by Tony Salter
What was it about men? Was it simply a hang over from millennia of unchallenged dominance? In a parallel scenario, a female candidate would almost certainly have been outraged and might well have sued me. Sam appeared to have simply taken it as a compliment and not felt even slightly patronised or demeaned. If I wanted eye candy, he would be happy to oblige.
One way or the other, he’d clearly moved from wondering why he was a candidate, to being very keen to be offered the job. I’d given him a week, but I had my draft chapter in three days. A single sheet of A4, close typed and crisp between my fingers.
That was my treat, and I felt a warm glow spreading through me as I sank into my chair and started to read.
PULSAR: BEHIND THE FIREWALL (Draft Opening Chapter)
When the world’s banks decided to disable all online banking software in the autumn of 2025, a fundamental pillar of society started to crumble. Advances in crack-hack technology were making all existing forms of identity protection highly vulnerable and concerns about personal online security soared. Passwords, fingerprints, facial recognition; none of them could be trusted.
Punchy title, punchy first sentence. Sam might even end up writing a decent book as well … As well as what?
Global infrastructures had become almost completely reliant on internet-based interconnectivity. Without the ability to protect identity and to control online transactions, forecasters were predicting that the world’s existing networks – in particular banking and online retail – would collapse within less than five years.
The economic and social consequences of this implosion were predicted to cost the global economy over 25 trillion dollars per year for the foreseeable future.
Luckily for us, those forecasters didn’t take into account Julie Martin and Pulsar.
I was uncomfortable seeing my name in print for all sorts of reasons, but the myth of Julie Martin was inextricably bound up with the Pulsar story and couldn’t be completely ignored. As long as the book didn’t stray into my personal life or background, it would be all right.
Julie Martin was already an internationally recognised personal security expert when the systems started to break apart. She was a regular on the conference circuit and her 2015 book, ‘How much is your Life Worth? Protecting your Identity in a Digital World.’ had already become a key text. But when, in early 2023, she started to publish articles predicting a global security meltdown within two years, most people thought she had lost her touch.
Her predictions would prove eerily precise and almost all the world’s foremost experts – including government agencies – were left with egg on their face. Demands for her consultancy services soared and she could have charged astronomical fees. But Julie had other plans.
Pulsar Plc was already eighteen months old by then and, as yesterday’s dog’s dinner started to hit the fan, both Julie and Pulsar were ready.
Was there a place for that kind of tongue-in-cheek language in a corporate book? It didn’t quite cross the line, though. And it might not be such a bad idea to lighten things up a little.
By 2025, most major technology companies and banks were committed to fingerprint recognition as a means of secure identification. When a Russian hackers’ co-operative launched a kit which allowed even amateurs to lift fingerprints and create latex simulations, there was widespread panic.
A number of researchers had already recognised that the unique shape of our cardio-rhythms might be a more foolproof option. They struggled, however, to find a way to match the rhythms quickly and accurately.
Julie Martin’s ‘moment of truth’ was to recognise that the technology was already in place to solve this issue. She only needed to acquire the necessary copyrights and patents and to build the right commercial structure.
Matching cardio-rhythms quickly using small and noisy samples had always been a stumbling block. Julie Martin’s most significant insight in those early days was to recognise that the problem had already been solved.
Almost twenty years earlier a team of academics from MIT had developed a unique waveform-matching technology to power a music-recognition business. When Julie Martin approached them, they were in financial difficulties and she was able to acquire an exclusive global licence for matching cardio-rhythms – fully protected by their patents – for a minimal upfront payment and a small ongoing licence fee.
By the time the dust had settled, they were making much more from this licence than from their entire music business. It was, however, only a tiny fraction of the billions being made by Julie Martin and Pulsar.
Not bad. Not bad at all. I found myself wanting to read on, to know how the story continued. Young Sam was actually going to make a decent fist of the book.
I threw the sheet of paper onto the table and leant back in my chair with my eyes closed. He really was a very attractive young man.
And that smile – Fabiola’s smile – I looked forward to seeing that again.
Pinch Me I'm Dreaming
‘Hello?’
‘Good morning. Is that Mr Blackwell?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Hannah, Louise DuPont’s assistant. From Hanson Parker.’
‘Oh, yes. I emailed the draft chapter to you.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Did you get it OK?’
‘Yes. No problem. That’s why I’m calling.’
I’d known in my gut that I wouldn’t be offered the Pulsar job, but had hoped to hold on to the fantasy a while longer. It was only a couple of days since I’d sent in the draft.
‘Louise is in meetings, but she asked me to call.’
‘OK …?’
‘She wanted you to know that Pulsar would like to make you an offer.’
‘I see. I understand completely … What?’
‘You’re their preferred candidate.’
That wasn’t possible. My heart was pounding, and I felt the blood rushing to my cheeks.
‘Could you hold on a minute,’ I said, walking as quickly as I could to the door. An open plan office wasn’t the place to be having this conversation. ‘I’m at work.’
‘Of course.’
I half ran, half skipped down the corridor and pushed out of the main doors onto the South Bank.
‘OK. I’m out now. Could you repeat that, please?’
‘Pulsar would like you to write the official history of the company as per the brief. They want you to start as soon as possible.’
I felt my lips flopping up and down fishlike, pumping silent air. Long seconds passed as I tried to understand what was happening. ‘But … that’s amazing … I’m sorry, but this must be a joke. I’m waiting for the punch line.’
‘Not a joke, Mr Blackwell. Are you available to meet with Louise at our offices? Tomorrow morning at ten?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll be there.’
I stood on the South Bank leaning against the blue cast-iron railings, picking at the flaking paint with the edge of my thumb and staring out across the water. I spotted Daz before he’d made it half way across the Millenium Bridge.
As always, the bridge was packed with tourists shuttling between St Pauls and the Tate Modern, all stopping in the middle for photos and getting in each other’s way. The cloud of personal selfie drones competing for free space above them must have made the chances of taking a decent photo almost zero. Technology didn’t always make things better.
Uncle Daz stood out; taller and bigger than most, he was also wearing his trademark black donkey jacket while most of the tourists were in T-shirts or strappy tops.
I watched him thread a path through the erratic and unpredictable crowd, moving to his own unique rhythm. He was one of those big guys with dancer’s feet whose bulk seemed to defy the laws of gravity – light and unexpectedly graceful.
There was something deeply reassuring about Daz. It wasn’t only with me, he had the same effect on most people. If life started to take over and to get the upper hand, a short time spent in his company was enough
to slice through the Gordian knot of most personal tangles.
He rarely gave advice or explained how to fix things. He didn’t need to. When Daz was around, the right way forward soon presented itself as something obvious and simple. I’d been watching him perform that magic for years and was still no closer to figuring out how it worked.
‘Thanks for coming, Daz,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t get through to Dad. I’ve been trying since last night.’
‘Well, he’s got that thing, hasn’t he?’
‘What thing?’
‘The thing he goes to every year … In the South of France. You know?’
‘Oh that thing,’ I said, laughing. ‘The property conference.’
‘That’s the one,’ said Daz. ‘Can’t think of anything worse.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘He’ll have his phone off. Probably sleeping off a massive hangover.’
‘I doubt it,’ I said. ‘But that explains why he’s not picking up. I sort of knew he was going and then forgot.’
‘Anyway. What’s so bloody urgent?’ said Daz. ‘I had to call in a favour to get off my shift early. It’s gonna cost me down the line.’
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I had to talk to someone.’ The glee which bubbled inside me was desperate to burst out, but I held it together somehow. ‘They’ve offered me the job.’
Big bushy eyebrows arched skyward and for a moment even Daz was lost for words. ‘What? The Pulsar book? No way.’
‘Yes way,’ I said, suddenly feeling like a small boy. ‘I spent the morning at the headhunters. Two-year contract, a basic of a hundred grand a year, all expenses paid and a bonus of another hundred grand on publication.’
Daz stared at me. ‘That must be double what you’re earning at the moment? Even leaving out the bonus.’
‘More than double,’ I said.
Daz grinned and wrapped me in a hug. ‘Well done, boy,’ he said. ‘You may be selling your soul, but at least you got a good price.’ He let me go and stood back, hands still resting on my shoulders. ‘Your dad’s gonna be so proud. When do you start?’
‘That’s why I wanted to speak to Dad,’ I said. ‘I start tomorrow. I’m flying out tonight to meet Julie in LA … First-Class.’
Although I’d grown up in a comfortable and solid middle class world, I’d only ever flown at the back of the plane and I’m sure the same applied to my dad. It wouldn’t have surprised me to learn that Daz had never been on a plane, let alone turned left into a world of fine dining, fold-out beds and champagne on tap.
When I’d told Karl, he’d glared at me and mumbled something unintelligible in Swedish before turning around and disappearing into his bedroom. The outrageous cheek of me hijacking his fantasies was apparently too much to bear.
I’d never spared a thought for the stupid trappings of wealth, but when they suddenly started to be rolled out in front of me, I couldn’t help being desperately, childishly excited; in a few hours I would walk up to the First-Class counter, to be greeted by beautiful stewardesses who would then usher me through priority queues to the First-Class lounge.
I could tell that Daz was beginning to think I was winding him up. ‘So. No notice period?’ he said. ‘No orderly handover? You just walked in and told your boss you were leaving immediately, did you?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘By the time I got in to see Marie, her boss had already told her what was happening. It appears that Julie Martin has a habit of getting what she wants, and when she wants it.’
‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ said Daz.
I couldn’t stop myself giggling. ‘A hundred per cent,’ I said. ‘She wants me to take her to the 2037 Grammys tomorrow night. Pulsar are the main sponsor.’
A few hours into my new role and I could already see how going back to real life was going to be a shock. My only experience of the kind of life Julie led was through Reality TV shows and documentaries. They made the whole “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous” thing seem tawdry and tacky, something to laugh at and despise. It was the only reason I would ever watch shows like that in the first place.
A-List life wasn’t quite like that in practice.
The First-Class flight experience was everything I’d imagined and more, as demonstrated by one of the standout moments which came a few minutes after my first meal. I was leaning back in my chair, single malt in hand, browsing through the movie selection when the stewardess – not a disappointment – came up to me smiling and carrying a telephone handset.
‘I have your father on the phone,’ she said. ‘May I tell him you’re available?’
How many twenty-four-year-olds have that happen to them? I took the phone and laid it on as thickly as I could for twenty minutes, showing off like a puffed up Bird of Paradise while my dad indulged me with a string of appreciative grunts and exclamations. Apparently he wasn’t as surprised as Daz had been, which did nothing to diminish my swollen-headed rambling. He also waited to add some fatherly advice until just before he hung up.
‘Try and remember that there’s another world out there, Sam,’ he said. ‘The one where you belong. Have your fun, but don’t lose touch with reality and who you really are.’
Even though they were probably wise words, spoken from the heart, they were fading even as I handed the phone back to the stewardess and picked up my drink. I swirled the amber-gold liquid round and round, watching the hypnotic reflections glint and glisten as I felt an unbidden smile stretch my cheeks.
Wise words were all well and good, but my plan was to swan dive into the sapphire-blue waters of my new world with arms stretched out and eyes wide open. Real life was overrated.
After a polite welcome from American customs, I was stuffed in a black limo and whisked from LA airport to the Beverly Wilshire. No mundane check-in procedures for me – I was immediately ushered up to my room by the assistant manager, flanked by two fawning white-gloved bellboys.
Room was the wrong word; they’d given me an entire apartment. I’d never seen anything remotely like it, even in films. My welcome team led me like a half-sleeping child through the two bedrooms, the massive lounge, the dining room and the humongous wetroom with sauna. The assistant manager was talking continuously, almost certainly explaining how everything worked, but I didn’t hear a word – I was needing all of my energy to stop my mouth from hanging open.
It wasn’t until they showed me the small maid’s apartment that I began to lose control of the giggling reflex which had been bubbling up inside of me since I’d left London. It was all too ridiculous; I wanted to scream and shout with glee, but suspected that wasn’t the “done thing”.
It took several more painful minutes to usher them out of the room and to sprint back to the sauna. As the door slid closed with a soft hiss of hermetic seals, I exploded, screaming cowboy “yeehahs” until my throat hurt, before collapsing in a heap on the wooden slatted floor.
I must have lain flat out for ten minutes, cycling between controlled deep breathing and uncontrollable fits of snorting giggles. Eventually I calmed down. Although it wouldn’t be the last time that I was overwhelmed by the surreal transformation of my life, at least the initial hysteria was out of my system.
The sauna was minimalist to say the least – a perfect cube of unbroken frosted glass, back-lit on all sides in a diffused crimson glow. There was nothing as crass as a heater with stones; the cube was empty apart from two simple benches, seemingly folded from single pieces of wood. I couldn’t see any indication of how the heat and steam would appear and even the door had slid into place with no visible joins.
I examined the touch panel on the wall which glowed with dials for lighting, temperature and humidity. There didn’t appear to be a button to open the door. Surely it would be obvious? Why hadn’t I listened to the assistant manager’s explanations?
As I stared at the unhelpful display, fingers of panic grabbed my throat and squeezed – memories of suffocating blackness flooding in. It had only been a stupid childhood game – nothing unusual for a nine-ye
ar-old, but I’d never forgotten the moment when I pulled the car boot closed. I could still remember the crisp solid finality of the lock clicking into place and the realisation that my plan wasn’t so clever after all. Even though my father had rescued me after a few minutes, I’d hated confined spaces ever since.
There was nothing helpful on the stupid screen and I jabbed randomly at the dials, only succeeding in turning on the heat. How ridiculous! A massive triumph of design over practicality. At least there was an alarm symbol in the corner of the screen – a bright red, flashing bell. If I pressed that, I would look like a complete idiot …
The door slid open to reveal the smug smile of one of the bell boys – had he been standing outside?
‘Is everything all right, sir,’ he said. ‘The sauna alarm button was triggered.’
I took a deep breath and stepped out into the bathroom. ‘Thanks. I’m fine,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t figure out how to open the door.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘It’s actually very easy. Just touch anywhere on the door …’ He reached out and the door slipped open obediently. ‘… And it opens.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, feeling like a village idiot let loose in the big city. ‘I should have guessed.’
‘Not at all, sir,’ he said. ‘We should have explained more clearly. I do apologise. Will that be all?’
As he closed the door behind him, I wondered if I’d have preferred him to laugh in my face rather than as soon as he was out of sight.
I’d slept well on the plane and, although I wasn’t sure what day it was, I felt great. The adrenaline from my sauna debacle had settled down to a manageable level and, as I’d never been too worried by making a prat of myself, I forgot about the shame almost immediately.