by Peter Barry
Dieter laughed. ‘And what are you celebrating this time, Russell?’
‘This time I am celebrating my winnings.’
‘You have won a lot?’
‘I have won enough to buy us a bottle of champagne.’
‘That is not so much.’
‘How about you, Dieter?’
‘I am neither ahead, nor behind.’
They were all, apart from Russell, a little the worse for wear by now. Dieter was beginning to sound more and more like a German, and Simon, despite having only been in the country a few weeks, was sounding as if he was Australian born and bred. As for Hugh, he found it hard to keep his mind on anything for longer than a second or two, and his only two real thoughts consisted of his undying love for Kate and Tim, intermingled with confused thoughts about Fiona. They’re all precious to me, he told himself, all important in my life. Everything else is meaningless, especially work. Love and friendship, they’re the only things that count. Nothing else is of any value.
He wanted to tell Russell about Fiona, but was sober enough to appreciate that it was neither the time nor the place. Fiona would have been disgusted to see him at the Casino, that was for sure. She loathed the place. ‘It’s even uglier and more unpleasant than the gambling organisation that owns it. It’s vulgar. That’s why Russell’s always going there.’
Russell was proposing a toast, which Hugh recalled the next day as being something about the long and enduring friendship between Bauer and Alpha. Their glasses were poised in mid-air when two young women approached their corner. Russell sprang to his feet and flamboyantly kissed both of them on the cheek. He addressed his work colleagues, ‘Guys, I want you to meet two good friends of mine, Emma and Suzanne. And be warned, these two ladies are serious fun.’ He had his arms round both women, his bald head bobbing and glistening against their bare, shining shoulders. He hugged them, and whispered something to each in turn. Then he ordered a second – or was it third? – bottle of champagne and two more glasses from a passing waiter. ‘Ladies, you must join us. I insist.’
Hugh didn’t have the feeling either was about to refuse. Emma sat down between Russell and himself, Suzanne next to Dieter. Hugh wondered about the women who were joining them. He’d heard rumours that Russell sometimes employed escorts, and it certainly explained how Russell managed to attract such beautiful women into his life. He was a five foot four midget, could only talk about work and sport, yet had women falling at his feet – but surely they couldn’t all be escorts? Then it must be power, he thought, but immediately disagreed with this verdict: Russell wasn’t all that powerful.
He tried to concentrate on the conversation between his boss and Emma in the hope of joining in, but Russell was being flirtatious in an outrageously clichéd way, and despite feeling very drunk, Hugh found it difficult to get on, or sink to, the same wavelength. It struck him that they must be in some kind of sub-basement of social intercourse. He grinned at this clever witticism, and thought how much Fiona would have appreciated it, before realising that Emma was making the mistake of thinking that he was grinning at her.
She was leaning across Russell to speak to Hugh when Russell looked down and exclaimed, ‘Now that’s a seriously beautiful view.’ He was slapped playfully for his trouble, and this encouraged him to say, ‘Do that again, Emma, oh please do that again,’ which she did, laughing. At the same time, she was asking Hugh, ‘And what do you do for a crust? I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.’
‘It’s Hugh. I work with Russell – no, for Russell.’ He thought his voice sounded not only distant, but distinctly hollow.
Emma did not seem impressed by this answer, finding it neither amusing nor entertaining, and so immediately turned her attention back to Russell. She ignored Hugh for the rest of the evening.
He listened to Russell rabbiting on about how successful his agency was and the great campaigns he’d personally been responsible for, and he thought slurred thoughts about money talking, his boss’s voice sounding like the kerching of cash registers, and about how he should do the right thing and call Caitlin back right away. But it was late now, and he was worried he might become incoherent and weepy.
He tried to drink more slowly and, at the same time, keep his eyes open. Maybe he needed food, something to absorb the alcohol, so he asked the waiter to bring some nibbles. Russell stared at him briefly, as if, by this modest display of independence, he’d overstepped the boundary and performed some action above his station in life. Hugh pretended not to notice, and turned away. Simon’s back was towards him; the creative director was talking across Dieter to Russell’s other friend, Suzanne. She was resting an arm on Dieter’s shoulder, in fact leaning on him – in quite a familiar manner. Hugh wondered if his client realised who these women were. On the positive side, however, like her friend, she was revealing an extremely interesting and alluring chasm, a topographical feature between her breasts of such a precipitous nature that Hugh was concerned Dieter was about to topple over the edge and be lost to the agency forever. That would be a shame.
Hugh wondered if this was the way to run a business. The absurdity of the question almost made him laugh, but he was too drunk to consider the answer in any depth, so he told himself it must be an excellent way to run a business. His client certainly seemed happy enough, sitting on the edge of a chasm and staring down into the comforting, beckoning depths. It would be a good way to kill yourself, Hugh thought, leaping off there. Better than the Gap at South Head.
He wanted to leave, but wasn’t too confident about standing up and trying to manoeuvre his way out from behind the coffee table, and he didn’t want to trip over anyone’s feet, or fall over – possibly straight into one of the chasms on either side of him which made him giggle, then cough and become embarrassed. It would be a terrible thing to fall over, so maybe he should wait until someone else stood up because this surely couldn’t go on all night? What if he missed his train, the last one? It wouldn’t be the end of the world, and he was tempted to close his eyes, just for a minute, because it wouldn’t matter if he dozed off for a short while, no one would probably even notice. But then he noticed that Dieter was already standing up, and was protesting to Russell that he had to go. ‘Thank you for a wonderful evening, but that is sufficient. I have drunk my annual allowance of champagne in one evening. It is not good.’
‘It is very good, Dieter. Having an allowance, that’s not good. What about Suzanne?’
She was standing next to Dieter, making meaningful eye contact with her friend. Hugh wondered what they were colluding in.
‘Suzanne and I are going to share a cab. We are going in the same direction, it seems.’
Russell smiled. ‘Always like to hear of a man and a woman heading in the same direction.’
Everyone was shaking hands, and making pleasant farewell statements. Hugh had stood up to say goodbye and was concentrating hard on not falling over.
‘Now don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, you two,’ said Russell, throwing clichés around with as much abandon as he did champagne.
‘That gives us plenty of scope,’ said Suzanne, obviously unaffected by Russell’s grammatical commonalities.
Hugh fell back onto his seat. He should have left. While he was still standing, he should have left. He shouldn’t have sat down again. Russell appeared to be about to embrace Emma, and possibly more. They were certainly close enough together. He turned to find Simon talking to him, or at least he found Simon staring at him as if he was waiting for a reply to some question. He couldn’t remember having said anything, so what could the creative genius from the mother country possibly want with him? He tried to focus – either his mind or his eyes, it didn’t matter which.
‘Is this any way to run a business?’ he slurred in the direction of Simon.
The creative director grinned, clasping him round the shoulders. ‘You sound like shit, mate.’
‘I was just thinking the same about you. It’s possible I may have drunk a little t
oo much, but no harm done.’
‘I have to admit to being cold stone sober myself.’
‘It’s stone cold sober, actually.’ He was proud to have picked up the error, especially with Simon being a copywriter and everything.
‘That’s what I said.’
‘No, you didn’t. I assure you …’ He turned more towards Simon, keen to share an intimacy.
The creative director was frowning. ‘You’re not going to throw up on me, are you, mate?’
‘I want to tell you …’
‘Because I’ve got my best suit on. Fact is, it’s my only suit.’
‘You know what you said about our earlier campaign?’
‘You’re not talking work, are you? Not at this time of night.’
‘I want to tell you about that other campaign, the one you called a crock of shit.’
‘Yeah? I remember that. It was a crock of shit.’
‘A friend of mine did it.’
‘Is that right? Well, no offence, mate. Just being honest. Always the best policy in my opinion.’
‘Her name was Fiona.’
‘Yeah, heard about her.’
There was a man standing across the room, legs apart, a puzzled – even bewildered – expression on his face as he struggled to keep his balance as he stared down at the two empty pockets he’d pulled out of his trousers. ‘She died in a car crash. Couple of days ago.’
Simon did a double take, one that was a little slow and inebriated, but a double take nevertheless. Hugh was pleased at his reaction. Russell was asking a waiter to bring another bottle of champagne, which seemed to involve a good deal of discussion. Simon was shaking his head and frowning. ‘She what?’
‘She died in a car crash. She was by herself. Went into a tree. I’ve just heard.’
Simon emptied his glass of champagne. It struck Hugh that he did this because he could see Russell looking round at everyone’s glass and was keen not to miss out on another round. ‘Well …’ He was distracted when he addressed Hugh: ‘Sorry to hear that, mate. Not much I can do about it, though. Doesn’t change what I think of her campaign.’
Hugh was trying to focus. He felt like the man who was still examining his empty pockets across the room: he was confronted by a puzzle, and he didn’t know the answer. He said, ‘Simon.’
‘Yeah?’ He was now leaning away from Hugh, making movements as if about to stand up.
‘You’re a shit.’
Simon turned back to look at Hugh. ‘You’re right, mate. Didn’t take you long to work that out.’ And he turned away, this time with a finality that excluded Hugh.
9
Amongst the advertising crowd, they definitely didn’t fit in. They didn’t even appear to fit in their own clothes. He suspected they were wearing their finest outfits – neither of which looked as if it had been worn before.
‘Mr. and Mrs. Bricknell?’ The woman started. It was as if Hugh had suddenly accused her of hiding behind an alias. More likely it was because she was unaccustomed to even this modest display of public recognition. Husband and wife nodded their heads expectantly, perhaps hoping Hugh was about to rescue them from their increasingly feeble efforts to survive the occasion alone.
Without asking who was addressing them, Mr. Bricknell said, ‘You must call us Helen and Gerry.’
‘I’m Hugh Drysdale. I work … I worked with Fiona.’ He wasn’t sure of the appropriate tense in the circumstances: although the present was an impossibility, the past might mislead: it might imply he hadn’t worked with her for many years.
If her daughter had walked into the room at that very moment, she wouldn’t have been leapt on with more enthusiasm than Mrs. Bricknell now leapt on Hugh’s introductory remark. ‘Oh but she told us so much about you.’ She still found it necessary to seek confirmation from her husband, who stood by her side as stiff an unyielding as if he was being forced to attend the service naked – ‘Didn’t she, Gerry?’
Nodding vigorously, ‘She was very fond of you, our Fiona.’ He could have been a witness in a court of law, hands crossed over his navel, confirming under oath that, yes indeed, the deceased had been very fond of the person standing in the dock.
‘I want to say how terribly sorry …’ The inadequacy of his words, weighed against the grief felt by parents for a dead child, made him falter, but Mrs. Bricknell and Fiona’s stepfather were nodding their heads with such quiet desperation – expectancy, hope and encouragement all battling for supremacy in their eyes – that he felt compelled to continue, ‘… how terribly sorry I am. Fiona was a truly wonderful person.’
He was angry with himself for the feebleness of the word ‘wonderful’, and questioned what could have impelled him to say ‘truly’. He’d added insult to injury by making it sound as if there was a possibility it might not be true.
The mother stifled a sob. Her husband patted her on the arm. The gesture was more congratulatory than comforting, and it struck Hugh that they were very much alone in their misery, a couple ill-equipped to share their grief with anyone else, or, even worse, together. He wondered if they’d given any thought to the circumstances of Fiona’s death, or if they were in any way suspicious. He’d read somewhere that solitary drivers who wrap their cars around trees are invariably suicides, and that the tree is an attempt to hide this fact either from family and friends, or from an insurance company. Could this have been the case with Fiona? He prayed it hadn’t been like that. He felt so bad about her death, so guilty that he hadn’t called her since their drink in the pub, that he spent every minute of the day battling feelings of being responsible. Unable to raise such a subject with the parents, he began searching for a less upsetting subject of conversation. Hugh’s mind, unfortunately, was a blank and he felt unable to contribute. It was Mr. Bricknell who finally brandished, triumphantly, a new topic. ‘We came down on the early train this morning.’
Always considerate of the feelings of others, Hugh did his best to appear interested. He bent his head a little to one side, and nodded thoughtfully.
‘It’s a big trip at our age.’
Hugh wasn’t sure how long he could keep up the pretence, yet somehow managed to add a dash of sympathy to his look of interest, before, thankfully, being rescued by Caitlin, Fiona’s best friend.
‘Hugh, I’ve already spoken to Helen and Gerry. I’m asking a few people back to my place.’ She turned her back on Fiona’s parents and, gesticulating towards the others standing around in the crematorium’s reception area, drinking tea and coffee, she added, ‘I’m not inviting that lot back, apart from Sam and Jason. Fi had no time for any of them. But I’d love it if you came back. She really liked you, you know – always talked about you. I can’t believe we’ve never met.’
He looked down at the tear-stained face. She was biting the corner of her bottom lip, on the verge of crying again. He had watched her during the ceremony, in the front row next to Fiona’s mother, her shoulders shaking, and Mrs. Bricknell, who looked proud that her own daughter could cause such grief in a friend, giving her a hug every few minutes.
In the chapel, he’d stood with Russell, who spent most of the ceremony on his Notebook. Hugh wondered why he was attending. He’d been stunned into silence when Russell had breezed into his office and offered him a lift, taken aback that his boss had never considered not going, never considered that he might have been responsible for the fact there was a funeral service in the first place. The fact that he might not be welcome, Hugh suspected, had probably gone right over Russell’s head. He was more likely to have seen the service as a good networking opportunity.
During the brief, non-religious ceremony, two assistants, one skinny and tall, the other fat and small, had glided around the chapel with lowered eyes and hands clasped before them, with such impressive looks of sorrow on their faces, one could almost believe that they themselves had lost a daughter. The celebrant attempted to speak about the deceased as if she’d been a personal and well-loved friend, but failed miserably. The speec
h came across, at least to Hugh, as a list of facts she’d managed to glean from Fiona’s parents and Caitlin. He wondered if this was the sum of his friend’s life; was this all she had been about? To have sold some washing powder, a few cars, female sanitary products and written – using the word loosely – an immortal line for a well-known brand of toothpaste, was that what Fiona’s life amounted to? Was that it? To have had a meaningless, if successful, career in a transitory industry, of benefit to no one but a few vainglorious businessmen, was that all? These dark thoughts made him want to weep almost more than the fact of her death.
‘A gathering of insincerity,’ said Caitlin looking around the room. ‘What you might call a crowd of hypocrisy.’
He nodded. It was hard to disagree. Some people had said to him, ‘She would have loved the service,’ and he wondered if they meant that Fiona must be disappointed not to have been able to make it. Others said, ‘It’s a good turnout,’ as if it was a sporting fixture and there’d been some initial worry about filling the seats. Many said, ‘Let’s keep in touch. It’s been so long,’ but did not mean it. With the social necessities out of the way and their sorrow having been displayed for all to witness, they could return to their favourite topic of conversation – advertising in general or, if they felt their audience to be receptive, their own latest campaign.
‘Is your wife here?’ Caitlin asked.
‘No, she couldn’t make it. She sends her condolences.’ Neither of which was true, but Caitlin nodded, apparently either satisfied or, more likely, uninterested.
‘I can’t believe that shit Russell turned up. Why did he bother?’
‘I don’t believe he thinks he’s in any way to blame. He told me on the way here that he’d given her very generous redundancy terms.’
