Garrett & Sunny: Sometimes Love is Funny

by Peter Butler

  My next call was to my travel agent who promised a call back within half an hour.

  Then I made a quick call to Truf to make sure he brought his satellite phone.

  My third call was to Sky, and she wasn't at all happy to be woken so early. 'Damn it, Gary. I just got to sleep.'

  'Sorry Sky,' I offered and started straight into an explanation, followed by a list of things I needed her to do over the coming days. I ended with a question: 'Did you get all that?'

  'I'm sleepy, not stupid,' she replied with a definite edge to her voice. 'How long did you say you were going to be away?'

  When I told her, she said, 'Great. Sophie and I will be able to run the office from the beach at Monte Carlo.'

  I know she was joking - God! I hope she was. There was a hint of sarcasm there. As an afterthought I added cheerfully, 'I met someone last night. Her name's Sunny McGuire and we really hit it off.'

  'Oh! Give me a break, Garrett.' She sounded pissed-off, not happy for me like I'd presumed, and the use of my full name was also a clue. 'You're talking to a woman who's alone in her bed and now also sleep deprived, thanks to your call.' She paused a moment and I think I heard her blow her nose. 'I'm thrilled to the back teeth with all your news this morning. Feel free to wake me anytime with your wedding announcement.' She ended the call without the usual pleasantries.

  The jury was in: there was definitely sarcasm there.

  Sophie was more agreeable, answering after a few rings with: 'Morning, Boss. You do realize it's early. I was just on my way out for a jog.'

  I explained why I had called and could hear her making notes as I spoke. After a minute or two I heard a distant voice behind Sophie, asking, 'Are you going to be long?'

  'Have you got company, Soph?'

  There was a rustling noise on the phone, like she had put her hand over the mouthpiece, then she answered after what seemed to be a way-to-long pause, 'Nah... It's just the TV.'

  One of my girls is sarcastic to me, and the other one lies to me. Whatever happened to good old-fashioned respect for the boss?

  As a means of payback I deliberately didn't mention Sunny to her and just before I said goodbye I added playfully, 'I hope your TV has a really long power cord... if it's going on that jog with you.'

  With my twisted mind I realized after I'd said it that there was a double meaning there as well. I hope her sensible accountants brain doesn't register things like that.

  I was happy that one of them, at least, was making headway - sharing a small office with two sleep deprived women was not a whole heap of fun.

  With the main calls out of the way I settled down to some work on my computer. I made some preliminary notes on Plutarch and printed off the list of main shareholders and management, plus any other notes I thought might be useful.

  Every so often my mind would wander back to Sunny. I needed a break so I decided to Google her. I couldn't find my girl amongst the listings. She was yet to make her mark on the world. I searched for Impressive People and found a small listing. The synopsis said it was "a close-up look into the lives of people who were shaping the world for the new generation". Simon Sexton was named as Executive Producer and a small picture accompanied his name. I didn't recognize him, but he looked like the tool Truf had described, so I penciled him in as the prick who drugged me - if you look like a bad guy, you must surely be a bad guy. I should have been a detective.

  As I was having those thoughts it suddenly struck me: If he really did intend to drug anybody it had to be Sunny, and if that was true then he must have intended to be the one to take her home and, oh shit!... rape her. This realization hit me hard. I was about to fly off to another country and there was no way I could protect her.

  I called her immediately, but got put through to her voice-mail. 'This is Sunny. I'm not available right now. Please leave a message.'

  The beep couldn't come soon enough for me. 'This is Gary. I need to talk to you, urgently Sunny. I fly out in a few hours and I absolutely have to talk to you. Call me back the first second you get a chance.'

  ***

  The three of us had checked our main baggage at Heathrow but I was holding off for as long as possible before venturing further into the airport system. If I had to, I was prepared to abort the trip and stay with Sunny. I still hadn't heard from her, despite leaving three messages, all saying the same thing. Tim had just wandered off to get some novels and magazines, leaving Truf and me alone for the first time since we had arrived at the airport.

  'You're probably overreacting, you realize,' Truf announced in an effort to bring some sanity to my thought processes. He'd been watching my distracted behavior and was relieved when Tim's momentary departure finally gave him a chance to discuss it with me. 'We don't know it was a drug that caused your problem, you might have had a reaction to the grog or something you ate. It might have been a virus of some sort. There's probably a dozen different possible causes.'

  'I'd love to believe that, but you do the math Truf and tell me what you come up with. Simon arrives and buys a round of drinks, Sunny grabs one - the wrong one...'

  I stopped talking because my phone was ringing.

  I grabbed it out of my pocket. 'Sunny?' I almost shouted into it.

  'You've got it bad, little brother,' my sister's laughing voice said into my ear. 'I'm sorry to disappoint you... again.' After a momentary pause, she continued, 'Here's an idea, why don't you pick up another phone in Singapore just for Sunny, so the rest of us can have a small chance of talking to you on this one.'

  'Give me a break, Megs. I was expecting a return call from her. And it's Bahrain not Singapore, and no, I don't need a special phone for her, besides you're talking to me right now.'

  'You sound on-edge. Having some preflight nerves? Or was the "got it bad" statement right?' She chuckled down the phone at me. 'Don't answer. I don't want to talk to you anyway. Put Truf on the phone please.'

  I held the phone in front of me, a look of surprise on my face, then I handed it to Truf, who had been watching closely as I talked with Megan. 'The call is for you, apparently.' He took the phone from my hand and annoyingly turned his back to me.

  'Hello Megan,' he said in a cheerful voice, and he began to walk away. With my phone! The one that Sunny would be calling on any second.

  I was tempted to walk after him, but my upbringing kicked in, plus I had also just been delegated as bag-watcher and laptop minder by the other two. Without either of them asking - Very rude.

  I stayed put. What could Megan be talking to Truf about, I wondered? Maybe she was pleading with him to not hurt Tim. Whatever it was I wished she'd finish so I could have my phone back.

  I could see Tim was at the register paying for his purchases. Truf's back was all I could see of him and that was unreadable. He knew how keen I was to talk to Sunny and he would surely answer if he heard the "second call" beeps sound in his ear, so I relaxed a little.

  So far the tensions within our little group had been contained, probably by the never-ending list of things to do before we actually got on board the plane, but I suspected that would change when we found ourselves squeezed together in a small place for a length of time. Because of the last minute booking I could only get two seats side-by-side, the third seat was three rows away and Tim had been allocated that one for the first leg of the journey. Both Truf and I were quite open and clear to Tim that he wasn't necessary on this trip. He seemed to be comfortable with the decision and my description of him as excess baggage. I was deliberately blunt; well, actually rude with him. With his ego and self-importance it was necessary to keep him in line; otherwise he'd be trying to run the show.

  'Got enough reading material for a few weeks,' Tim announced as he walked up beside me. True to his words he had a carry bag that contained two or three novels and at least half-a-dozen magazines. I noticed a glossy "London Real Estate" listings magazine amongst his purchases. Had he possibly came into some money, lately?

  'Megan called when I was in the
shop and wished us all a safe trip,' Tim said, much to my amazement.

  My mind was racing; Why would she make two separate calls? I looked over at Truf who had turned around and was looking at the two of us. He laughed at something that Megan had said, then took the phone from his ear and walked back to join us.

  I tried to think of a way to mime, whatever you do, don't mention Megan's call, but gave up. I doubt even a professional mime artist could have got that message across to Truf. I settled for a very small shake of my head in the negative, accompanied with a frown. It was more like a shudder, which was close to the truth about how I was feeling.

  I need not have worried. Truf's an intelligent boy. He simply handed my phone back without a word, then said to Tim, 'Got enough "girlie" magazines for the flight?'

  This was the first of what I suspected would be many such hand-grenades lobbed between them. I looked at Tim and he simply smiled at Truf.

  'Oh, I'm sorry Truf. How inconsiderate of me. I forgot to get you any.'

  This could only go downhill from here, so I put an end to it by saying, 'Looks like I'm not going to get the call I'm expecting and,' I pointed to one of the many overhead monitors, 'the Flight Departure Board is suggesting we get ourselves down to the Gate.' I didn't wait for them to agree. I extracted my carry-on luggage from the small pile beside me and walked off.

  ***

  To say the room was lavish would be like describing Buckingham Palace as "quite nice". The house was located in Kensington and the owner reportedly had paid over thirty million for it. Like most places in that price bracket it was hardly suitable and required another fifteen million to be poured into it to make it special. And special it was. In this one room the walls either side of the huge ornate marble fireplace respectively contained a large oil painting by Van Gogh and a huge bright abstract by Miro. Each costing millions and yet still managing to look out of place in a room that was home to many different decorating styles. It was a visual feast and a testament to its owners loud, splashy version of good taste. Good taste that money seemed incapable of buying.

  Two men sat facing each other in comfortable leather lounge chairs in front of a large real log fire. Despite the day being warm it added to the opulent aura the owner wished to convey. After-all, it was in the contract. A 4K camera stood, unmanned, on a tripod framing the two men side on, capturing the fireplace and of course the artworks. Beside each man, but outside the frame of the two-shot camera crouched two cameramen. Their job was to provide a variety of shots at different angles of the two men as they talked animatedly to each other. Large lights placed in strategic places completed the scene.

  Below the line of the cameras dozens of assorted cables snaked their way back to a group of people standing behind a small bank of equipment about twenty feet away. A man and a woman, both wearing head-sets, stood looking at the monitors that showed the view from each of the the three cameras.

  The man waited until the owner of this lavish room had finished making his point, then called, 'Cut!'

  As he pulled his headphones down around his neck he looked to a second woman holding a large plastic case and a box of tissues and nodded to her. She scurried over to the two men and began dabbing the visible sweat off the owner. As she re-applied touch-up makeup to him she handed the tissues to the other man who began dabbing away his own sweat.

  'I'd like to go over there and piss all over that fire, it's screwing up this shoot,' the director whispered. Carefully measuring his tone so his words didn't carry to the owner.

  'I've read the contract, Brian, and there's absolutely no clause in it that allows "pissing on the fire", Sunny whispered back. 'Rumor has it that he spent half a million quid having that fireplace built.'

  Brian walked over to the seated pair as the makeup woman moved across to repair the hosts makeup.

  'Is there anything we can do to lower the temperature in this room, Ashleigh?'

  'There's no fucking way that fire is going out, Brian,' he replied tersely. 'But you do have a point, it is getting a little warm in here.' He turned in his chair and waved at one of his assistants who came hurrying over. 'Grant, turn the aircon to maximum and direct it into this room.'

  Turning his attention back to Brian, he said, 'I love that fireplace. I designed it myself,' he smiled smugly as he said it, 'but without the flames it's just a beautiful marble surrounded black hole. Besides it has to make your job easier,' he looked at Brian like he was stupid, then added, 'having something as beautiful as that in the picture.'

  'I was thinking of you, Ashleigh,' Brian responded in an even tone. 'The fireplace is superb, but sweat running down the face of the star of the show... not so much.'

  Clearly the two men didn't like each other, but both realized that they needed each others cooperation to make this program work.

  'It's going really well, Ashleigh,' Sunny offered, cheerfully, having hurriedly joined the group sensing that tensions were reaching a dangerous level. 'We should be finished here in about fifteen minutes, then we'll set up in the backyard and get some shots of you looking unbeatable on the tennis court. Brian's a perfectionist, he wants the sun coming from just the right angle for those shots.' She beamed her most winning smile at both of them.

  There you go, two gigantic egos nicely stroked in one sentence.

  'Sunny, Sunny, Sunny,' Ashleigh said, with a disappointed smirk on his face. 'The girl of my dreams and the only reason I'm doing this show. There's antique French furniture all around the room and masterpieces on the walls - all insanely expensive, plus my incredible fireplace, but you still manage to be the most beautiful thing in the room.'

  Sunny giggled like a schoolgirl at the compliment, as she was expected to. Bullshit, pal. You're doing the show for the exposure - to score a point with your uppity little group of billionaire buddies. And the only reason you keep trying with me is because I keep saying NO. You hate it when you can't buy something.

  Sunny was the line producer for a new television show called "Impressive People". The BBC had signed on for 8 episodes, with an option to renew. The one they were shooting at the moment on Ashleigh Thombartson was Episode 6.

  Ashleigh was forty-two years old and the only son, and heir, of an exceedingly rich banker. He had been in charge of the family fortune for five years now, and contrary to predictions had actually managed to increase the family's wealth during his tenure. Ashleigh had seen the explosion of popularity of the mobile phone and predicted their ability to replace the PC as the most useful piece of electronic equipment. Having no actual knowledge on the workings of these items didn't stop him making a modest investment in a group of people who did. Ashleigh provided the funds to allow hundreds of budding Phone App creators and computer coders to do their thing. If successful the profits were spit fifty-fifty. Most failed, a few were moderately successful, but to date, nine were unbelievably successful, going on to sell tens of millions of copies and some eventually going on to become computer games and even movie franchises. Ashleigh used his newly found "midas" status in the computer industry to purchase some underfunded companies that his advisors had suggested had huge potential. Add some money and his acknowledged ability to pick winners and these struggling companies soon became household names. His luck had held

  Ashleigh had taken daddies' five-hundred million and turned it into over a billion. In the process he had become an even bigger tool.

  Sunny had met him in an upmarket pub and had initially been attracted to him. He was reasonably good looking and very self-confidant and she said yes to an initial date. He turned up in his special, "one-off" purple Ferrari and drove like a manic imbecile to La Estrada, the most expensive restaurant in town, where he proceeded to treat the staff like they were a subspecies. It had only taken ten minutes in the restaurant before Sunny had lost her patience, and her temper. She had stormed out, giving a conspiratorial wink to the head-waiter as she flew past.

  That hadn't dampened Ashleigh's ardor. He still phoned her at least once a wee
k, promising to be a better man if she would only give him another chance. But for Sunny, you only get one chance to make a first impression and Ashleigh Thombartson was dead in the water.

  ***

  I'd been trapped inside a large, shiny metal cylinder for four and a quarter hours, speeding away from the woman I desperately wanted to see, or more accurately, talk to. Sunny hadn't returned my calls and I was seriously beginning to worry about her safety. I had been trying to work on my laptop but found my mind wandering.

  I figured the on-board phone system would be the best option to use in the air, but the results had been the same. Every call went through to her voice-mail.

  I stood and began to edge my way past Truf's knees again, preparing for another chat with her voice-mail.

  'At this rate they might want to charge you extra for the wear and tear on the flooring,' Truf said, as he swung his large frame to the side to make room for me to get by.

  'Screw their floor, I'm paying them a fortune to use their bloody phone,' I snapped back. I had tried to sound amusing, but it came out poorly.

  Tim sat in a window seat three rows in front of us. Beside him an attractive young brunette was being bored to death by him. I say bored to death because I've been in that same situation quite a few times myself; self-obsessed Tim believes a good conversation is one where he talks non-stop - and you nod. He probably just told her how he found a cure for cancer one morning, then climbed Everest in the afternoon and, just to avoid boredom, got out his chemistry set that night and found a way to turn his excrement into gold. The look on the brunette's face was telling me Tim was lucky airlines were no longer allowed to offer passengers metal cutlery.

  With thoughts like this running through my head I decided I should go to the bar and have a drink before I called Sunny. Being in Business-Class had its perks. The cost of those tickets should have hurt, and it did, until I checked my bank balance and found that Gran had deposited thirty-thousand in there that very morning. Did I mention that I love my grandmother? To be fair Gran is wealthy and at an age where she no longer has any desire to spend money on things. And now that Ed has passed she most likely won't even be going on any more holiday trips. Depressingly for Gran, and for the people who love her, her only major future expenditure is likely to be of a medical nature.