Dave Hart Omnibus

by David Charters

  The applause is a little muted, though Mbongwe is genuinely happy. I wonder if he really did want to be a bad guy. As psychopathic cannibals go, he really isn’t so bad. When we offered him a way out, a chance to rehabilitate himself – and get hugely rich in the process – he seized it. Under our agreement, he has five more years. Five years to build the democratic institutions for an eventual handover of power when he retires to a private island in the Caribbean, his fortune safe and intact, his place in the history books secure.

  Following his speech, I do a brief outline of New Start, emphasising the fundamentally commercial nature of our commitment – I don’t want to cause another run on the share price – and then members of the audience leap to their feet and ‘spontaneously’ make pledges in front of the journos. General Mick van Smit has been in touch with his President, and they want to work with us to draw up a Grossbank New Start plan for Lubumbashi. He’s ordering in the army to clear out the warlords and secure the necessary stability for our investment to work. Michel de Winter wants to do something similar for the West African diamond fields. And so it goes on. It’s amazing how generous bad people can be. If you thought charity auctions in the City could be surprising, you should have been at Rich Weekend. Giving as a competitive sport. And all in a good cause – on Monday morning, Grossbank’s stock goes up five per cent.

  * * *

  I’M BACK in London, and Maria is away. Of all things, she’s doing jury service. We got her out of it twice already, claiming urgent work commitments, but now they are saying she has no more jokers to play. Quite why we need juries is beyond me. If the police have taken all the trouble to charge someone, they must be guilty. Anyway, she’s not around, so now I’m having to cope with a yah-yah blonde air-head with a degree in Sleep Studies from the University of Cornwall at Rock, who knows nothing and can’t organise her way out of a paper bag, but at least wears short skirts and has great tits.

  This morning I’m calling my doctor’s surgery, doing it myself because I have no one competent to delegate it to. Have you noticed how doctors’ receptionists grill you on your condition, assessing you for suitability to see their boss, acting as gatekeeper as if they were actually capable of making medical assessments over the telephone? It really pisses me off.

  ‘What’s your condition, Mister Hart?’ The voice is Sloaney, expensively educated but thoroughly dim. She manages to give the impression that I’m incredibly privileged that she’s actually dealing with me and can I please hurry up because she has other far more important things to do.

  ‘I’m discharging pus from the end of my penis.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ She sounds gratifyingly shocked and revolted.

  ‘Yes, and the scabs and lesions around the base are also leaking, although I stopped picking them weeks ago.’

  ‘Oh…’ She sounds like she’s going to throw up.

  ‘There’s a lot of blood in the pus, and blood and yellowish-green pus in my urine when I pee.’

  Silence. At the other end I can picture her retching, holding the handset from her ear in case I infect her telephonically. ‘W – would tomorrow at nine o’clock be satisfactory?’

  ‘Yes, it would. Thank you.’

  I hang up. Actually, I’ve been reviewing my jabs ahead of going to Singapore for the IMF conference. I’ve decided I’m due for an anti-tetanus shot, but why should she know that?

  * * *

  IT’S SATURDAY and I’m going to Glyndebourne with Two Livers as the guest of my new best friend, Vlad the Impaler from First Siberian Bank. Tom is going to drive us down mid-afternoon, so we start at her flat in Mayfair with champagne breakfast in bed.

  The great thing about having sex – I mean breakfast – with Two Livers is that she always makes me laugh. I arrive hungover and feeling sorry for myself, which she was expecting. She welcomes me dressed only in a long silk nightgown that is tied sufficiently tightly by a cord around the waist that it reveals her breasts perfectly through the material.

  I follow her into the kitchen, where she’s prepared a potent cocktail mixture – she calls it her ‘Corpse Reviver’ – which she pours into a cocktail shaker full of crushed ice. She then turns her back to me and says, ‘Dave, do me a favour – hold my tits, will you?’

  While I stand behind her keeping her 34DD’s under control, she shakes the mixture like a woman possessed. And of course, once we start laughing, one thing leads to another… and another… and another. Naturally I’m still Viagra-ed up from the night before. Afterwards, when we’ve showered – more delay – and got dressed – more delay half-way through, when I see the lingerie she’s wearing – she does one of the sexiest things a woman can do for a man. She ties my bow tie – from behind.

  Glyndebourne being the formal, ritualistic place it is, with more or less compulsory black tie for the men and evening dress for the ladies – though what that means these days is anyone’s guess – we’re going down there in all our finery. Two Livers is wearing a plain black Armani dress that clings to her perfect form, and is set off brilliantly by a diamond necklace and earrings that must have cost well into six figures. She stands behind me as I look at myself in her full-length bedroom mirror. I’m fully dressed save for the bow tie hanging round my neck. She rests her head on my shoulder, threads her hands through my arms and gently runs her fingernails across my chest through my shirt. It’s electrifying. She’s wearing wicked bright red nail varnish and I sigh pathetically and very nearly spin around and say forget the opera, but then she carefully and competently takes the ends of my tie and ties a perfect bow, tweaking it tight and turning it just slightly to one side so that no one will believe such a perfect bow might be a pre-tied elasticated version of what a gentleman should wear.

  She doesn’t say a word, she’s slow, sexy and respectful, almost submissive, and it’s nearly as good as sex. Our eyes meet in the mirror. Later. Again. For sure. Damn, she’s good.

  * * *

  THE JOURNEY down is miserable. The roads are crowded with poor people driving themselves in crappy cars, or worse still people who think they’ve made it, driving themselves badly in expensive, high-powered cars that they should never really be let loose in – Beemers, Astons, Mercs, all names I used to aspire to in the old days.

  My convoy stays together, however aggressive they have to be towards other road users, because the team in the Range Rovers won’t allow us to be separated. When we’re close to Glyndebourne, we cut up a guy in a DB9 wearing a dinner suit and driving a glamorous, dark-haired woman with a very low cut dress, whom I recall as a Brazilian hooker from one of the top agencies – definitely not a cheap date.

  He blasts his horn but we ignore him and drive on.

  When we get to the car park, he’s following us, and pulls up next to one of the Range-Rovers. They have blacked-out glass, otherwise he might not have been so rash. He probably thinks he’ll find a fat retired banker and his fatter wife inside. He might even have it in mind to cause a scene and intimidate them. Anyway, he throws open his car door and leaps out, a ginger-haired guy in his late twenties, all high testosterone and executive aggression, and I wonder if one day his dick will grow to normal size and he’ll buy a proper car and start to act like a grown-up. Looking at him, I remember him as a hedge fund manager, a finance rock star who talks the talk and just possibly might believe he can walk the walk.

  At least until the doors of the Range-Rover open – all four doors at once – and he finds himself facing four men who might have been picked straight out of the front row of the England rugby team, if only the England rugby team weren’t such wusses. They ignore him, and the words die on his lips. But then he catches sight of Two Livers and me getting out of the Merc.

  ‘Hey, you – Dave Hart.’

  He must have seen my picture somewhere. I don’t like talking to strangers, at least not unless they are female and very exotic. I think of myself as a quiet, shy, retiring sort of guy. So I ignore him too.

  ‘Oi, didn’t you hear me?�
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  He comes striding round the front of the Range-Rover, towards the Merc, ignoring the fact that all four heavies are moving in on him, while on the other side of the Merc four more from the second Range-Rover have clocked him too. Tom has spotted him and gets out of the Merc, positioning himself between Mister Angry and us.

  He’s wearing a bright red bow tie that marks him out as one of a self-styled elite drinking club called the Flaming Fiascos. These guys think they are really hot, and have a reputation for trashing expensive restaurants and spoiling other people’s evenings, all of which they put right by waving their magic cheque books around. I condemn such vulgar, over-the-top behaviour unreservedly, particularly since they never invited me to join. Meanwhile the street-smart Brazilian spots the danger her man is in and she’s tottering after him as fast as her high heels will allow, calling out to him to ‘cool it’.

  ‘I know who you are, you wanker.’

  I turn and smile, and pat Tom on the shoulder. ‘Did you hear that? He called you a wanker.’

  Two Livers agrees. ‘I did. I definitely heard him call you a wanker, Tom.’

  Tom is blocking his way, and all around him the Meat Factory are forming up.

  ‘Not you – him.’ The guy is pointing at me. His voice has risen and he’s looking a little less angry now. ‘He’s a wanker.’ He sees Tom’s jaw clench, and takes a step backwards, eyes widening as he realises he’s about to discover the difference between executive aggression in the dealing room and the real thing.

  Tom pats him on the shoulder. ‘I think it’s your birthday…’

  There are those who say that standards of behaviour have dropped at Glyndebourne in recent years, probably because of all those boisterous City types with more money than sense. But it really is too much for some of the old traditionalists when what is obviously a rugby club outing gets carried away.

  I can almost hear them tutting as a group of prop forwards carry one of their smaller team mates, probably the scrum half, struggling and protesting, shoulder high, while they laugh and sing ‘Happy Birthday’, and throw him in the lake.

  Boys will be boys.

  * * *

  TWO LIVERS and I go through to the bar where Vlad the Impaler is waiting for us with his girlfriend of the moment, a stunning Oriental type with long dark hair and a classic hour glass figure, who apparently comes from one of the Central Asian republics. Vlad is married, but Mrs Kommisarov prefers to stay at home.

  He has another guest, an Icelander called Ras Rasmussen, early thirties, very tall with long fair hair tied in a pony-tail and an athletic physique. This man could be an Australian lifeguard, if he wasn’t the billionaire owner of SmegBank, a new and very aggressive entrant to the Square Mile that has come from nowhere and now seems to be buying up great British brand name companies at the rate of about one a month. He’s very cool, very handsome, and as soon as he sees Two Livers his mouth drops open, his tongue hangs out, and he ignores his cute blonde Icelandic wife.

  She looks about six months pregnant – their second child – and my guess is that he’s reached the coyote stage of pregnancy, so starved of sex that he’s howling for it. To make matters worse, instead of joining us all in a glass of champagne, he’s clutching a beer bottle in his hand – a Zero, the new low-calorie, alcohol-free beer for fags. Clearly, we’re not going to get on.

  It gets worse. It turns out Ras is a toy collector. Not children’s toys, but adult ones. He has six homes, in all the usual places, a small fleet of classic cars, a super-yacht that spends the winter in the Caribbean and the summer in the Med, and a private jet.

  ‘Just the one?’

  He looks irritated by my question. At Grossbank, Two Livers and I have the run of the entire air force, but it’s not the same – we don’t have to worry about servicing the planes or paying the crew, because everything’s free.

  I used to be an aspiring toy collector myself, running on the treadmill to assemble the most impressive collection I could before I died – he who dies with the most toys wins – but now it just seems empty. Partly it’s because it’s an unwinnable contest – there’s always a Russian oligarch or Indian steel magnate with more than you – and partly it’s because it gives me a sense of accumulating baggage. I’d rather rent someone else’s headache. But what do I do instead? All I seem to do is focus on momentary pleasures and let the money pile up in my bank account. What’s it all for? I start to feel a blackie coming on, so I hit the champagne even harder.

  Over a couple of magnums of champagne we cover all the usual tedium that we have to talk about when someone brings their wife to what would otherwise be an enjoyable and lively event. Ras’s wife has only lived in London for a couple of months, and wants to ask all kinds of dumb questions.

  ‘Our son is three years old. His name is Sven.’ I groan. Any second now she’ll open her handbag and get out the photos. ‘Do you have children, Mister Hart?’

  ‘Call me Dave. Only one that I know of.’

  ‘One child?’ She smiles sweetly at her husband, who is staring at the outline of Two Livers’ nipples through her dress. ‘The same as us.’ She rubs her tummy and does look kind of cute – her eyes are shining and she has that special look that pregnant women sometimes get. ‘But soon we will have two.’ Oh really, I hadn’t noticed. She looks as if she thinks I’m going to ask if she knows the sex of her second child, but instead I pour myself another glass of champagne, so she carries on relentlessly. ‘Do you have a girl or a boy?’

  ‘Girl… I think. Yeah, a girl. Called Samantha, four years old, lives with her mother, Wendy. We’re divorced.’ I know I’m being a wanker, but I’m seething as I stare belligerently at her husband, who is captivated by Two Livers, and seems to be making the mistake of trying to keep up with her as she works her way through the fizz. He should have stuck to Zeros.

  ‘Where does she go to school? I’m very worried about Sven. It’s so difficult to get your children into good schools in London.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’ I rub my thumb and forefinger together. I nod in her husband’s direction. ‘He can fix it. If he doesn’t know his way around, just tell him that when he does a school visit, he should put a brown envelope on the headmaster’s desk. Be very open about it. It’s expected these days. A grand usually does it.’ I tap the side of my nose. ‘Cash.’

  ‘Really?’ She seems shocked.

  ‘Sure. You must have heard stories about the black economy, the difference between official and real GDP, the unexplained purchasing power and lifestyles of certain professions in this country?’

  She shakes her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Let’s call it oiling the wheels. But you have to be careful how you do it. People over here don’t like being handed wedges of cash. You have to be discreet. Always use an envelope, especially if it’s anyone official.’

  ‘Official?’

  ‘Sure – the police, for example, if they stop you for speeding. Or the local council, if you want to build an extension on the house, or the magistrates’ court, if you get snapped by a speed camera and might lose your licence.’

  ‘I had no idea.’

  I shrug. ‘Like I said, it’s discreet. Just be prepared. Some people keep ready made up envelopes with them all the time.’

  ‘Really? Even in Notting Hill?’

  ‘Notting Hill? Is that where you live?’

  ‘Yes. Ras bought a house there when he first came over. Before I joined him.’

  I look pointedly at her husband, who is ignoring us and staring with increasingly lecherous eyes at Two Livers. ‘A lot of hookers in Notting Hill.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Hookers. Your husband will explain.’ In fact there are a lot of hookers everywhere in London, but I like to say this when people start boring me about property prices and how amazingly well they’ve done by buying when they did.

  ‘Why did you divorce, Mister Hart?’

  ‘Dave. We’re all friends here.’ It’s a very direct questio
n, but the Scandies can be like that. I wonder how to reply. Should I explain that I’m a selfish, shallow, sex mad, untrustworthy, unreliable son of a bitch? Nah. I put on my wistful look, full of sadness and regret. ‘There was something missing from our marriage.’

  ‘What was that?’

  I could say trust, honesty and openness, but I’ve been hitting the champagne pretty hard, and can feel myself just sliding over the edge. ‘Blow jobs.’

  ‘Blow jobs?!’ She half shouts the words, so that we all look at her and the other people in the bar turn to see what’s happening. There’s a brief silence, close to exquisite, which I break by half slurring, ‘Blow jobs. The secret of a happy marriage is to give your husband at least one blow job every week. Unless you’d rather someone else did.’

  * * *

  IT’S HALF-TIME, and Ras Rasmussen is so pissed he can hardly stand. Vlad has got us a table for dinner in the restaurant, so that we avoid the riff-raff picnicking on the lawn, and we’re slurping a fine vintage Chablis to accompany our smoked salmon, swaying and slurring and close to the point where we’ll either swear undying love or try to kill each other.

  Ras lurches forward across the table towards Two Livers, who still seems alarmingly sober, other than a mild sheen of perspiration across the top of her chest, which beautifully sets off her diamond necklace. Some of the stones are subtly coloured, and I’ve decided they have to be Leviev.

  ‘So I climbed to the top of Kilimanjaro. The view as the sun rose was spectacular. We set off before dawn and when we reached the summit, we felt so proud.’ Ras seems to think this is going to impress Two Livers.

  ‘Is that right?’

  He nods, assuming she’s going to say how brave and strong and manly he must be, truly a worthy successor to the Vikings who rowed across the North Sea in open boats to burn our villages and screw our women.