved Billy Hatcher, his unfortunately freckled son and heir.

Frank Hatcher was a family man.

Frank Hatcher was also clearly a technophobe.

Like Frank, we've all sent an email meant for Harry to Hannah. Unlike Frank, none of us have mis-sent an email revealing ourselves as sexual slaves to a dominatrix master. (Apart from you, you know who you are).

But who was I to judge a man's private predilections? What did they say about people in glass houses?

I picked up my rock and hurled it right through Frank's window.

From: bill.mcdare@morgan&schwarz.com

To: frank.hatcher@hatcher&son.com

Subject: Re: Your Faithful Servant

Frank,

I think this was sent to me in error.

Best,

Bill

It didn't take long for Hatcher & Son's IT department to call our people and claim some of their key email accounts had been hacked. Probably by some spotty student in a Shanghai bedsit. Ordered by a cheap Chinese competitor, no doubt, intent on ruining reputation and grabbing market share. Of course, the account team nodded when our geeks passed on the info.

We'll disregard all emails.

‘Oh, good god!'

A thin, piercing shriek broke across the floor plate. The noise, something akin to the kind you'd expect to be emitted upon stepping on a raccoon's paw, had come from Carol's corner.

I crossed the office, my brogues hitting the parquet floor timed to each heartbeat. Christy passed me, post in hand.

‘What is it, Carol?'