Half Plus Seven (30 page)

There were many reasons why I loved Christy. Often her position as Morgan & Schwarz's receptionist wasn't a priority, top trumped as it was by her warmth, her deep dark eyes, and the way her arse wiggled when she walked. But what her pay grade did afford was the keys to the kingdom, at least metaphorically speaking. Full, unlimited access all areas to a Y drive of employees' personal records. With that password I could find out Carol's next of kin (her mother Beryl, a resident at Belle Vue Retirement Village), or Pete's blood type (O positive). Or a scan of Kevin Fisher's passport.

Click.

The room fell silent.

Trent was expecting to look back at a slide detailing the target media for our campaign. Instead he found Banquo's ghost.

At first, I think the money thought the fading passport page was part of our presentation. Some clever, creative representation of the Everyman we needed to convince of the curative powers possessed by waste. But it slowly dawned upon the three that the slide they saw before them wasn't the work of our graphics team, but an eight-year-old 45 mm by 35 mm likeness of the man who was stood before them shucking his big idea. The hair a little less expensively cut, the hangover from teenage acne evident around the mouth, the nose a little wonkier, but the same green eyes. The same Trent.

Or the same Kevin Fisher.

Three pairs of eyes moved back and forth, royal box at centre court style, while Kevin's face remained steadfast sepia. Trent's, a little tighter, drained whiter and in inverse proportion to the red hue washing over Miles. And like that, he bolted around the oak table and shot through the double doors. Miles mouthed an apology and followed him.

Shocked silence.

‘So, ladies and gentlemen… remember, trash can,' said Jill.

Now, you may think I failed in my responsibility to Morgan & Schwarz but that, dear friend, would be short-termism. Sure, okay, we'd bombed the beauty parade, but there would be others. There would only be one Kevin Fisher. And it was time for him to come back to life.

Trent.

Tick.

Post-pitch euphoria usually began with the simple pleasure of a piss. After an hour of selling strategies through see-through smiles while caning the caffeine, draining the lizard was the only release on my mind. But this was no conventional cruise up the catwalk.

Miles had the same idea.

I walked into the men's room to find his Prince of Wales-checked back to me. He was pissing in the middle urinal of three. I sidled up next to him.

‘So… I thought that went well,' I said.

What happened next needs no embellishment.

Miles peered up from the porcelain and realised who his bathroom buddy was. The soothing splash of pee hitting pan was overawed by a deep guttural tsunami of rage from the pit of Miles' stomach. He lurched towards me and, grabbing me by the lapels, smashed me against the cubicle door. Perhaps I should have used these instead.

‘What in God's fucking name?'

‘Wait, Miles, WAIT.'

His huge cock – turns out it actually was – flung back and forth like an angry metronome as he slammed me repeatedly against the closed door. Specks of urine splashed on my Italian brogues. I wondered if I could put the cleaning bill through expenses.

‘Miles, put me down and I'll explain,' I pleaded. He dropped me onto my heels. I could empathise with what Jesus had to go through. This saving souls shit was hard fucking work.

‘You were driving the deck, Bill; you must have known the content of the slides.'

I agreed.

‘Every last one of them, Miles.'

His nostrils flared.

‘Then I can't think of anything in the world you could possibly say to me which is going to save your arse right now.'

‘What do we do, Miles? I mean what do we
really
do. And don't spin me those lines about “solving problems” or “adding value” or “helping organisations reach their potential” because you know what, Miles? It's bullshit. Bull Shit. Buuuuuuullshit. What do we do, Miles? We sell an image. We perpetuate a lie.' The lavender of the washroom freshener stuck in the back of my throat. I hocked and spat on the floor. Miles didn't move.

‘We're not offering the answer to a happy home life; we're selling washing powder. The oil company isn't a big friend of the community; it couldn't give a flying fuck about them. That suspect sheikh who we really shouldn't have set up to meet with government ministers. This is not a noble way to earn a living, Miles. We shouldn't be walking around with our heads held fucking high. Although it's probably the coke that does that.' His eyebrows arched.

‘Don't fucking look at me like that. On more than one occasion I stole a bump from your desk drawer. A 12-year-old could pick that lock. Nothing felt finer than racking up big fat lines and snorting them off your desk through crisp fifties. The drugs and booze – oh, there was a lot of booze – took the edge off the reality of what we were doing. What we are doing. I was either too fucking high or drunk or both to care. But now I do care. And so should you, if you were any kind of man at all. That's why I did that to Trent. To Kevin. He needs to face up to the reality of who he is. We all do. You'll thank me for it.' I took a breath.

‘Are we not men, Miles?'

I looked up. Miles had tears in his eyes, or at least I thought he did.

‘Oh, and Miles, put your cock away, will you?'

I left him there; half naked, silently sobbing.

It would probably be the last time I ever saw him.

Miles.

I may have to find new employment.

That deserves a tick.

Out in the corridor, a short, sharp tapping noise bounced off the polished wooden floor. It was similar to one heard in the office. One that drove me slowly insane. Jill was tapping her heels. Louder now as I got closer. A death stare from ten paces. Unlikely yogi Jill. Crazy cat lady Jill. Louder. Cyanide sarcasm Jill. Naughty at forty Jill. Louder. In desperate need of a stiff one Jill. LOUDER.

‘You little stinking fucking toer…' I grabbed her by her shoulders and planted a wet juicy smacker on her thin lips. It was that or punch her out and the waste management people seemed like they had an active HR department.

‘Bill…'

‘Jill…' Her death stare had gone, her eyes different now, adolescent even. It was 1986 and she was behind the bike sheds. I wore a denim jacket and stale cigarette smoke. The bell rang for double biology. This was a Jill I had not seen.

‘I'm taking the afternoon off. Don't wait up.'

The tapping had stopped.

Jill.

Tick.

I'd be back to Morgan & Schwarz for Christy. It was time to sort out my domestics.

Chapter 30

The pool car was parked erratically in section D1 of the car park. As the only model who'd not had a drink to take the edge off this morning, I'd been designated driver. The others had been too on edge to ask why. Even sobriety couldn't fix my reversing. Damn shakes. Jill, Miles and Kevin were going to have to ride on a one-way ticket. Anyhow, I had a feeling they'd be a while.

The interior of the car was the usual manifestation of the eccentricities of my colleagues, on wheels: a stick of nicotine gum (Miles), suspect white stains on the rear upholstery (Kevin), and a compact disc entitled
Spirit Voyage
(Jill). Pete had clearly returned the Sting CD to his home hi-fi system to soundtrack a Sunday afternoon DIY session.

I pressed play. A solitary flute whistled through the stale air of the hatchback. Chimes then. The ghost of a teenage whale called for its mother. I eased up the gears calmly. This felt good. The whale called louder. I buzzed the window down. Children ran by the window. Trees bloomed. Bells now. I stopped at an amber light. There was no spaceman. No Janie Jones. No dancing in the street. But fuck, man, this was cool. I turned it louder. I had no idea why Jill was always so stressed the fuck out if she listened to this stuff. If someone had given me this instead of
The Queen is Dead
when I was a kid my life might have been a lot easier. Actually, who am I kidding? I'd have punched them in the eye.

My existing emotional state was probably a touch more receptive.

Pete had a date, Carol had a benefactor, Trent was Kevin, Miles was cry-wanking, Jill was a woman again. My yin and yang were perfectly aligned. If the strung-out wastrel who woke up in the psychic's bed could see me now, he'd cross the road in a flash. I was abiding to my Ten Commandments, or at least my own interpretation of them. Sister Gina would be proud.

The soul was sapped out of the sky as the wheels turned into the cul-de-sac, a waking nightmare of new builds and neo-cons. My mum was in the front garden tending to a hanging basket. Her hair was tied up. The sounds from the stereo roused her attention. The teenage whale had found his mother.

‘Bill, what are you doing here?' I stepped out of the car.

‘I came to see you.'

‘About what?'

‘About nothing…'

‘Oh…'

‘…and everything.'

‘Whatever do you mean, Bill?'

She looked old, the sunlight resting in the cracks around her eyes.

‘Come on inside,' I said, ‘and stop looking so worried.'

‘Okay, love.' She took off her gardening glasses and placed them neatly on the step. The front door was open.
Sounds of the Sixties
could not be heard blasting from the back room. Barry was not at home.

‘He's at the post office, love. Taking some packages for his friends off of eBay. He spends an awful lot of time talking to them on that computer.' I bet he does. I smiled at her. She smiled back. Good old reciprocation.

‘Let's sit in the posh room shall we, Mum?'

‘Okay, love.' I pushed the glass door open. ‘I'll just get the kettle on… Oh, and take your shoes off will you, love?' she called from the kitchen.

I kicked my brogues off. The shag pile tickled my toe through a hole in my socks. A minute or three passed. Deep breaths.

‘Here you go, love, it's hot,' she said, handing me a cup of tea.

‘Thanks, Mum.'

‘You look very smart today, love.'

‘Thanks, Mum. We pitched for a big new client.'

‘Did you win?'

‘We'll win in the end.'

‘That's good, love.' She took a sip of her still-steaming tea. Worry lines clustered on her forehead like the contours of an Ordnance Survey. There were more than I'd ever noticed before, although I rarely got this close to her. The last time I'd asked her for a chat had been… had been God knows when. We didn't ‘chat' in our family. We just existed next to each other, the constant coming together eroding edges onto the smooth pebbles we once must have been.

I took a deep breath.

‘Do you remember you and Dad always used to tell me to be true to myself?'

They never had told me that. We barely spoke. And certainly not in a rules-to-live-your-life-by way. It just seemed like an appropriate opening to what I was about to tell her. Verification that we were getting up close and personal because that was her parenting mantra come to fruition. Warts and all because that's how she wanted it.

‘Well, that's how it's going to be from here on in. I'm going to be true to myself,' I looked her in the eye, ‘and to you.'

She nodded silently. The lines grew deeper.

‘Whatever it is, love, you can tell me,' she said. ‘What is it, Bill… are you…' she smiled reassuringly, ‘…gay?'

I spat the cuppa out all over the shag pile. This was becoming a fucking trademark.

‘Bill?'

‘Mum.'

‘It's okay, love, it's…'

‘I did not sit you down to tell you I'm gay. Jesus.' My trouser legs were damp with tea.

‘It's okay, love. Barry has a nephew…'

‘I AM NOT GAY, MOTHER,' I stood up and shouted, flinging the teacup across the carpet. A neighbour appeared in the window. They gathered this was not a good time.