by Geoff Palmer
'Yes, he won't be long sir. And your name is?'
'Mr Spalding.'
'If can just tell him who you are ...?'
'Mr Spalding. MY NAME IS SPALDING TOO.'
'Hello, Jasmine? I have a Mr Spaldingtu to see Mr Spalding? Okay, I'll send him up. You are expected, sir. If you'll just take the elevator to the fourteenth floor? Thank you, Mr Spaldingtu.'
See what a diet of that stuff does to your brain? Great body, great face, great hair, marvellous complexion and Momma's Home-made Freeze-Dried Supa-Tasty Instant Noodles between the ears.
But the spooky side of the business isn't on display in the form of video puke, framed print ads from famous campaigns or the plethora of certificates, awards and trophies for things like the Best Dressed Bear in a Biscuit Ad. The spooky side of the business goes on behind closed doors, behind the glossy, the tawdry and the sell-sell-sell veneer. Here lurk the lobbyists, the plotters, the twisters and tacticians, the rousers, the ralliers, the shapers and movers of public opinion. If you want a gun in every closet or to rescind the ban on driftnet fishing, if you want to kill every whale on the planet, turn the local hospital into a rubbish tip or use children for medical experiments, these are the people who'll get popular support behind your point of view. All it takes is money.
Jasmine, Pid's shared receptionist, ushered me into his office. As a senior account executive in the global empire of GGF&T, he is entitled to one-third of Jasmine along with a few privileges such as expense account lunches, a company car park and a cavernous office that could have served as comfortable accommodation for a large family. He was not, however, entitled to any scenery and being thirteen/fourteen floors in the air merely gave him a spectacular view of the building next door.
Apart from the wall of mirror glass outside his own wall of mirror glass, the office was furnished in comfortable neo-dross with so much concealed lighting it looked as if the ceiling was on fire. One wall was given over to a miniature art gallery of qualifications, designs and campaign posters and a sequence of screen shots from the ubiquitous Bumsuckas campaign. There were pot plants galore — some real, some fake — including a huge ersatz marijuana plant from some campaign or other sitting in the semi-shade of one corner. There were stories of whole fronds of it disappearing during staff parties, accompanied by the smell of burning plastic from the toilets, and a dark stain on the carpet round its base showed Jasmine had been watering it again.
What Pid called his 'alcove' was actually a luxurious lounge used for impressing and entertaining clients. It could be screened off by a series of folding doors if he wanted to portray the important but hard-working executive, or opened out for his playboy of the business world approach. It contained a collection of luxurious leather loungers, a bar, stereo, more of the aforementioned pot plants, broadcast- quality video gear, an enormous plasma telly and even a small projection booth set into one wall for clients flush enough to venture on to acetate.
'Barry'll be with us shortly,' he said, ushering me into the business end as I eyed the more commodious alcove. 'He's just rehearsing an impromptu speech he's giving next week.'
'How can you rehearse an impromptu speech?'
'Oh, well he's not down to speak as such, just cut a ribbon, but given his current standing with the media, it'll be widely covered. We'll have a couple of prompts in the audience to help him along — "Speech, speech", that sort of thing. Should look pretty convincing. Off-the-cuff stuff always impresses journos.'
'Actually,' he said after a pause, 'come on down and take a look. Give you a chance to see the man in action.' And he ushered me out of his office again.
'What we're doing with Barry at the moment is establishing him as someone who gives out titbits at random,' Pid continued as I struggled to keep up with him in the corridor. 'That means if he so much as opens a dunny in Dannevirke it'll get national coverage and not just some stringer from the Manawatu Milkfat Monthly.'
Back in the lift, through reception ('Morning Mr Spalding, Mr Spaldingtu'), down a corridor, past cubicles containing rumpled writers, unkempt illustrators and dishevelled art directors, through a door marked 'A/V Prod. Suite' and into an ill-lit room labelled 'Studio 5'. In fact, apart from the illumination provided by the dials, buttons and monitors on the production console and the light coming through the glass wall dividing this room from the next, it wasn't lit at all. A silhouette sat in front of the console and Barry Kennedy stood at a lectern in the brightly lit room beyond, reading from a script. He also appeared on three of the monitors in close-up, medium and long shot and it was to these that the silhouette was directing its attention.
'You're still missing that two, three after "appalling crime of unemployment". And just a loud whisper for the next bit, they'll pick it up. Look into the distance and think of dead babies or something. Once more from "and I ..."'
'... and I know first-hand the effects of that appalling crime of unemployment ...' said the monitors.
'Pause, two, three ...' said the silhouette.
'... and what it did to my own dear father,' they whispered back.' Then there was a burst of laughter and they boomed. 'Sorry Dick, you made me think of some of those dead baby jokes from a few years back.'
'Well, crack a few of 'em at that hospital do tomorrow and you'll be looking at a dead career,' said Pid, leaning into the silhouette's microphone.
'That you, Stu?' Kennedy shielded his eyes from the lights and tried to peer at us through the glass. 'Didn't realise I had an audience.'
'Yep. Got my bro' here too.'
'Oh, right. I’ll just get this sorted. Shouldn't be long.'
'Think of a dead career instead, Barry,' said the silhouette.
'... and I know first-hand the effects of that appalling crime of unemployment' (pause, two, three) 'and what it did to my own dear father.' This time he looked genuinely sorrowful.
'I thought his father made it big in potato chips,' I whispered.
'He did,' Pid whispered back.
'So what's all that about unemployment?'
Pid shrugged. 'Artistic licence. Besides, we've all been unemployed at some point, even if it's just while were between jobs.'
'That's good Barry,' the silhouette was saying, 'but give me more homo on the ending.'
'More what?' I asked Pid.
'More homo. Another old joke of Barry's. "Should a married couple be frank and earnest or should one of them be a woman?"'
He tried again. Yes, it sounded better. Two more run-throughs and I could have delivered the speech myself. If that was the sort of stuff they wanted, I decided, I could write it in my sleep.
Back in Pid's office we talked turkey. And spaghetti and frozen chicken and several other riveting campaign launches before getting down to the reason for my visit.
'We liked your stuff from the party, didn't we Barry?' Pid said.
'Certainly did,' Kennedy said, swirling the Scotch he'd been handed him when he came in. I hadn't been offered one.
'Interested?' Pid looked at me. I thought for a moment then nodded. 'All right then. How about we give you something to do, you try it out and we judge the results? If we're both happy after that we can take it from there.'
'Great idea!' Kennedy said. 'A little test. For both of us.'
'All right,' I said.
'All right!' Kennedy nodded. He beamed at me and kept on nodding for a while then sipped his Scotch.
'So what have we got coming up Barry?' my brother said.
'Coming up? Hey, I don't know. You're my main man Stu, you tell me.'
'All the details are on your phone you know. On your mobile diary.'
'Aw you know I can't work that damn thing. What do you reckon?'
Pid gave me a look and checked his computer. 'Well there's that MVDI thing in a fortnight ...'
'The MVDI. Good. Good one. Good suggestion. That's the car people, right?'
'Yes, you're down to give a speech. What say we try Steven out on that?'
Kennedy beamed. 'Y
es, yes let's try old Steven out on the MVDI speech.'
'Look there's no need for you to hang around while we thrash out the details Barry.' Pid gave me that look again and continued. 'Why don't you wander down to our hospitality suite and work on that speech you're doing tomorrow? Jasmine has your notes.'
'Does she? The lovely Jasmine? I'll um … go over that speech for tomorrow while you two thrash out the details.'
Without another word he escorted his Scotch from the office.
'Well,' Stu said quietly as the door closed, 'what d'you think now you've met him au naturel?'
'Is it my imagination, or is that man a complete pillock?'
'So was Reagan.'
'He doesn't seem to possess a single original thought.'
'Makes him an excellent vehicle.'
'For what?'
'Put a speech in his hands, give him a little background, a little prep, and he'll spin it into gold.'
'But he's a complete vacuum.'
'Yes,' Stu smiled, 'and he's our vacuum to fill as we choose.'
Friday, May 15
I was deliberately late in going to The Hideaway because I suspected most of Marie's departmental colleagues would only go along for a drink or two before bidding her farewell. My timing was impeccable. There was only Marie and a couple of them left and the latter used my arrival as their cue to depart. Before they did so, and while she was at the bar getting me a drink, one of them leaned over and whispered, 'Old lover boy hasn't shown up.' Evidently Marie was sticking to her part of the bargain.
She set a beer in front of me and a glass of what looked like chocolate milk festooned with straws, speared fruit and paper umbrellas in front of her own place.
'What's that?' one of the departees enquired.
'A zombie. Mostly rum, I think.'
'Well, finish your Martini first,' and to me in a kind of stage whisper, 'Watch her, she's trying to drink her way through, the cocktail menu.'
I looked around for bar stools as they left but the place was crowded. At least we had a table.
'Well, that's all over,' she said. 'Thank God!'
'How much did you get?'
She shook her head and waggled her finger. 'He was a bastard to the end though. Made me sign some legal document full of heretofores and whereinunders to make sure I'm not tempted to go back for more. As if I would!'
'So, what now?'
'Travel. D'you know I've never been out of the country? I'm off to Europe at the first opportunity, just as soon as I can get things tidied up here.' She drained her Martini and started on the other drink.
'I never thought Tom would settle up so quickly, though. I reckon the clincher was your story about the cleaner. That went through the place like a dose of salts. He must have realised then he was up against more than just me and my implications because there was no way I could have drip-fed that into the rumour mill. Could be tricky for you if he ever finds out.'
I shrugged. I hadn't mentioned what he'd said in the stairwell after she left us there last week.
'It's been quite a week with one thing and another. Did I tell you my divorce came through on Wednesday? Another reason for celebration.' She chinked our glasses.
'So you've got a clean start.'
'Yes, a clean start. That's two bastards out of my life. I'm wondering who the third one is. They say things come in threes. 'Cause he was a bastard, my ex. I've told you, haven't I?'
I nodded.
'A gorgeous, beautiful bastard. I fell in love with him for his looks. So did every other woman, and he made the most of it. What I thought was love was just sex appeal. Took me two years to realise that. I should have just thrown myself at him, had a fling and got him out of my system in a couple weeks.' She took a swig of her drink. 'Instead I spent two years kidding myself.
'He was great at times, though. Sometimes he could be really terrific. It's just that eventually you have to weigh up the good with the bad and, on balance, he was lousy. He wasn't even a very good lover.'
She chased the last of her drink around the ice cubes with a straw then leaned forward across the table and said, 'D'you know what I fancy now?'
I shook my head.
She arched her eyebrows and dragged out the syllables. 'A Long Slow Screw.'
I must have reddened because she laughed and said, 'It's a drink, silly. No, no, no. I'll get them,' and headed back to the bar.
I finished the last of my pint and watched her order the drinks. She'd kept up the trollop look to the last — bum-hugging skirt and close-fitting top that barely covered her midriff. Maybe that was the real Marie.
She saw me watching her as she returned and waggled her hips provocatively in time to the music.
'Want a dance?'
I shook my head and we resumed drinking. Not much conversation followed. The volume of the music increased and we watched the other patrons at the bar, the tables and on the pocket-handkerchief dance floor. She rested on her elbows, oblivious to the leers and nudges of the table behind her, rocking gently from side to side in time with the music, and seemed to blur a little, to melt with the drink she was consuming. I realised that, in the end, we didn't have much to talk about and I thought about what she'd said of her ex.
By the time she'd finished her drink she was looking glassy-eyed and I suggested it might be time to go. She nodded.
'D'you know what should come after a Long Slow Screw?'
I shook my head.
'A Flaming Orgasm.' She giggled. 'But I think I'll have to pass on that. Oh well.'
I guided her through the bar, past envious glances and down the stairs into the alleyway outside. On the way down she staggered and fell against me giggling. I grabbed her and held her and she seemed reluctant to pull away. At the bottom she gave me a peck on the cheek and said goodbye. I kissed her on the mouth but she pushed me back and left me in the alley and ran for a taxi.
When I got home, Julie and Donny were at it again. I stopped and leaned my back against the gatepost to listen. Occasionally I caught their silhouettes through the curtains and it somehow gave my life a breath of normality after what had happened. It was comforting somehow. It made me feel I was home again.
'You bitch. You bloody bitch.'
'Don't you dare!' There was the sound of a blow. A good, solid, meaty sounding thump and the screaming subsided into whimpers. I almost cheered.
I'd have stayed longer, watching, listening, but I was tired and sore. My face still hurt and I wanted to check the damage and crawl into bed. I left them to it.
Speeches
The Hideaway is one of those former working men's pubs which dot the central city. It's had a name change, a coat of paint, a quick polish of the wood and brass fittings and now charges three times the price for a beer. The last time working men drank here was when they were having smoko after finishing the redecoration. Even the gorilla on the door wears a tie.
The bar is fairly crowded and there are no more stools for the confusion of high tables that cluster round the tiny dance floor. She is leaning on a table in the midst of this confusion, oblivious to the looks and comments her short skirt and exposed midriff are attracting from adjacent tables.
'See that woman over there?' He is bemused by her sudden change of tack and follows her gaze to a large plain woman at an adjacent table who throws back her head and guffaws with laughter at one of her companions. 'Could you fall in love with her?'
He snorts.
'What about her then?' A slim brunette is leaving the bar clutching three drinks. She looks as if her clothes have been sprayed on; every bump and curve is clearly apparent.
'That's more like it,' he says.
'So what's the difference?'
'Eh?' He's lost again.
'What you mean by love is just the attraction of a pretty face and a trim figure. Or perhaps it's the appeal of the envy you'd attract by having someone like that hanging on your arm. What you mean by love isn't love, it's sex. You'd like to have sex with her. You t
hink you'd like to have sex with me.'
He blushes. This kind of talk embarrasses him but she thinks she's made her point. She relents a little.
'It's just a veneer. It's no basis for a relationship. Believe me, I know from experience.'
He sips his drink and nods, catching her eyes for a fraction of a second before looking down again. For the amount she's been drinking she's surprisingly cogent. He has taken in what she has said, but on a different level. The forefront of his mind is on her cleavage, the delineation of her breasts, the shadow of a nipple.
She pats his arm. 'I'm sorry. It's just me. I'm not ready for another relationship. It's too soon. I'm just starting to stretch my wings, to find myself. Maybe it's just bad timing, eh? You've been a real gem. I won't forget how you stood by me and helped me out at work. You're a really nice guy. There'll be plenty of women in here tonight looking for someone like you.'
She swallows the last of her drink, looks at him and straightens. He nods and finishes off his pint. They ease their way through the crowded bar, past the bow-tied gorilla, along the landing and out on to the stairs outside.
The stairs lead to a lighted lane below, but there are deep shadows too. Blackened alleyways running off at tangents, the mute outline of stinking rubbish tins. She stumbles on the stairs and grabs the stair rail. He puts out a hand but she pushes it away.
At the bottom it is evident that she is heading to the left and he to the right.
'Bye.' She reaches up and pecks his cheek.
He bends and finds her lips. She backs away, a hand against his chest, but has already stepped into shadow. He bends again, she scuttles backwards and finds herself in the blind corner of a near-dark alley.
'No, don't.'
He continues to advance and the beery lips descend again. One hand has wedged her shoulder, the other's at her hip, pushing down, across. She grunts, twists her head aside and cries out, 'Don't you dare!'
A hand shoots round her throat, thumb closing over her windpipe. Lack of air is a suitable distraction, now his other hand is free to explore. The bruising grip mauls a breast, dives to cup a buttock, then round and up between her thighs, lifting the short skirt with it.