by Drew Davies
‘Sounds brutal, mate.’
‘In a strange way, it’s reassuring.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Everything is performance based. No one cares what I had for lunch, or which football team I support, I’m left alone to get on with things. It’s sort of c-comforting.’
Patrick frowned. ‘They’re not pushing you too hard, are they?’ Adam shook his head. ‘But you’re working weekends…?’
‘Only for the short term,’ Adam replied quickly. ‘I’m on a big project, which should be finished in a month or two.’
‘What is it?’
‘What’s what?’
‘The big project?’
‘I can’t say,’ said Adam, adding, ‘It’s c-con-confidential.’
‘Alright, mate, I’m glad you’re settling in. I hadn’t seen you for so long, I was worried they’d locked you away in there.’
Adam gave what he hoped was a jovial chuckle: ‘No, I’m still let out for good b-behaviour!’
Patrick nodded. There was something odd about the way he was staring at Adam, as if he was trying to peer inside him.
‘Any girls on the go?’
‘Chance would be a fine thing!’
‘Must be lots of new ladies in the office?’
‘A few.’
Patrick furrowed his brow.
‘How many people in your building?’
‘Nine hundred and twenty-six,’ said Adam without hesitation.
‘And what about in your team?’
‘It varies. And depends. On factors.’
‘No women though?’
‘Not c-currently,’ said Adam, eyeing the sanctuary of his bedroom. ‘There’s a receptionist who’s kind of interesting. Her name’s Cara.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘She’s twenty-eight, grew up in Canada and moved here when she was twelve. She’s been with the company for thirteen months, and she’s never taken a sick day.’
Patrick raised an eyebrow, and Adam began to feel paranoid that he’d given too much away.
‘I should be getting to bed myself,’ said Adam as he moved towards his room.
‘One thing I’ve meant to ask,’ said Patrick, ‘and this might sound like a stupid question, so excuse my ignorance, but what do you actually do? I mean, don’t give away any trade secrets, but what’s your actual job?’
Adam blinked at Patrick.
‘Digital marketing,’ he replied. ‘Search.’
‘Yeah, but why does a financial institution like M.D. want to do online stuff? Aren’t they a big enough name to get clients through reputation and word of mouth alone?’
Adam blinked.
‘Well…’
‘And surely,’ continued Patrick, ‘if you’re someone who’s about to invest millions of dollars in hedge funds, say, you’re not just going to Google it, are you?’
‘No, you’re right, Patrick.’ Adam rubbed his eyes, fatigue washing over him. ‘You g-got me. Everything you’ve said is spot on.’ He tries to rouse what little energy he has left. ‘Traditionally, investment banks haven’t been early adopters of the Web, it’s t-true. But last year, the industry saw a six per cent increase in new business from online brokers. It’s not huge, but the number’s set to grow. And it’s a misnomer to think investors don’t use G-Google. They might not be searching “where should I invest my millions?” but they’re harnessing it as a research tool, like everyone else. There’s a whole new generation of investors who have grown up with the Internet, and if they’re not catered for, they’ll go somewhere else. Which is why I’ve come along, I suppose. I’m going to bring Mercer and Daggen into the twenty-first century.’
It was Patrick’s turn to be speechless.
‘Right, I’m off to bed,’ said Adam.
‘You around this weekend?’ Patrick called after him.
‘I’ll be at the office.’
‘Hey?’
Adam turned.
‘Yeah?’
Patrick switched off the TV with the remote.
‘One thing I had to learn the hard way, mate – don’t give any company your soul, they don’t deserve it.’
Adam felt a surge of brotherly love towards Patrick. He remembered all the months they had hung out together, how close they had been when he’d first arrived in the country, how understanding Patrick had been when Adam, his brain foggy from the last batch of antidepressants, had overwatered the pot plants and drowned them all.
‘No chance of that!’ replied Adam, giving Patrick a manic thumbs up and closing his bedroom door with a bang.
It arrived at 1.26 p.m. on 22 October:
DAISY AGAIN (–STOP–) WHO KNEW TELEGRAMS WERE STILL A THING HUH (–STOP–) NOW I’VE DEFINITELY ARRIVED AT DESPERATE-VILLE BUT I JUST WANTED TO TRY ONE LAST TIME (–STOP–) SO HERE I AM (–STOP–) TRYING (–STOP–) DON’T (–STOP–) BELIEVING (–STOP–) SORRY MUST (–STOP–) ANYWAY I JUST WANTED TO SAY GOODBYE I SUPPOSE (–STOP–) GOODBYE AND THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING (–STOP–) GOODBYE CHRIS
After drawing the curtains and kicking off his shoes, Adam sat down on the bed. He could hear the water running in the bathroom – Patrick was brushing his teeth.
Adam hated lying to him. In a way, however, the ambush had brought out a kind of truth. He was working on a big project, and it would hopefully be finished in a few weeks.
Getting on the Wi-Fi at Mercer and Daggen had been surprisingly easy – Adam had discovered the login and password on a Post-it during one of his evening reconnaissance missions. What he also needed, though, was access to the company intranet and department sensitive folders – sales documentation, website data and communications from Human Resources. Hacking into these private files would take more technical wizardry than he was capable of, but again, the Universe provided.
In the corner office, two days after his Wi-Fi discovery, Adam had accidentally nudged the mouse on the desk, making the computer screen jump to life. For the briefest of seconds, he debated the moral implications of accessing another person’s desktop, until he realised the computer wasn’t even password protected. In his books, that was basically an invitation. A quick scan of the hard drive revealed it was connected to every department of Mercer and Daggen, with a staggering level of access – the owner must be very high up in the company, Adam had realised.
Through this central hub, he could follow the entire life cycle of new positions from hiring to firing, and bring up individual files on all current employees (such as, say, Cara the receptionist). The notes on potential candidates were particularly revealing: ‘Arrived without a tie’ read one sniffily, ‘Obviously uneducated,’ read another, ‘Thought “market cap” was a something a butcher wears’.
The toilet flushed. Patrick had finished in the bathroom. Adam should really brush his teeth, but he felt too tired to move. He realised he was still holding the pile of mail he’d picked up from the kitchen. Taking out the packet addressed to the ex-tenant, he ripped it open. It was a reminder from the electoral role – nothing exciting – and Adam frisbeed it across the room.
His goal was simple: Adam would explore the company from the inside, learn everything about Mercer and Daggen, and if a position became available – when one became available – it would be his for the taking. He was practically an employee already (‘contracts’ and ‘payment’ aside) and he was definitely putting in more hours than anyone else. The greatest part of his plan – it was in their best interest too: Adam’s research was throwing up genuine opportunities the company would be mad not to explore, such as implementing Baidu search ads to recruit Chinese investors, running LinkedIn ads to target high-earning CEOs, and leveraging the profiles of their wealth managers using promoted tweets.
So convinced was he these strategies would work, Adam had given up searching for other jobs. Although his savings were dwindling and he wasn’t sure how he was going to pay next month’s rent, the logic felt flawless. Why go for a job in another company he knew nothing about? More effect
ive than visualisation or manifestation or any of the buzzwords from the self-help books – he was practicing actualisation. Do the job you want, in the place you want to work – and eventually, you’d find yourself a slot. Adam seriously wondered why more people hadn’t tried it.
An email was waiting on the morning of 25 October:
I know I ended my last correspondence with great finality, but it’s 4.25 a.m. and I can’t sleep (plus I’ve just searched: ‘stages of grief’ and I think I’m stuck in denial).
Yesterday, I was having a terrible day (long story, but it included accidentally giving a Hollywood wax to a model with some industrial-strength sticky back plastic – you won’t see that on Blue Peter) but afterwards I walked along Carnaby Street, where we first met. Do you remember – I was lugging a palm tree on the way to a shoot? It was so blinking heavy and the leaves kept scratching me. Then along you come and almost knock me over. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Here I was – drenched in sweat, late for the shoot, with some lunatic on a bicycle asking me out. I was about to give you some lie about having a boyfriend, like any sane girl should, but then I noticed something in your eye. Not the Disney romantic ‘something in your eyes,’ I mean literally. An eyelash, I think. And I remember wanting to wipe it away for you. In fact, the whole time you were writing down your number, I was thinking: ‘I should tell him he has an eyelash in his eye.’ But it was too late – you were gone.
* * *
I don’t want to make light of what happened. Leaving the way I did without explanation (especially after all the time, money and effort you spent organising the trip) was horrible, unforgiveable even. But if you’re the person I think you are, this will be killing you. You’re not the type to go cold, things matter to you. That’s why I liked you so much: you care.
* * *
So, I’m asking for an eyelash. Here’s my idea (we’re entering the ‘bartering’ stage, I think) – if you really never want to see me again, send a blank message. Just hit reply right now and press send. And I’ll stop. No more letters, or telegrams or messages in Morse code, I promise. We’ll have communicated one last time, which is probably once more than I deserve. I just want to know it’s really over. I’ll sleep easier, hopefully you will too. And even a blank message would be better than nothing at all.
* * *
I miss you.
X D
Seven
For once, Dylan Moon arrives at the station first. He waits beside the ticket machines feeling naked without Otis to fuss over. Bereft of the dog, he fiddles with a can of INsanity energy drink – his third of the morning – pinging the pull-tab to the tune of ‘Call Me Maybe’ and memorising the ingredients: glucuronolactone, L-theanine and, his personal favourite, ginkgo biloba. The can label promises ‘Heightened awareness, brain capacity and PEAK PHYSICAL PERFORMANCE!’ but the only effect so far is a twitch in Dylan’s left eye.
East Croydon station is bustling with Saturday shoppers arriving to take the tramlink to IKEA or heading into central London to clog up the West End. Officially, Chris was supposed to pick up Dylan from his house, but after their first session the two had agreed to meet at the station instead. This was partly so Chris didn’t have to take an extra bus ride, but it also helped to know he wouldn’t get lost in south London wearing expensive designer loafers.
Dylan spots Chris at the ticket barriers, but there’s something strange about his face today: Chris has let his stubble grow, Dylan realises. No, not stubble – his face is covered in the first blonde wisps of what can only kindly be described as a beard.
‘Where’s the pooch?’ asks Chris, scanning the station and failing to hide his disappointment when he can’t find Otis.
‘I thought we could go into town today?’ Dylan says, trying not to stare at the gentle curl of fluff either side of his mouth.
Chris’s ears prick up at this.
‘Really? You sure?’
They’d exhausted Croydon’s list of attractions weeks ago, but Dylan had always felt nervous venturing further from home, so Chris wastes no time in buying tickets and hurrying them through the barriers, seemingly before Dylan can get cold feet. They walk along the platform towards the front of the train, stopping at the last carriage because it’s quietest, although once inside they find it smells very strongly of oranges.
‘So why the change of heart?’ asks Chris once they’ve chosen seats, Chris facing forward, Dylan opposite him.
Dylan shrugs. ‘You can’t stay at home for ever. Life’s too short.’
Chris strokes the patchy hair around his jaw thoughtfully.
‘Wise words,’ he says finally, still stroking his chin.
Dylan narrows his eyes. Wise words? Usually, Chris would have insisted on a fist bump at the very least (luckily, the complicated secret handshake had been abandoned after their third attempt).
‘How’ve you been?’ asks Dylan, taking the last swig of his energy drink.
‘Yeah, fine,’ Chris replies. ‘Sorry for cancelling our session the other week.’
Fine, notes Dylan. Not bodacious or excellent or gnarly? Something is definitely up.
‘Did Daisy enjoy your surprise trip?’
Chris makes a tutting sound. ‘Not exactly.’
‘Where did you go?’
Chris replies, but Dylan must have misheard – it sounded like he said, ‘Up shit creek’. Perhaps it was somewhere in Scotland? ‘Was the weather nice?’ he asks. Chris snorts, but leaves the question dangling, so Dylan tries again. ‘Maybe Daisy could come and meet Otis next time?’
Chris sighs. ‘I don’t think that’ll be happening.’
‘Otis doesn’t jump up into people’s groins anymore.’
‘It’s a nice offer, but…’
‘He’s too big – he reaches their stomachs.’
‘Moon, Daisy and I broke up.’
The train chooses this exact moment to begin its journey, lurching slightly.
Ah, thinks Dylan.
‘Oh,’ he says, steadying a hand against the window. ‘What happened?’
Chris takes a deep breath.
‘I know it’s been a bit low on the oestrogen at Chez Moon since your mum flew the coop. How much do you know about women?’
Dylan shrugs again, trying to be nonchalant in the face of an unexpected mention of his mum. ‘A bit,’ he says.
‘Then trust me,’ says Chris, ‘it’s a minefield out there. You can forget all that Men are from Mars, Women from Venus crap too. The problem is we’re not only on different planets, we’re in alternate dimensions. Men are from Earth, Women are from – I don’t know – Epsilon BlooBlahBleeBlah. Hands for feet, butts for noses and the Nazis never lost the war…’
Dylan is only half listening – he’s trained himself to tune out whenever Chris gets into one of his rants. He starts to wonder – and not for the first time – if Chris has many friends. It would explain why he usually arrived at their sessions so charged up: maybe he didn’t have anyone else to talk to? When Dylan asked about his career, Chris always seemed to be doing something different – ‘angel investing’ when they first met, then ‘property development’, ‘art collecting’ and most recently, something called ‘lifestyle design’. Lacking a real job, Chris probably didn’t have many work friends: he lived alone, he was an only child and he never mentioned his parents. Without Otis or his dad to keep him company (the Internet coming a close third), Dylan felt sure he’d be completely mental by now.
Chris is still speaking so Dylan tries to pay attention.
‘… a different language. No, not different, it’s deceptively similar, like the Scandinavian languages. The Swedes kind of understand the Danes, but if you ask for a fork in Swedish, you’re not sure if the Danish waiter will bring back cutlery, or a jar of spiders. So, when you ask a woman does she want to go away for a romantic weekend? and she replies: “Yes, sure,” what this means in – let’s call it wimglish – is radically different to how you or I would interpret it, Moon. We proc
ess this sentence at face value, without comprehending its potential hidden meaning, which is: “Yes, unless I freak out on the M1 and leave without saying a bloody word.” You and I can sit here quite happily, having a perfectly reasonable conversation – why? Because we both speak the same language.’
‘Manglish?’ offers Dylan.
‘Exactly. But have the same conversation with a woman and all you get is…’
‘A jar of spiders?’
‘Precisely. Why do we even bother? We should just build our own island and go around shirtless, and grow our beards and burp and fart and kill our food with our hands, because that’s our culture, Moon, our God-given right, and we’d never have any problems ever again. You with me, Moonraker?’
Dylan nods politely, but this Man Island idea sounds kind of gross. He’d never actually finished Lord of the Flies, but he knew from Wikipedia it didn’t end well.
‘Maybe we could learn wimglish?’
‘You can’t learn wimglish, Moon. It’s like trying to learn Mandarin or something.’
‘People learn Mandarin.’
‘Not normal people. Sanskrit then.’
Dylan rests his empty can on the seat next to him.
‘Why did Daisy freak out?’
‘Who knows? It could have been the moon’s gravitational pull. Or the Freemasons? Or maybe it was global warming?’
‘She might’ve been car sick? Or maybe she left the oven on?’
‘It doesn’t matter anyway,’ says Chris. ‘I have a date with someone else next week, so it’s fine.’
Dylan can’t keep up. ‘Who with?’
‘A girl I met a few months ago called Celeste. Blonde, very pretty, works as a buyer for Harrods. I’m taking her to the opera.’
Dylan sits bolt upright.
‘Phantom of the Opera?’ It’s been on his wish list for ever. Mamma Mia! too.