Martin Dash

by Andy Bailey

  “I never get used to it,” said Davey Hood, also standing in the group. “Bloody awful hangovers every time ! You’re best out of it mate,” Davey’s hand plonked onto Martin’s other shoulder.

  Davey had, fairly quickly following Martin’s arrival, decided that he was going to look after Martin – to be his wingman. Davey was most definitely on the side of the angels generally – a nice guy. Helpful. Liked a drink. Good fun. Not a bad word to say about anyone.

  Davey had taken Martin’s story entirely at face value right from the off – unlike some such as Maisie, who always seemed to be trying to test it, to pull it apart. So far as he could see, Martin was to be pitied, and to be helped. He took it exactly as read that Martin suffered from a recognised condition that meant he had no feelings, no desire and couldn’t, therefore, engage with the stuff that coursed through most people’s haphazard lives. And Davey felt sorry for him for this.

  “Imagine what that must be like,” Davey had said to Maisie after Gerry’s résumé of the position. Maisie had simply sniffed, “I’ll make him feel all right.” Cue blushing and head-shaking from Davey.

  Anyway, Davey had, from that point, looked out for Martin and felt an almost paternal concern for his new mate, even though Martin was some five years older than Davey and his superior at work.

  “Yeah, well – you’re just a pisshead,” laughed Maisie, but with affection. “You’ll be collapsing while Martin will be up all night on his orange juice.” Maisie drooling at Martin, lasciviously. And getting closer still. Martin could now feel the pressure of her breasts against his chest. Her arm now wrapped around his shoulder, shoo-ing Davey’s hand away.

  Maisie had sunk three big shots already and had got to a more advanced position in the proceedings rather earlier than she ought to have. But, in any event, the whole crowd was amicable as amicable be. This was very much a work hard, play hard slice of society and things did generally tend to get pretty risqué pretty quickly. The high-pressure demands of the job necessarily and beneficially forged a familial bond between them all that could sometimes lead them to forget the ties to those left at home and the potent mix of big money, high-profile deals; long nights and weekends of adrenaline-fuelled, head-butting negotiations; and the celebratory blow-outs that followed, had too often proved too much for many a conflicted partner's marriage.

  Gerry was a good example. Married to his former trainee, Debbie; she now at another firm in the City (after a fall out with Vanessa Carr); debate ongoing as to whether they should try for a child; Gerry seeing his two boys when his first wife (now back at the ancestral home in Sussex) decreed. Debbie had come over to Mayfair for a drink with Gerry and his team and was chatting with him by the door. They looked across and smiled indulgently when Maisie shrieked a particularly high-pitched wail at being grabbed by Davey, the pair of them apparently fighting over Martin.

  Some of Maisie’s drink spilled onto her chest (how inconvenient) and she looked archly at Martin – “How am I going to get that off?”

  “Don’t worry, Maisie – he isn’t interested in the drink or what’s under it !" shouted Judith, Maisie’s fellow secretary and fellow slapper.

  More shrieking and Martin looking increasingly uncomfortable in the middle of it. But Maisie took it in good part and merely sidled up closer to Martin – “Well, we’ll see about that . . .” – she was definitely pissed by now.

  “You’ll need to get a gallon of this inside him first, Maisie” – this from Howard, the other associate in the team, waving his pint of lager in the air.

  Howard’s nose had rather been put out by Martin’s arrival and apparent assumption of the number two’s role. Previously, he’d jockeyed with the now departed, unmourned Charlie (former holder of Martin’s post) for that gig and, when Charlie had suddenly disappeared (in slightly mysterious circumstances, it had to be said), he’d rather hoped that the question had been decided definitively. And was thus considerably peeved when Martin arrived, all handsome and charming and – even worse – clearly good at the job. At least with Charlie there were regular screw-ups and indiscretions to bring to Gerry’s attention (and Howard never missed the opportunity) but Martin appeared to be a machine – everything was done by the book, efficiently and professionally, and he had proved adept at charming the clients. The way through to the next partnership appointment had, in Howard’s mind, seemed clear but was now blocked by this blonde interloper . . . with a mental illness !

  The injustice of it was eating away at Howard and, although he thought he was hiding it well (too proud to allow that he was being bested), his regular demeanour gave him away; albeit that snide remarks, involuntarily sneers, and general haughtiness were, in fact, Howard’s stock-in-trade with most people (except those who might offer advancement), so Martin was actually not alone in receiving this treatment.

  Howard’s little quip brought him a warm glow of smug satisfaction, striking – as it did – simultaneously at two of his most immediate objects of loathing: Martin (for the reasons just stated) and Maisie (for the reason that she had rebuffed him on one particularly drunken occasion when Howard had unwisely allowed vanity to overcome his natural and rational caution in his dealings with women and lunged her; and she had done so with such obvious satisfaction). So he decided to follow it up, thinking to simultaneously prick what he saw as Martin’s pomposity (with all his miserablist bullshit) and to suggest, slyly, that Maisie’s alleged appeal for men wasn’t actually all that it was cracked up to be.

  “Yeah, come on Martin – a few lagers might release the inner beast in you – you might even get to fancy Maisie.”

  But this was getting tricky and, before he knew it, Howard had blundered into quicksand and suddenly found that it was he who was fixed in the glare of opprobrium; once more failing to appreciate the level of people's distaste for him, that they did actually understand him.

  In fact, it was Martin’s reaction that swung the pendulum back at him. If one had not known that Martin was medically incapable of anger, one might have thought that the look he gave Howard suggested that he’d been stung by the remark. He almost looked as though he had glared at Howard. But that wouldn’t be right, would it? This, for a moment, was the obvious point going through the minds of the group as they scrutinised Martin, loving the action that had suddenly flared up; smelling blood; minds fleetingly cast back to school days when the shout would go up: “Fight ! Fight !” – often enough a shout of provocation as of reportage and some hapless sap would be dragged into a beating for the mob’s delectation.

  But that odd look – which, if it wasn’t anger, was perhaps something even more menacing – passed just as quickly as it had flared, Martin seeming to catch himself and revert to the usual bland smile. And in any event, the moment was at the same time broken by Davey:

  “Yeah and he might even stand a chance of getting her, eh Howard?”

  Everyone knew of Howard’s embarrassment at Maisie’s hands and they now roared in the joy of seeing Howard skewered on his own hubris. Howard turned puce, his eyes suddenly smarting with humiliation and, in the chemistry of his rancid psychology, his hatred of Martin ratcheted up another notch.

  It was at this point that Susan – who had been on the edge of the group, increasingly irritated at the vulgar display of tedious egos (as she saw it) – swooped to rescue Martin from what was quickly developing into a potential car crash situation.

  “Come on, Martin – I’m short of a drink and it’s your round. I’ll come to the bar with you.”

  Maisie couldn’t help herself but look most put out; nevertheless, Martin scuttled gratefully after Susan towards the pub’s front door, having taken a check of everyone’s requirements. There were fewer people inside the pub and it was darker and cooler. The Hop House, like a number of its kind, was done out to suggest a direct link to the golden era of the city’s pre-eminence in commerce and money and power, with thick beams all around, painted black and gold, and plain wooden tables and chairs all designed to
put one in mind of the taverns of the past, where men of influence plotted the course of the empire’s trajectory and their own allied prospects.

  “Thank you for rescuing me,” said Martin as they stood at the bar. Susan smiled to say, 'No problem.'

  “I don’t think Howard likes me,” he continued.

  “And maybe Maisie likes you a little too much,” replied Susan, with one eyebrow raised. Martin smiled, but didn’t blush.

  “I reckon Maisie’s got plenty of men to choose from.”

  “But she can’t have you. Which is what's riling her.”

  Which prompted nothing but the stock inscrutable smile, as usual.

  “I’ll take these out to them. Wait here if you like and I’ll come back in.” Martin nodded his grateful assent while he was paying for the round.

  Presently, they were sat together in a corner booth at the back of the pub.

  “I don’t blame you for avoiding these nights out,” said Susan, clinking her glass against Martin’s.

  “You don’t enjoy them?”

  “Oh, it’s all right but it can get a little repetitive after the first hundred. They’re a nice crowd, really (yes, apart from Howard), but there’s only so many times you want to hear Davey’s lament for his lost love, Julie, or Maisie’s roll call of scalps amongst the great and the good.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yes, she’s been busy, has our Maisie. If she chose to dish the dirt on the married barristers, bankers and clients she’s shagged there’d be chaos.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “I’m bloody not. She’ll go far that girl, I’m telling you. But to be honest, I think that, underneath it, all she really wants is to be loved . . . by just one person . . . like the rest of us really.”

  The conversation halted at this point, with Susan looking at Martin, intently. While Martin looked back, apparently not intently. And then she noticed him glance across the pub and then look away again, smartly. She quickly shot her eyes to where he’d looked, to catch a glamorous woman in a red dress and resplendent jewellery, gazing at Martin; clearly taken by him and unable (unconcerned?) to hide it.

  Susan looked back at Martin who appeared to be trying to appear to be trying to find something interesting in the food menu on the table before them. Pretending he hadn’t noticed that he’d been so obviously lusted over.

  “I’ve noticed you get a lot of women hitting on you, Martin.”

  Martin was trying to look innocent.

  “You never give them anything back.” It wasn’t clear whether this was a statement or a question.

  “Yes, I’ve seen you charming the female clients but that’s just for the work, isn’t it?”

  “Well, you know my cond - . . .”

  “Yes, your condition, I know. It is a strange one isn’t it?"

  Martin nodded.

  “Tell you what – are you interested in some food?” Susan nodded at the menu Martin was pretending to scrutinise. “I promise I won’t do a Maisie on you.”

  “Yes, why not? Good idea !” He seemed relieved by the idea.

  “Not here, in other words?”

  “Correct.”

  “We’ll have to try and sneak off with the minimum of fuss,” Susan indicated to the gang outside. They could just see one or two of them through the front door and Maisie was peering through the pub window, wondering where they were.

  Susan caught Davey’s eye and motioned him inside.

  “All right, lovebirds?” he laughed amiably as he saw them sat together at the back.

  “Shut up, Davey,” Susan snapped, equally amiably. “Listen – we’re going to slope off out the back.”

  Davey raised an eyebrow as he raised his glass to his lips – “Oh yeah?”

  “I told you, Davey,” Susan again, in mock admonition. “Just listen – will you cover for us, mate? When we’ve gone and if they ask . . .”

  “Oh, they’ll ask,” said Davey nodding his head.

  “. . . if they ask,” Susan continued, “just tell them we got dragged away by some friends of mine. And that we’re sorry we didn’t have the chance to say goodbye. Will you, Davey? Just cover for us, eh?”

  “Yeah, of course,” said Davey as he spun round to rejoin the group outside. “Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” his parting quip.

  Only Davey knew (and, perhaps, Susan and, perhaps, Martin) the mild reproach and sadness in his taking leave of them. Davey had always rather hoped (somehow he knew, in vain) that Susan might be the one to take the place of his long-lost Julie. But he didn’t really begrudge Martin. He had quickly come to like the guy and he viewed them both as his friends. And if he couldn’t have Susan, he had the idea that somehow she might be the one to ‘cure’ Martin. And he laughed to himself at the thought as he strolled back out front, into the warm summer evening sun and Susan and Martin shot out of the side entrance at the rear of the pub onto the street round the corner.

  They walked along the streets through Mayfair as the light in the air turned to a warm bronze and the babble from the groups spilled onto the pavements grew louder and more shrill as the evening took its toll. The street lights started to flicker on as the sky darkened imperceptibly but more perceptible was the feeling that always comes with the approach of night in the centre of a city, the feeling of excitement with the knowledge that night’s dominion is at hand and that everything changes accordingly. It’s the same place but a different world with different people – the dark world inhabited by the night people.

  They slipped into a couple of bars and pubs along the way:-

  – Julianna's on Beak Street; with an iridescent white bar counter echoed in the table tops spun across the room; discs of glowing light floating in the gloom, offset with splashes of blue glassed cocktails, amber beers, green wine bottles, and thick red candle sticks with a yellow iris of flame settled within them.

  – The Assumption in Maiden Lane; a one-room cellar bar with room for no more than 30 people maximum, run by an ageing drag queen called Annie who appeared to know Susan well.

  In fact, Susan was by now taking the lead and seemed to be pulling Martin along a nostalgic trail of favoured watering holes from “when I was a student.” She was telling Martin her life story along the way and getting more light-headed with each passing era and each chinking glass housing a different drink in each bar. Martin, of course, wasn’t drinking – just a coke or an orange juice each time – and so couldn’t be swimming in the same mood river that was dragging Susan along but he did appear to be engaged with her company and seemed content to let her do most of the talking.

  In fact, anyone present who was rather more objective might have deduced that Martin was artfully keeping any curiosity on Susan’s part strictly at arm’s length whilst teasing the most intimate secrets out of her. But she loved it. He seemed to understand exactly how she felt – at particular junctures, he would interject the most felicitous comment which instantly told you that he had, indeed, grasped – and empathised with – the exact essence of what her thoughts and feelings were.

  They were by now in Belugo, a popular, classy Italian restaurant sat on the southern edge of the river with a fully glazed frontage leading out to a wide wooden balcony, so that you could gaze out on the spectacular vista, either in the warmth of the restaurant or in the fresh breeze rolling over the water. Belugo was a well-run business owned by a canny operator, Carlo Demello, who had built it up over the years to the point where it was by now an institution for the metropolitan elite of politicians, business leaders, media folk and super-artists. The restaurant reflected its owner: an attractive combination of worldly sophistication and earthy humanity.

  Like Carlo, its urbane profile was undercut by a concern for simple, straightforward values that banished any lingering suspicion of pretentiousness. Its solid dark wood, country-style tables were the height of fashion but they would still have been there regardless, reminding Carlo – as they did – of the furniture in the kitchens an
d dining rooms of his mother and aunts and grandmother in Calabria. Carlo was the original country boy who had outgrown – but not stopped loving – the country and found a place in the city where his talent for hospitality, friendship and discretion could blossom.

  Carlo was unmarried and – according to the titillated gossip among his loyal patrons – gay; not that that made any difference as homosexuals of both sexes were an integral and accepted part of the mob that crowded around the banks of this river and Carlo’s lofty hauteur made it clear that it was none of your business anyway. The wealthy and famous clientele who flocked to Belugo for some reason felt it perfectly natural to unburden upon Carlo their most sensitive (and, sometimes, scandalous and career-threatening) secrets but got little back in the way of Carlo’s biography.

  When Susan had suggested they go to Belugo, Martin had expressed surprise as he knew this was a famous eatery and appeared a little taken aback at the idea that this was an establishment that they could just waltz into, without booking, on a Friday night but Susan had simply said, “Oh don’t worry; Carlo loves my father. It’ll be fine.” Martin was beginning to comprehend the reach of Susan’s family connections. He also realised, quite quickly, that Susan was a particular favourite of Carlo’s when they were spotted at the door by the man himself, who immediately bid the doorman to bring them to him at the bar.

  “Come here, daughter, and give the old man a kiss,” he implored, with outstretched arms.

  “Hi, Dad,” Susan kissed him on the cheek as they locked in an embrace that appeared to Martin genuinely warm, not just the usual professional bonhomie.

  “You’ve been neglecting us,” he admonished her with mock offence.

  “Sorry, Carlo – been working a lot.”

  “Ah, good girl – you keep it up. You gotta work hard, just like your other dad. He’s so proud of you.”