The Business

by Iain Banks

  I had talked to the poet and the soprano, found myself being embarrassingly girly with the ageing rock singer, on whom I'd had a crush in my teens, and been chatted up by both the American conductor and the Oxford don. I had said hello to the monument in muscle and bronze Armani that was Colin Walker as he stood behind Hazleton, who was playing at the blackjack table, and asked him how he'd been enjoying his visit to Britain. He'd told me, in his soft, measured voice, that he had only flown in yesterday, but that so far it had been just fine, ma'am.

  I had danced energetically to what I suppose was rave music in one of the small ballrooms with some of the younger execs and fellow guests, and more sedately to the music of the forties and fifties played by a big band in the largest ballroom, where most of the higher-level people were. Suvinder Dzung, twinkle-toed and undeniably impressive, had swept and dipped me round the room a couple of times, though by then, thankfully, he was starting to become distracted by a couple of lissom beauties, one blonde, one auburn, whom I assumed were the cavalry, dispatched to my rescue by Uncle Freddy.

  It was there in the ballroom that I'd encountered Stephen Buzetski again at last and persuaded him to get up on to the floor and danced with him and eventually danced him out into the night air and then along a terrace from which we'd seen again the lights of the reflecting lake. I'd taken my shoes off and he'd carried them for me as we'd crossed the lawn.

  It was cold, and my little blue-black Versace number didn't provide much in the way of warmth, so this had given me the perfect excuse to hug him and be hugged by him and have him put his jacket around me, which smelled of him. My shoes stuck out of his jacket pockets.

  'Stephen, you're a rich and handsome man, you're a nice guy, but life's too short, dammit. What's wrong with you?' I balled a fist and thumped him gently on the chest. 'Is it me? Am I so unattractive? Am I too old? That is it, isn't it? I'm just too old.'

  He grinned, face lit by the dully roaring yellow flames. 'Kate, we've been through this before. You are one of the most beautiful and attractive women I have ever had the good fortune to meet.'

  I cuddled into him, hugging him tighter, pathetically, adolescently delighted by what had to be an outright lie. 'Nothing about my age, then,' I muttered into his shirt.

  He laughed. 'Look, you're younger than me and you certainly don't look your age anyway. Satisfied?'

  'Yes. No.' I pulled back and looked into his eyes. 'So, what? Can't you stand women who take the initiative?'

  We had, as he'd said, been through all this before, but this too was a dance, something that had to be gone through. The first time we'd been over this ground, four years earlier, I'd suggested he might be gay. He'd rolled his eyes.

  That was when I knew just how perfect he was, from the way he did that. Because rolling his eyes in that way — even if it hadn't seemed like an impossibly cute expression in its own right — just made it so obvious that this had happened to him before, that women had accused him of being gay in the past, in their confused and wounded pride at being rejected, and he was getting fed up hearing it.

  That was when I knew it really wasn't just me; it was other women too, very possibly all of them. He really was faithful to his wife, and really not being either especially choosy or mildly sadistic. Which, of course, made him perfect. Because that's what we try to forget, isn't it? If he'll cheat on her with you, he'll cheat on you with somebody else, by and by.

  So finding a man like this was like hitting the jackpot, discovering the mother lode, closing the deal of your life…only to find the pot had already been cleaned out, the claim had been staked by somebody else and the papers had already been signed without you.

  My girlfriends and I had been over this territory often enough, too. By the time you got to our age all the good ones were gone. But until you got to our age you couldn't tell which ones were the good ones. What were you supposed to do? Marry young and hope, I suppose. Or wait for the divorcees and trust you got one who'd been a cheatee rather than a cheater. Or lower your standards, or settle for a different type of life altogether, which revolved around you as an individual and not you as one half of a couple, and which was anyway what I'd always thought I'd wanted, until I'd met Stephen.

  'No, I find it flattering when women take the initiative.'

  'You just never give in.'

  'What can I tell you? I'm just a boring one-woman guy.' (Which meant, of course, as he was a very honest but also pretty smart guy, and he had chosen not to give me a straight answer, that he probably had strayed, once, and so knew what he was talking about, which only made me even more sad, because it hadn't been with me that he'd been unfaithful, and so I'd lost out not once but twice.)

  'Everybody else is doing it, Stephen.'

  'Hey, come on, Kate, what sort of argument is that? Besides, I'm not them.'

  'But you're missing out. It's an opportunity. You're…missing out,' I repeated, lamely.

  'It's not some business thing, Kate.'

  'Yes, it is! Everything is. Everything is trade, transactions, options, futures. Marriage is. Always has been. I'm offering you a deal that would be great for both of us, where neither of us loses: pure gain, total satisfaction on both sides; a deal you're crazy to turn down.'

  'I've got my peace of mind to lose, Kate. I've got a whole guilt trip waiting for me if I did. I'd have to tell Em.'

  'Are you mad? Don't tell her.'

  'She might find out anyway. She'd divorce me, take the kids —'

  'She'd never know. I'm not asking you to leave her or the children, I just want whatever I can get from you; anything. An affair, a single night, one fuck; anything.'

  'I can't, Kate.'

  'You don't even love her.'

  'I do.'

  'No, you don't; you're just comfortable with her.'

  'Well, you know. Maybe that's what passion becomes, what it grows into.'

  'It doesn't have to be. How can you be so… determined, so ambitious in your business life and so meek in private? You shouldn't settle for so little, or if you need that bland comfort bit, you should have the passion too. With somebody else. With me. You deserve it.'

  He let go of me gently, holding my hands in his and looking into my eyes. 'Kate, even with you I don't want to talk about Em and the children.' He looked embarrassed. 'Don't you see? To me this is like having an affair; I get guilty just talking about this sort of thing with you.'

  'So you've nothing to lose!'

  'So I've everything to lose. Believe me, this guilt is barely registering on my in-built guilt-o-meter, but it still troubles me. If I climbed into bed with you it'd go off the scale.'

  I sank back towards him, closing my eyes at the very thought. 'Believe me, Stephen, a lot would go off the scale.'

  He laughed quietly and pushed me away again. I didn't think you could push somebody away tenderly, but he did. 'I just can't, Kate,' he said solemnly, and the way he said it just had that stamp of closure over it. We' d reached some sort of interim result, if not a conclusion. I could still choose to pursue the matter, if I insisted, but only at the risk of seriously pissing him off.

  I shook my head. 'Guilt-o-meter. Really.'

  'You know what I mean.'

  'Yeah.' I sighed. 'I guess I do.'

  He shivered in his white dress shirt. 'Hey, it's getting kind of cold out here, don't you think?'

  'It is. Let's go back.'

  'Think I'll go for a swim before I turn in.'

  'I'll come and watch. May I?'

  'Sure.'

  Blysecrag's pool was only a little short of Olympic in size, buried underground at the end of a tangle of corridors and locatable principally by smell. I went arm in arm with Stephen down the carpeted corridors. The place was dark when we arrived and we had to search for the light switches, feeling round the walls until we found them and the lights flickered on, above and below the still water. The walls were covered with trompe l'oeil paintings showing pastoral scenes set in a landscape more gently rolling than that s
urrounding Blysecrag, and partially obscured by white Doric columns spaced every few metres. There were numerous tables, chairs, loungers and potted plants positioned near the walls on two room-long strips of Astroturf, and a bar at the far end of the huge space. The arched roof was painted blue with lots of little white fluffy clouds.

  I stood looking out over the calm blue surface while Stephen disappeared into the changing rooms. People had been here earlier — the tiled floor was puddled, there were towels and bits of swimming costumes scattered around, and a welter of pool-side-safe plastic flutes stood or lay by champagne buckets on the tables or had fallen to the pretend-grass floor — but the place was quiet and empty now and the waters lay level, undisturbed by even the slightest ripple now that the recirculating pumps had been switched off.

  I looked at my watch. It was five fifteen. Much later than I'd intended to stay up. Ah, well.

  Stephen appeared in a pair of baggy blue trunks, grinned at me and dived into the water. It was a beautiful dive, creating what seemed like far too small a splash, just a few tiny waves and a larger swell that moved languidly out from his point of entry. I watched his long tan body glide across the pale blue tiles on the pool's floor. Then he surfaced, shook his head once and settled into a powerful, easy-looking crawl.

  I sat down by the edge of the pool, one knee drawn up under my chin, and just watched. He completed a dozen lengths then cut across the waves to me, sticking his elbows into the gutter that ran along the underside of the pool's edge.

  'Having fun?' I asked.

  'Yeah. Slow pool, though.'

  'Slow? What? Is it full of heavy water or something?'

  'No, but it's got this side wall,' he told me, patting the tiles above the gutter. 'The waves reflect back out into the pool so you're always slapping into them. Modern pools don't have walls; the water goes right to the top and spills into a flush trench under a grating.'

  I thought about this. He was right, of course.

  'Carries a lot of the wave energy away,' he said. 'Gives you calmer water. Makes the pool faster.'

  'I see.'

  He looked puzzled. 'Think you could swim in heavy water?'

  'D two O? I suppose so.'

  'Oh, well. Think I'll get out now.'

  'I'll wait.'

  He struck out for the chrome steps in one corner, lifted himself out in one exquisite, flowing movement and dripped away to the changing rooms.

  I sat listening to the air-conditioning hum and watched the reflections the waters cast on the ceiling and walls; their long twisting veins of gold shimmered across the artificial sky and flickered amongst the grooved surfaces of the white plaster columns. I looked down at the chopping waters of the pool, recalling how perfectly still and calm they had been when we'd arrived.

  Every wave, every ripple on that surface, as well as every dancing flick of light curving across the vault of sky and clouds above had been caused by him, by his body. His muscles, powering the shape and weight and surface of his frame through those waters, had spread that grace and effort throughout the pool and sent the light unwinding across the painted clouds and sky. I rocked forward, reaching one hand down to the water's surface, and let the liquid come up to meet my flattened palm, the little waves hitting my skin like a succession of soft caresses, their gentle, patting beat like that of an inconstant heart.

  The waters calmed gradually again, the waves fell back and smoothed slowly out. The veins of light dancing on the ceiling became lazier and broader, like a river flowing towards the sea. The air-conditioner hummed.

  'Okay?' Stephen said. I looked up at him.

  One part of me wanted to let him go back by himself, so that I could stay here alone with the humming silence of the air and the slow averaging of the lulling waters, but his freckled face, tired though still smiling and open and friendly, would not let me. I accepted a hand up, we switched off the lights and returned to the main house.

  He saw me to my room door, kissed me lightly on the cheek and told me to sleep well, which, eventually, I did.

  'Mmm. Yes? Hello?'

  'Kathryn, is that you?'

  'Uh, speaking. Speaking. Yes. Who is that?'

  'Me. Me…me, it is me.'

  'Prince? Suvinder?'

  'Yes. Kathryn.'

  'Suvinder, it's the middle of the night.'

  'Ah, no.'

  'What?'

  'I must…must correct you there. Kathryn. It is not the middle of the night, no no.'

  'Prince, it…hold on. It's half six in the morning.'

  'There. You see?'

  'Suvinder, it's still dark, I've had one hour's sleep and I was hoping for a good five or six more, minimum. As far as I'm concerned it is the middle of the night. Now unless you have something very important to say to me…'

  'Kathryn.'

  'Yes, Suvinder.'

  'Kathryn.'

  '…Yes?'

  'Kathryn.'

  'Prince, you sound terribly drunk.'

  'I am, Kathryn. I am very terribly drunk and very sad.'

  'Why are you sad, Suvinder?'

  'I have been unfaithful to you.'

  'What?'

  'Those two lovely ladies. I fell for their fanim… manifold charms.'

  'You—?'

  'Kathryn, I am a man of easy virtue.'

  'You and all the rest, Prince. Look, I'm very glad for you. I hope those two young ladies made you extremely happy and you were able to do the same for them. And you mustn't worry. You can't be unfaithful to me because I am not your wife or your girlfriend. We haven't made any promises to each other and therefore you can't be unfaithful. Do you see?'

  'But I have.'

  'You have what?'

  'I have made promises, Kathryn!'

  'Not that I was aware of, Suvinder, not to me.'

  'No. They were made in my heart, Kathryn.'

  'Were they now? Well, I'm very flattered, Suvinder, but you mustn't feel bad about it. I forgive you, all right? I forgive you for any previous and all future transgressions; how's that? You just go on and have a whale of a time to yourself and I won't be bothered in the least. I'll be happy for you.'

  'Kathryn.'

  'Yes.'

  'Kathryn.'

  'Suvinder. What?'

  '…Can I hope?'

  'Hope?'

  'That one day you will…you will look upon me kindly.'

  'I already do, Suvinder. I look upon you very kindly. I like you. I hope I am your friend.'

  'That is not what I meant, Kathryn.'

  'No, I didn't think it was.'

  'May I hope, Kathryn?'

  'Prince…'

  'May I, Kathryn?'

  'Suvinder…'

  'Just say that it is not a lost cause which I am pursuing, Kathryn.'

  'Suvinder, I do like you, and I am honestly very flattered indeed that —'

  'Always women say this! They say flattered, they say friend, they say like, and always later comes "but". But this, but that. But I am married, but you are too old, but your mother will put a curse on me, but I am too young, but I am not really a girl —'

  'What?'

  '—I thought you would be different, Kathryn. I hoped that maybe you would not "but". But you do. It is not fair, Kathryn. It is not fair. It is pride, or racism, or, or…or classism.'

  'Prince, please. I've had a lot of disturbed sleep recently. I really need to get some quality rest in at some point.'

  'Now I have upset you.'

  'Suvinder, please.'

  'I have made you upset with me. I can tell from your voice. Your patience is exhausted, is it not?'

  'Suvinder, just let me go back to sleep, please? Maybe we should just, you know, stop now. We can talk about this in the morning. Things will look different then. I think we both need our sleep.'

  'Let me come to see you.

  'No, Suvinder.'

  'Tell me which room you are in, please, Kathryn.'

  'Absolutely not, Suvinder.'

 
; 'Please.'

  'No.'

  'I am a man, Kathryn.'

  'What? Yes, I know, Suvinder.'

  'A man has needs…What was that? Did you just sigh, Kathryn?'

  'Prince, I don't want to be rude, but I really need to get back to sleep now, and I'm asking you to say good night and let me get some rest. So, please, just say good night.'

  'Very well. I shall go now…But, Kathryn.'

  'Yes?'

  'I shall not cease to hope.'

  'Good for you.'

  'I mean it, Kathryn.'

  'I'm sure you do.'

  'I do, I mean it.'

  'Well, hurrah.'

  'Yes. Well. Good night, Kathryn.'

  'Good night, Suvinder.'

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Let me explain some things about the way our company works. The first thing to understand is that we are, up to a point, democratic. Put simply, we vote for our bosses. Never mind about that for now; we'll come back to it.

  Secondly, we're quite serious about insisting that if people want to rise above a certain level in the corporate hierarchy, they must renounce any religious faith they have previously espoused. In practice all this means is that an executive promoted to the rank we once called magistratus, then Deacon, and now call Level Six, has to swear they've given up their faith.

  We don't insist that people stop going to their churches or their temples, or stop worshipping either in public or in private, or even stop funding religious works (though some sort of gesture in this direction is generally expected and appreciated); we certainly do not insist that people stop believing in their heads, or their souls if you will. All that's required is that people are prepared to swear they've stopped believing. This is quite sufficient to weed out the real zealots, the type of people — admirable in their way if you esteem that sort of behaviour — who would prefer to be burned alive than switch to a different branch of the same church.

  Thirdly, we practise total financial transparency: any company officer may inspect the accounts of any other. This has become much easier technically in recent years, of course, with the advent of computers and electronic mail, but the principle has been around since the first century AD. Its effect is to make corruption as a rule either unachievable or only possible at a trivial scale. The main downside is complication. This was the case when people had to open up cabinets full of wax tablets for inspection, when they had to unroll papyrus scrolls, when they had to unchain books from counting-room desks, when they had to order old ledgers from storage, when they had to search through microfiches, and it is certainly the case now with computerised accounts; over two millennia, every technological advance that promised to make the task easier has been closely and seemingly inevitably accompanied by an increase in the complexity of the figures and systems involved.