by Tony Salter
Sam had grown up with his dad, Rupert, and I’d only been able to monitor and manage his life with a very soft touch. Rupert had become quite paranoid about technology after what happened to Fabiola and he still saw a lot of Daz who’d always had an uncanny ability to smell my presence. “Uncle Daz” was one of the few people I’d ever met who was totally immune to my charms. He’d always hated me when I was Jax, and I knew he wanted to believe she was involved in the events which led to Fabiola’s death.
Fortunately, there was no evidence of that whatsoever, and he and Rupert had been forced to accept that Fabiola must have imagined all of those strange emails and cancelled appointments. The unravelling of her life had all been driven by her unstable mental state. In any case, they had no idea whether Jax was alive or dead and certainly not that Jax Daniels had become Julie Martin. I intended to keep it that way.
That soft touch meant that, rather than fitting Sam into a strategy of my creation, I’d been obliged to fit a strategy around him. A different challenge, and I had impressed even myself with the elegance of my solution.
I took another look at the CV on my desk. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but Sam Blackwell had turned out to be a very good-looking young man. In fact he was gorgeous. There was something of Fabiola in his eyes and mouth and I was sure he would have her smile – charming, slightly mischievous and filled with laughter.
Time to find out. I touched my vis screen and Jane’s face appeared.
‘Is Mr Blackwell here?’ I said, knowing perfectly well he’d been sitting in the lobby for twenty minutes.
‘Yes, Ms Martin,’ said Jane. ‘Should I bring him in?’
‘Yes please,’ I said. ‘And hold all my calls.’
Nothing about Sam in the flesh was a disappointment. He was tall, loose-limbed and physically confident in the way that public school boys tended to be. Rowing, rugby and cold showers hadn’t done him any harm.
I remembered tapping in to one of Fabiola’s conversations with her counsellor; she’d been going on and on about the snobbishness of Rupert’s mother, Virginia, and how there was no way she was going to be strong-armed into sending her little boy to boarding school. If she’d really cared so much, she should have stayed around to make sure of it. Rupert on his own hadn’t stood a chance.
Fit and handsome maybe, the poor boy was only twenty-four, and as he walked into my office and caught his first glimpse of the view, and of me, his mouth was hanging open like a baleen whale.
Sam took the offered seat at the low glass table and, by the time Jane had established how he liked his coffee, he’d managed to bring his lower jaw back under control. Although I was a minimalist by nature, the sparse furniture and art I had chosen was as spectacular as the view. He looked around, taking in the full splendour of the surroundings.
‘Wow,’ he said, at last. ‘This is … well, it’s amazing.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, lowering my eyes modestly. ‘That’s very kind.’
What was I doing? Shamelessly flirting with a boy just out of short trousers. It was ridiculous.
Jane brought in the coffees while I made a pretence of flicking through Sam’s CV.
‘You’ve been at the FT for two years now?’ I said.
Yes,’ said Sam. ‘I’m in charge of collating and sorting through all of the third-party article proposals we receive. Everyone wants to have something published in the FT.’
‘And what exactly does that mean day-to-day?’ I asked.
‘Well …’ He looked up at me and that’s when I saw it – the hint of steel behind the boyish charm and gentle politeness, just like Fabiola. ‘I’m sorry, Ms Martin,’ he said, ‘but I really don’t know what I’m doing here. Even though the headhunter tried her best to explain what you’re looking for, I can’t see how I’m a potential candidate. I haven’t got any relevant experience. Let’s face it, I’ve hardly got any real experience at all.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘The fact that you’ve got enough balls to get to the point is a plus point. I can’t stand waffle.’
I thought it best not to mention that I’d been known to fire people on the spot for the sin of burbling on. The last time I’d done it had cost us almost a hundred thousand euros in compensation, but it had been worth it.
I could see that Sam was relieved to have shared his confusion, and I continued. ‘Of course you don’t have a CV packed with years of relevant experience, but that’s not what I’m looking for. I want a fresh voice, not some jaded hack who’s eventually accepted that no-one wants to read their ditchwater-dull novels and turns to ghostwriting to pay the bills. And, as an aside, the fact that you were the editor of the Cherwell newspaper for an exceptional two terms could be considered a slightly relevant qualification.’
The jaw was beginning to drop again, so I ploughed on.
‘There’s another factor, which couldn’t be in the formal brief for good reason. You’ve signed our NDA?’
‘Yes.’
‘And I would hope you’ve researched me well enough to know that crossing me is inadvisable? Especially where my private life is concerned?’
‘You do have quite a reputation …,’ he said.
‘Good. I think we understand each other,’ I said. ‘Then let me clarify a couple of things.’ I put the CV face down on the table. ‘I’m seeing this as a two-year project. It will involve the writer building a deep understanding of Pulsar today and tomorrow as well as telling the story of how the company began.’
‘OK.’
‘Well. Pulsar is, to all intents and purposes, me. I founded the company and still control it very tightly. If someone is going to write the story of Pulsar, they’ll need to shadow me – in daily life, at meetings, at conferences and at media events. That will involve strange hours as well as a lot of time spent waiting around. I will need someone I can trust. I wouldn’t pressure you to write lies, but I would expect you to write the book I want to be written – about the company and not about my private life. It will be a difficult balance.’
‘I can see that,’ he said. ‘And it sounds fascinating, but I still don’t …’
‘Let me finish,’ I said, raising my hand and sharpening my tone. ‘I’m not a great one for making compromises. I like to have my cake and to eat it. If I’m going to spend that much time with anyone, I don’t intend it to be with some fat old smartarse. I want someone young, charming and handsome.’
I looked at Sam and smiled. He didn’t appear to be breathing.
‘The fact that you’re a presentable young man is a major factor,’ I continued. ‘Does that offend you?’
Don't Kid Yourself
Julie Martin’s penthouse office was on the ninety-seventh floor and, when I came out of my interview, I couldn’t resist running up the three flights of stairs to take a look from the top. I’d be late back to work, but work suddenly seemed a world away.
Even ten years after the opening ceremony, Shard Two was still the tallest building in Europe – not exactly dwarfing its older sister, but definitely head and shoulders taller and scooping out wider at the base. There was a great spot on Southwark Bridge to have a good view of the pair of them, straddling the Thames like the legs of the Colussus with Tower Bridge sitting toylike in between. The contrast made Tower Bridge appear somehow unreal – like an elaborately decorated birthday cake.
I’d been up to the hundredth floor observation deck once before; Dad had brought me here for my eighteenth birthday. He’d decided to take me on a boy’s night out in London, which had still been the exotic “big city” to me. For reasons known only to himself, Dad had decided to mark my coming of age with a dry martini at the hottest venue in town, the Shard Two cocktail bar. I think he’d made the reservation months earlier.
Before we got to the top, I’d been giving him a hard time about his antiquated James Bond fantasies, although he didn’t seem even slightly interested in my opinion. Apart from anything else, he’d insisted that I dress up. Jacket, no jeans, smart shoes –
I felt like a complete prat.
One of the curious – and bloody annoying – things about my father was his habit of being right more often than not. As we’d stepped out onto the open balcony, the white light of a late May evening had transformed the grubby Thames into a ribbon of mercury and London was unfurled around me as though I was standing Gulliver-like in the centre of a huge map. I’d been up tall buildings before, but this was something else.
The breath-stealing impact wasn’t only a result of the hundred floors. A lot of clever architecture and engineering was making its contribution as well. I didn’t know how they did it, but there was no sensation of acceleration or weightlessness in the express lift and the absence of flashing floor numbers meant that nothing much seemed to change during the ten uneventful seconds between Ground Floor and Observation Deck. A normal lift journey, a smart, steel-panelled corridor, the hiss of opening doors, and then … then …
Dad had definitely enjoyed the look on my face and he’d still been chuckling to himself by the time we’d made it down to the cocktail bar and were watching our martinis being made. It was important to let him have his fun; indulging him in his little pleasures had always been a key element of our relationship and I couldn’t see it changing.
My second visit to the viewing gallery was very, very different. Although the view was as impressive as before, my mind was somewhere else. What had just happened?
My confused thoughts flitted about like butterflies, moving from one impossible scenario to another, each one of them threatening my sense of reality. Was I seriously a contender for this project? Had I really just spent an hour with Julie Martin in her penthouse office at the top of Shard Two? Did that amazing woman actually want me to accompany her around the world? I hadn’t even had the presence of mind to ask what the job paid.
I tried to avoid thinking about how stunning she was. I’d never had a thing for older women and Julie was forty-seven according to my research. I’d put money that nine out of ten people would have placed her at less than thirty-five but, let’s face it, fancying anyone much over thirty was straying into cougar country.
The interview had encompassed the most amazing sixty minutes of my life from start to finish. Admittedly that made me sound like someone being interviewed just after they’d been kicked out of a reality TV show, but that was what I felt. I’d not seen or done anything much in my life, and certainly nothing that came close to the sublime experience of spending an hour with Julie Martin.
Adding surreal to sublime, she seemed to be seriously considering me as a candidate to write the official history of Pulsar. How insane was that?
There would be a catch, of course. A team with hidden cameras waiting to jump out and explain the joke. But why? It wouldn’t be particularly funny, just sad, pathetic and cruel. And why would someone so rich and powerful get involved in something like that? None of it made any sense.
I looked down through the light mist to where the FT offices squatted next door to Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre – almost spitting distance if the wind was right – and tried to imagine the look on my boss’s face if I told her I was quitting. Marie had stuck her neck out to get me the job; she was a loyal company soldier, and I doubted she’d understand why I would ever consider walking away from such a gold-plated, blue-chip opportunity.
Unfortunately, it was the whole blue-chip, respectable job business which got under my skin – the thought of working my way up a corporate career ladder filled me with deep despondency and gloom. I knew it was irresponsible, but there was a whole world to see and experience.
My dad was amazingly supportive of my unconventional point of view. He’d grown up middle class and, before the Brexit vote, most kids with his background had believed they could have it all. There was a general sense of entitlement and a pushback against the money-oriented, career-focused attitude of their parents’ generations – the Millenials wanted multiple interesting jobs, one or more gap years and to be part of a borderless community of global citizens.
My dad hadn’t embraced that world – he’d been a little too straight, a little too conservative and, by the time he started thinking that there must be more to life than selling houses, he found himself with a young wife and a baby. When he’d had a drink or two, he would often say how much he regretted not travelling more before he got married, and I supposed a part of him wanted to live that dream vicariously through me.
Unfortunately, the Millenial dream hadn’t lasted long, and the world had changed more than anybody could have imagined. By the time I entered the job market, very few people were foolish enough to walk away from good jobs, which left me nursing an impractical dream.
I checked my phone for messages. There were three missed calls from Louise DuPont at Hanson Parker, the headhunters who’d approached me about the Pulsar project in the first place. Hanson Parker were real enough; they were probably the biggest media industry search firm in London.
‘Hi, Louise. It’s Sam.’
‘Oh, Sam. Thanks for calling back. How was it?’
‘OK. I guess. I still don’t understand what I was doing there.’
‘Ms Martin explained the elements of the brief that weren’t in the written document?’
‘Yes. But …’
‘… And you don’t have any issues with her requirements?’
‘No. I don’t care about that sort of thing. But …’
Louise probably didn’t have to deal with candidates talking themselves out of jobs that often. And I was sure she wasn’t used to dealing with candidates as young and inexperienced as me.
‘Sam!’ She didn’t sound angry or annoyed, although I did feel as though I’d been dragged by one ear into the headmistress’s office. ‘Please stop worrying about why you’re on the list. It’s an unusual assignment, but not the strangest I’ve seen. I just got off a call with Ms Martin’s assistant who told me that it was a positive meeting, which is great news.’
‘That’s good to hear.’ I didn’t know what else to say.
‘Apparently she’s given you an assignment?’
‘Yes. She asked me to draft an opening chapter for the book.’
‘Will that be a problem?’
‘No. Of course not. We agreed a week, but I’ll have it done well before then.’
‘Good. Let me know if you need anything from us.’
After she hung up, I sat down on one of the polished aluminium benches and stared at the blank screen of my phone. Louise was a senior partner at Hanson Parker and had chased me in person ten minutes after the interview. She wouldn’t be doing that if there weren’t some hefty fees involved. I’d probably have to start taking this seriously.
But not straight away. First, I needed to get back to work. I could come up with some excuses as I walked.
Marie was out at meetings all afternoon, and no-one else cared where I was. I was disappointed as I’d come up with an excellent story to explain my three hour lunch break; that would have to sit on ice until the next opportunity.
A few of the others on my floor were mates and four or five of us would go for an after-work drink once or twice a week, often meeting up with other friends. That was the only way to manage social life in London; everyone I knew lived out of the centre and perversely in different directions. The last thing anyone wanted was to schlep home for an hour or more on a hot, sweaty tube train and then turn around and go straight back into town.
My social group from the FT were friends, but also colleagues and I wouldn’t have dared to talk to them about Pulsar. I sat at my desk until almost six o’clock pretending to work, watching blurred text dance around on the screen. I couldn’t get the whole crazy idea out of my mind and was desperate to tell someone about it. My heart was pumping as a result of five or six coffees – not drunk because I wanted or needed them, but because our small cafeteria had a floor-to-ceiling glass wall with a fabulous view of Shard Two.
I’d figured out which windows belonged to Julie’s office, the ti
ny rectangles of soft yellow light glowed in clear contrast to the harsh whiteness of the other floors. I imagined myself sitting on the designer chairs at the end of a long day, looking thoughtful, asking questions and taking notes. Maybe she’d decide that I needed a flat closer to where she lived for ease of access?
That took my mind off into taboo territory and I tried hard to close down those avenues. Easier said than done when the imagination is in full flight. My fantasies were out of the cage and soaring free – there wasn’t much I could do to control them.
Karl was my Swedish flatmate. A junior solicitor for one of the big City firms, he was the most outrageously self-confident person I’d ever met – most people would probably say that self-confident was a generous way to describe him. There was no obvious reason for his cockiness; he wasn’t particularly good looking, with his watery blue eyes staring out of a red-blotched pale and puffy face and lank chalk-blonde hair hanging down in an affected forelock.
He wasn’t even charming or witty, but details like that weren’t an issue for Karl who remained evangelically certain that he was God’s gift to women – and everyone else for that matter. Anyone who dared to contradict that conviction was simply spraying water on the goose’s back as the Swedes would apparently say. He didn’t care.
And it worked. I was amazed at the string of beautiful women who gravitated to him like moths to a lamp. They must have been drawn to some kind of arrogance pheromone oozing out of him.
He was exactly the person to talk to about Julie. Although he wasn’t even slightly discreet, his self-obsessed narcissism would ensure that the whole conversation would drop off his radar within an hour or two. He was delighted to share some gossip – even more so if it involved rich and beautiful women – but, if the gossip wasn’t about him, it wasn’t worth actually remembering.