I look at her. ‘I want to do this story, Erica. It’s right. It’s good. It’ll go down well with the audience.’
Erica goes to open her mouth to argue, and sees the resolute look on my face. This is no doubt quite shocking to her. My face doesn’t do resolute. It’s happier with things like apologetic and capitulatory. I probably look like I’m having a seizure.
My boss taps the bottom of her chin thoughtfully for a moment, regarding me closely. ‘Alright, then, Ollie. Go spend the day with Benedict. I don’t think it’s a good idea . . . for many reasons, but you seem quite determined.’
I thrust out my chin. ‘I am.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Well, all I’d ask is that you keep your guard up, and remember what kind of man you’re dealing with.’
‘I will.’
A strange sense of satisfaction washes over me. I’ve just had a disagreement with Erica Hilton . . . and have come out on top. This never happens. Not the coming out on top bit – I mean having a disagreement. With anyone. Ever.
‘Can you play golf?’ Erica asks, very doubtfully.
‘I came fourth in a pitch and putt once,’ I tell her confidently.
Her eyes narrow and she reaches into a desk drawer. She pulls out a small box of pills and throws it at me. I catch it and look at its contents. ‘CalmFast,’ I read, ‘for when you need a relief from highly stressful situations.’
I give Erica a flat look.
I think she’s going a bit overboard here. It’s only a round of golf with the man. I’m not scaling the north face of the Eiger, or engaging in a wrestling match with him. I know he’s a bad person, but I’m pretty sure I can handle a few hours in his company. Hell . . . maybe I can get to the bottom of why he hates Actual Life so much, while I’m at it. That’d be a scoop, wouldn’t it?
No. This is going to go fine, I’m sure. And even if it doesn’t, it’ll make a good story whatever happens, and that’s the main thing!
I intend to approach this whole thing with a new-found sense of confidence and purpose. I figure it makes a nice change from nervous and flailing.
Sheldon Brook is every bit as awful as you’ve imagined from my previous descriptions. The clubhouse looks like Wayne Manor, without the benefit of an incumbent superhero to give it a valid reason to exist.
The second I pull up in the taxi laid on by Benedict’s secretary, I am regarded with suspicion and dislike by all of the fat, rich, white men. I am far too young and poorly dressed to be here. These men probably think Adidas is a place in Africa.
Having announced my presence to the bored-looking male receptionist in the club’s foyer, I am then forced to stand around like a spare you-know-what at a wedding for ten minutes, while Benedict wraps up some kind of impromptu business meeting in a room somewhere in Sheldon Brook’s recesses.
This gives the old men a really good chance to examine me for my many imperfections as they come and go between golf course and clubhouse. I now know what it’s like to be an animal at the zoo. One of the crap ones. Maybe a pig of some description. Probably from Africa.
Whatever sense of self-confidence I may have temporarily experienced in the office with Erica has evaporated under their judgemental glare. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe I should have just gone and done some meditation.
No, Oliver! This is what you were expecting! Now just gird whatever loins you may have hidden about your person and get through this!
‘Ah! There you are, Oliver!’ Benedict Montifore says in that rich, expensive baritone as he emerges into the foyer from a dimly lit bar area, where many of his fellow Sheldon Brookers are enjoying some lunchtime brandy and casual racism.
He’s wearing golf clothes, and therefore looks like a plonker. It’s impossible for anyone to look like anything other than a plonker in golf clothes. Feel free to line up Chris Hemsworth, Bradley Cooper, Idris Elba and Ryan Gosling, and put them all in golf clothes. They will all look like plonkers of the highest order.
I have a great deal of love and respect for my dad, but the one he time he tried to play golf he had to dress appropriately for it, and he looked like a plonker as well.
‘Hello, Mr Montifore,’ I reply as my boss-plonker approaches me – a man I have absolutely zero respect for.
‘Please. Call me Benedict!’
Do I have to?
‘Okay, Benedict. Feel free to call me Ollie, if you like.’
‘Thank you, Oliver. I may do at some point.’
. . . if I’ve been a very good boy, no doubt. What is it with these exclusive rich people and their desire to treat everyone else like a pet dog? If this goes on for much longer, I might as well change my name to Ollie the Collie.
‘Ready for some fun on the links?’ Benedict asks.
‘Yes!’ I reply, trying to fake some enthusiasm. What are the links? Or does he mean lynx? Are we going to ride a feral cat at some point?
Benedict slaps me on the back. ‘Excellent. Let’s get you some clubs, and we’ll be on our way.’
Benedict leads me back out of the enormous clubhouse, and around to an equally prestigious building to the side of it. This one looks brand new and modern, in stark contrast to the clubhouse. A long and low structure made out of black aluminium and glass, it appears to house the golfing equipment of all the men sat a few feet away, drinking Hennessey cognac and complaining about how many brown people there are at their private hospital nowadays.
‘You can use one of my sets of Callaways, I think,’ Benedict informs me, before barking orders at a young Asian man in a white uniform, who runs off to get our equipment for the day.
A few minutes later he returns with two sets of golf clubs, both of which look more expensive than my last three cars combined.
‘So, let’s go grab ourselves a cart and get out there,’ Benedict tells me, striding off. This leaves me and the young Asian man standing with the golf clubs, staring dumbly at each other for a moment, before he picks up Benedict’s set and scuttles off after him. I have to carry mine, of course. I don’t get my own Asian slave. This is something I feel profoundly grateful for.
I’m going to need several baths when I get back from this place to wipe the stench of privilege and bigotry off myself, before it stinks up my flat.
I follow Benedict and his caddy over to a long row of gleaming white golf carts, plop my Callaways in the rack on the back and sit myself in the passenger seat.
‘Off we go!’ Benedict roars, and puts his foot down, transporting us quickly across a carefully tended grass expanse to the first hole of eighteen.
‘I’ll tee off,’ he tells me, climbing out of the cart. The young Asian man – whose name I really must learn soon – brings out a large driving club, a small black tee and a shiny white golf ball. He hurries over to the patch of ground next to a sign with a giant number one on it and busies himself placing the ball on the tee. All the time he does this, Benedict is staring down the course with a meaningful look on his face. The caddy then hands Benedict the club and steps back.
‘A good three hundred and twenty yards this one,’ he tells me. ‘It’s a fine way to start a round.’
He then spends a good forty or fifty hours repeatedly making practice swings next to the teed-up ball. At least that’s what it feels like. If England players took this long to take a penalty, they might win a few more of the shoot-outs, because the opposition would have died of boredom.
Eventually, Benedict whacks the little white ball with his big black stick and receives a hearty clap from the caddy. I join in, because it seems like the appropriate thing to do.
‘Straight down the middle, sir,’ the caddy says. ‘Well done.’
‘Thank you, Hung,’ Benedict replies, not actually looking at him for one second. Poor Hung might as well be invisible. Which, in a very real and deliberate sense – for the people who belong to this golf club – he absolutely is.
My turn.
Oh, fabulous.
I tentatively rummage around in the front pocket of
my golf bag, retrieving a tee and a ball in much the same way as Hung did.
I then copy his movements over by the big number one sign, and stick my tee in the ground, with the ball lightly placed on top.
Then I go back and select a club from the bag.
I choose one of the big bulbous ones, feeling that a big bulbous one is the right one to pick for the first whack of the little white ball. The skinny metal ones are for later, and the short flat one is for the green. I know this, for I have seen it done thusly on Sky Sports.
‘Going with the big dog, eh?’ Benedict nods approvingly as I walk over to the tee. ‘Brave man!’
I look more closely at the club I have chosen, and it is enormous, of that there is no doubt. It’s like somebody has stuck a pole into a big black whoopee cushion. On it are written the words ‘Big Bertha’.
I fear I may have bitten off more than I can chew here. I’m sure Bertha would agree.
Just because I saw Benedict doing it, I take a few experimental swings of the club, trying my hardest to remember what I did all those years ago at the pitch and putt when I swung the tiny plastic club, on my way to that victorious fourth place.
Something about squaring your shoulders, rounding your hips, thrusting your bottom out and bending your knees, I believe it was.
Or maybe that was how you’re supposed to prevent haemorrhoids. I can’t quite remember.
After three rather half-hearted attempts at swinging the Big Bertha, I figure I’d better get on with it, and step up to the tee.
Right, then.
Bottom out.
Shoulders square.
Knees bent.
Hips round.
Was I supposed to do something with my elbows? I’m sure I was.
Are they supposed to be in or out? If it’s out, I’ll look like a chicken, but if it’s in, I’ll look like somebody in dire need of a toilet. We’ll go with out, I think. Golf people don’t seem too concerned with looking like plonkers, given the way they dress – I’m sure they have no qualms with resembling barnyard fowl, as long as it gives them a good drive off the tee.
And here we go, then . . .
One. Two. Three.
WOOSH.
I miss the ball completely – which is exactly what we were expecting to happen. Let’s make no bones about it.
Such is the weight of the Big Bertha, I am facing in completely the opposite direction to the ball by the time I manage to get my body to stop moving. Inertia is a bitch, in such circumstances.
Benedict Montifore looks quite smug. That’s got to be some kind of measure of a man, hasn’t it? That he’d take actual pleasure in the mistakes of someone he knows has no experience of playing golf. I am zero competition to him, and yet he’s completely unable to show anything but smugness about my lack of ability.
Hung is pursing his lips together and trying not to laugh. We’ll let him off, though, as he has it bad enough already. I’m only being forced to spend a few hours with Benedict. This poor bugger probably has to see him on a weekly basis.
Giving them both an awkward smile, I square up to the tee again, and take a deep breath. If I can just hit the damn ball, that’d be enough. Even if it only goes ten feet, at least that’s something.
This time I swing the ridiculous club a bit slower and with more control – and what would you know, I actually hit the golf ball!
Okay, it doesn’t fly anywhere near as far as Benedict’s did, but neither does it just dribble off into one of the nearby bushes. The shot is relatively straight, relatively high and relatively hard. Einstein would be proud of me.
I watch as the ball hits the fairway about two hundred yards away, and comes to a stop in the middle of the lush, green grass.
When I look back at Benedict, I am pleased to see he looks like he’s chewing on a wasp. Hung is wide-eyed with amazement. As well he might be.
I bend over and pick up my tee. ‘Shall we?’ I say to them both, walking back to sit in the golf cart.
The confidence I had back in Erica’s office swells in my chest again. This might not be so bad, after all. I’m not going to beat Benedict, but at least I’m not going to make a complete fool out of myself, with any luck!
I tell you what, though, I’m doing more than not making a fool of myself. Nine holes in, and I’m actually starting to get good at this silly game. That pitch-and-putt fourth place is starting to make a whole lot more sense now.
I’ve only bogeyed four holes, hit par on a further four and have just sunk my putt on the second par 3 of the course to get a birdie!
I’m only two shots behind Benedict!
And can you hear him grumble? Oh my, yes. Yes, you can.
Look how his brow furrows. Take joy in the tense set of his shoulders. Rejoice in the near constant look of combined frustration and befuddlement on his face. I’m sure he brought me out here to lord it over me all afternoon, but no lording has been done. There’s been less lording done here than at an atheist’s convention.
He’s on the back foot. He’s shaken and stirred. He’s out of sorts.
Wonderful.
‘Nicely done,’ he tells me as we walk back to the golf cart. He’s trudging. I have a spring in my step.
‘Thanks, Benedict. That putt from eight feet was quite good, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ he replies, begrudgingly, ramming his putter back in the bag. He then pulls out a packet of cigars. ‘Time for a break, I think.’
I smile inwardly. He wants to mess up my rhythm. It’s an obvious tactic.
Benedict pulls out a cigar, and then offers the packet to me. I shake my head, but thank him for the offer. He shrugs his shoulders and snaps his fingers. Hung moves to his side with a lighter. I cringe and feel a bit nauseous.
‘So, let’s talk Actual Life,’ Benedict says, blowing out a wreath of smoke. ‘You’ve done very well, Oliver . . . Ollie. The website owes all of its recent success to you. Well done.’
‘Er . . . thank you, sir.’ I don’t know what to do with these compliments from this man. It’s rather like being confronted by an enormous and dangerous grizzly bear, who pats you on the head and offers you some chocolate.
‘No doubt about it, you’re a man on the rise.’
‘Am I?’
‘Yes, indeed. I’ve been keeping my eye on you.’
This announcement makes my skin crawl, and my sense of self-worth sky-rocket. It’s a weird combination.
‘That’s why I asked you to come out here today,’ Benedict continues. ‘To discuss your future with ForeTech.’
‘My future?’
‘Indeed! And what a future it could be, Ollie! I have many projects on the go, and many fingers in many pies.’ He smiles at me . . . shark-like. Or should that be spider-like, given how many fingers he appears to have. ‘I’ve just put a rather sizeable investment into Condé Nast, actually. You know who they are, don’t you?’
Of course I do. No self-respecting journalist doesn’t. That company owns a vast array of some of the world’s most successful magazines – a lot of which I’d kill to work for.
‘Yes, Benedict, I know who they are,’ I say, a bit dumbly. My brain is trying to leap forward a few seconds in this conversation, scarcely able to believe where it might be going.
‘Excellent. Well . . . that gives me a lot of sway with them, as you might imagine. So much so that I’m sure I could put in a good word for somebody like you. Maybe at Wired magazine . . . or GQ?’
He leaves this hanging in the air, as heavy as his cigar smoke.
Bloody hell. Writing for something like GQ would be a dream. It’s why I got into this business in the first place.
‘Um. Wow. I don’t know what to say.’
‘Oh, don’t worry. I’m just spitballing here,’ Benedict replies, voice dripping honey, ‘but I’m sure you’d slot in quite well somewhere like that . . . a man with your talents.’
‘Thank you.’ I couldn’t be more buttered up right now if I crashed into a truck of Kerrygol
d.
‘And for me to have a word in the ear of the right person, Ollie, all I’d need from you in return is a small favour.’
Ah.
‘A small favour?’
‘Yes.’
‘What kind of small favour?’
Benedict takes another drag on the cigar, inspecting me. ‘I won’t beat around the bush, Ollie. I want Actual Life gone from my portfolio of companies. It was a mistake to buy it in the first place, and I want nothing more to do with it. Sadly, the way ForeTech is set up, I need the approval of a majority of our board of directors to liquidate it, and I can’t get that at the moment – all thanks to your . . . considerable efforts.’
He’s trying very hard not to be angry. I’m not sure he’s doing all that well. There’s a venom in his voice that makes me squirm.
‘Then why not just sell it, then?’ I ask, which seems like the obvious question.
He shakes his head slowly. ‘No, Ollie. No selling. Not this one. I want it gone. I want it dead. And you can help me do that. Would you like to know how?’
I can’t answer. The rage coming off this man in waves is quite terrifying.
‘I’ll tell you how, Ollie,’ he continues without waiting for me. ‘All you need to do is march into that bitch Erica’s office and hand in your resignation. No more “Dumped Actually”, no more Actual bloody Life. You can take your little feature and go write it over at GQ.’ He grabs me by the shoulder. The stench of cigar makes me heave. ‘Wouldn’t that be wonderful, Ollie? Your story, your article, your baby . . . at one of the country’s most popular magazines? I can make it happen, Ollie. I can make it happen . . . if you help me. Help me end that stupid website, and crush that fucking bitch.’
So.
There we have it.
The reason for this little outing across the rolling English countryside. Benedict wanted to get me somewhere alone, and on his turf, so he could bribe me with the best job in the world – as long as I betray my boss (and more importantly, my friend) of the last six years.
My hand starts to tremble. Anger and loathing course through my veins. As does a mounting sense of shame.
Erica was absolutely right.
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