by Peter Barry
Hugh laughed. ‘Come on Joe! That’s a bit far-fetched.’
‘I’m serious!’ Joe suddenly looked annoyed, exhaling a stream of cigarette smoke through his nostrils with a kind of dragonlike fury. He removed a shred of tobacco from his tongue. ‘That’s how it works, mate, believe me.’
‘But who are “they”, Joe? I’ve never understood who “they” are. Do you know?’
‘They are the people who run it all, the ones who keep the lid on everything and make sure too many people don’t escape. They are at the top of the big corporations, the banks, law firms and media outlets. They are also in government. They are the people who hide from us exactly what’s going on.’
‘I’m not sure those people are clever enough to organise something like that, certainly not the ones I’ve met in business. They’re too incompetent. They couldn’t do it.’
‘Believe me, when it comes to looking after their own interests they’re up to it. Capitalism’s been like that for decades: enriching the few at the expense of the many.’
‘I think it’s more like the Boxing Day sales, when they open the department store doors and everyone charges in, elbowing each other, pushing and shoving. Some people get trampled in the rush. They go down and they stay down. They’re never quite able to get back on their feet. It’s the others who grab the big bargains, the rewards. I think it’s more like that.’
‘You’re wrong, my friend, and I’ll tell you this for free. We’re living in an age that’s morally and politically bankrupt. That’s what you don’t seem to understand. Look around you. Everyone’s miserable, everyone’s cowed, everyone’s beaten. That’s what rampant consumerism does to you. It doesn’t make you happy, like they promise, it makes you miserable.’
Although Hugh felt there was a lot of truth in what Joe was saying, he couldn’t believe that it was all true. Could people consciously decide to be so evil, to knife their neighbours in the back just to get one more step up the ladder?
‘You know the heights of happiness most people attain in this life, Hugh? Eating a Big Mac in front of some reality TV show with a beer in their hand. That’s it, mate. That’s paradise on earth for most folk.’
Hugh recalled an evening, possibly a year or two earlier, sitting in his boss’s dimly lit office, when Murray, feet up on the desk, had been almost philosophical. ‘In the past, before you and I were born, Hugh, it didn’t matter if you weren’t a success. You weren’t disappointed if you never made it to the top of the advertising world, never became a successful merchant or a famous High Court judge. Why? Because you had heaven waiting for you. That’s when you received your reward. The truth is, you didn’t want success in your own lifetime; you preferred to have it later. Much better to be really miserable here on earth, to be poor and downtrodden, then cash in later, in paradise.’
‘But no one believes in God now.’
‘My point exactly. For all of us non-believers, this is our only chance to make it. Right here, right now. We only have this one chance to be successful and happy – to live in paradise – before our candle’s snuffed out for ever.’
‘You’re saying that in the past a belief in the hereafter was a person’s consolation for their miserable existence on earth?’
‘Of course it was. When you were downtrodden, in the mud, with the carriages of the rich and famous passing over your starving body, that’s what kept you going. You said to yourself, “Don’t worry, Wheeler old son, you’ll get your reward in heaven. Then it’ll be your turn to drive a carriage over the bodies of these rich and famous pricks – and you’ll be able to do it forever and ever and ever …” That’s what gave you the strength to put up with the Packers, Murdochs or even Russells in your life.’
And they had both laughed.
At the end of one of those days he worked with Joe, he dropped in at his local supermarket on the way home and stocked up on a few things he needed. He was walking along the street, carrying a couple of plastic shopping bags, heading back to the rundown flat he now called home. He was dressed in his habitual shorts, T-shirt and sandals. His face was shadowy from not having seen a razor blade for several days. The street was busy, the cars nose to tail as all those people with a job headed back home from their offices. A car horn sounded. Hugh, trudging along with his head down, was wondering if he had enough money to survive until his next Centrelink payment. The car horn sounded again, this time more insistently. Must be one of those impatient, rude bastards, he thought, trying to force his way into the stream of traffic. He kept his head down and walked on, weighed down by his shopping and his worries about money. When the car horn sounded again, a third time, right alongside him now, the car in question stationary in the line of traffic that was heading in the opposite direction to which he was walking, he looked up. He saw an immaculate, vintage Aston Martin DB4 in English racing green. As a child he’d once played with that very model on the floor of his home in Manchester, pushing it around the feet of his father or hurtling it across the linoleum in the kitchen to smash against the wall. It was his favourite dream car of all time. He looked away, knowing that whoever the driver was trying to attract the attention of, it definitely wasn’t him. At that moment the passenger-side electric window glided downwards. ‘Hugh!’ He stopped, bewildered. He was uncomfortable, almost alarmed, that he’d been noticed, in his state, by someone driving such a car. He peered into its dim interior. Russell Grant was leaning across the passenger seat, a wide smile on his face. ‘Mate!’ Hugh would never have believed that just one syllable could be so prolonged, so drawn out, yet still be invested with such a degree of insincerity. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Great.’ A lifetime of good manners compelled him, against all his inclinations, to ask, ‘And how are you doing, Russell? See you got rid of the Jaguar.’ He tried, tried really hard, not to admire the Aston Martin’s gleaming paintwork and the walnut facia, did his utmost to forget the heritage of the car and the numerous Le Mans victories, pretended he couldn’t hear the rumble of the six cylinder engine capable of delivering around 240 brake horsepower and a top speed of over 230 kilometres an hour. He even attempted to control the twitching of his nostrils so that Russell wouldn’t realise he was inhaling the smell of soft, high quality leather, probably hand-stitched from the carcasses of a dozen baby heifers raised on some unique milk formula. It wasn’t just a car from a bygone age, for Hugh it was also from a different existence.
‘That crock of shit!’
Hugh was looking at the Aston despite himself.
‘She’s a beauty, isn’t she? Real chick magnet, I can tell you.’ Hugh grunted, non-committal. ‘How you doing, mate?’ – the subtle emphasis on the ‘you’ conveying in a simple, one syllable word the fact that Russell was doing very, very well, thank you. Why doesn’t he just ask outright, Hugh thought, Have you managed to get yourself a car like this yet, or are you now, as I suspect, relegated to riding a pushbike?
How was it that Russell could end up in such a car? It was an automobile rather than a car, a paean to English nobility and racing history. It reeked of class. And therein lay the problem: Hugh’s ex-managing director had no class whatsoever. He should have been in a Bauer: the car that had been marketed so cleverly to appeal to both gentlemen drivers, those who appreciate the history of fine automobiles, and the nouveau riche, the slick entrepreneurs of the money markets, the real estate developers, the conmen, salesmen and Russell Grants of this world.
‘Great, just great.’ He was suddenly conscious of his clothes – what they described in the trade as ‘leisurewear.’ His T-shirt in particular was an old favourite, featuring, along with the fading Kill the Boredom message on the front, several rips and holes. It did not look impressive next to the sartorial, branded elegance of Russell Grant, fortunately almost eclipsed by the gaudy gloom of his car’s interior. He was able to see himself, as well as the passers-by, reflected in the gleaming paintwork; everything was mirrored there, including his own miserable, impoverished existence. He
could feel each hair of the stubble on his jaw, was aware of each stress furrow on his brow. If he’d been able to do it without being observed, he would have shifted the two plastic bags to behind his back. If he’d been able to, he would have shifted himself to somewhere on the other side of the globe. Overall, he felt that his words, ‘Great, just great’ did not quite ring true.
The traffic edged forward. Thank God, he thought, this painful conversation is about to end. A car behind Russell sounded its horn. His ex-boss looked in his rear view mirror and mouthed, ‘Fuck off!’
‘Mate, hop in. Got time for a quick jar?’ He reached across to open the door.
‘Russell, I’d love to …’ Putting a restraining hand on the car door, no longer used to thinking fast on his feet, his brain scrambling for the slick riposte, the ad man’s witty summation, the mot juste. How could he wriggle out of this one? ‘Love to, Russell, but I have an appointment right now. I’m actually running late.’ Then added as a desperate, last minute stab at veracity, ‘Need to get home and change.’ He wished he’d been walking faster, more urgently when Russell had hailed him a minute or two earlier, not dragging his feet like he had nowhere to go.
He couldn’t possibly go for a drink with his ex-boss. It wasn’t even a consideration. Having to place his plastic bags down by his seat in some ritzy bar – and knowing Russell, it would be ritzy – that would be unbearable. And then having to pretend for at least an hour that his own career bore many striking similarities to that of John Singleton or some other advertising high-flyer would be too great a challenge.
‘Shame, mate.’ Russell not only looked sceptical, but appeared disappointed at missing the opportunity to boast to a lesser mortal about his countless successes and conquests. ‘Another time then.’ He flicked a business card into Hugh’s hand as he pulled the door shut. ‘Give us a call. Might be able to put something your way. Have to go, this bastard’s giving me the hump,’ and he gave the finger to the driver in the car behind, who responded with another envious blast of his horn. ‘See you, mate,’ he shouted as his face was wiped by the upwardly gliding window, and the Aston Martin glided forward with a heart-stopping rumble.
Hugh sighed and continued on his way. Seems to be doing all right for himself, he thought. He’d heard – from where he could no longer remember – about a year after leaving The Alpha Agency – that it had been taken over by one of the international advertising agency networks. Russell, and one or two of the other Board members, were required to continue working for two or three years, to ‘bed down’ Alpha’s clients in the new enterprise. That was the kind of language they used: bed down. Hugh had never been quite sure if this meant tucking them in for a comfortable night’s sleep or laying them across the desk and fucking them senseless. The massive pay-out Russell would finally receive was performance related. In truth, he didn’t have to perform; he simply had to ensure that none of his clients walked out of the door during those two or three years. Hugh suspected the man was now retired, and probably not yet fifty. He determined not to consider whether such a reward was deserved, and made a conscious effort to stifle his rising feelings of envy.
He knew Murray had retired, he knew that for certain. He and his wife had sold their house in Cremorne and moved to the Blue Mountains. Murray now spent his days gardening. That had always been his main love, his passion, which always struck Hugh as being at odds with how he perceived his ex-colleague. Murray, to him, had always been a city person, an eating – and once upon a time, a drinking – bon vivant character, all expense accounts and the various trappings of success. He tried, now, not to be jealous of both Russell’s and Murray’s good fortune, although it was next to impossible for him not to compare his own impoverished position with theirs.
He looked at the business card that had been thrust into his hand. It read, ‘Russell Grant. Brand Strategist.’ So he was still working, but no longer at Alpha. The title sounded particularly nebulous, which meant Russell was probably still earning a fortune producing nothing, all smoke and mirrors, fancy footwork and fast thinking. But then that’s exactly what he was, and had always been – an entrepreneur. He’d never had the qualifications to be a conventional businessman, a corporate manager, so he’d become an entrepreneur instead, a fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants man. And no doubt Russell would be proud to be described as an entrepreneur, the kind of person who delivers the goods and services people demand at a price they can afford. That was his usual method of working, the source of his current wealth, so why change it, especially when it was obvious no one had yet tumbled the modesty of his business skills.
From there it was a short distance to thinking about Fiona’s offer to set up an agency with him, their own agency. He thought how different it would have been to The Alpha Agency, how professionally it would have been run. He could have put into practice his ideas about management: being proactive rather than reactive, working in partnership with their clients, and doing everything to promote their interests. Such musings were self-defeating, of course. The fact was, he hadn’t taken her up on her offer, and thinking about it now was just too painful. He’d thrown it away, turned down the chance of a lifetime. He knew he’d made a dreadful mistake: not only would Fiona have been alive now if they’d set up an agency together, but he probably wouldn’t be in this financial mess either. He also realised that he wasn’t entirely to blame, that it wasn’t completely his fault. If it hadn’t been for Kate and Tim, his enormous mortgage burden, and all his family responsibilities, he could have taken Fiona up on her offer without a second thought. But at the time he’d felt trapped, and had made the mistake of trying to do the right thing by everyone.
* * *
He wasn’t comfortable when she suggested where they should meet for lunch. ‘I haven’t been there, but it sounds like my kind of place.’ He was compelled to say, ‘Penny, I’m not so keen on going to that restaurant.’
She misunderstood him. ‘You’ve eaten there?’
‘It’s not that …’ Hesitating, before admitting, ‘It’s out of my price range right now, until I find work.’
She shouted at him down the phone, ‘That’s so typical of you. I’m paying, Hugh. I’m not even going to discuss this. It’s on the company. Be there at one o’clock on Friday. If you’re not, I’ll never speak to you again. Do I make myself clear?’ And she laughed while he muttered his acceptance.
There was a difference between them now, an inequality. He was aware of it, and wondered if she was too. The variance was because he had so little money. So much in life is based on how deep your pockets are: the way you’re treated by others, your place in society, the quality of life you enjoy. Money might tie you down, but it also liberates.
‘So, how’s the bachelor life? Having fun?’
They’d met a few times since his divorce, yet she always asked if he was coping, being by himself. He nodded, adjusting his cutlery at the same time. ‘I’m hardly in a position to live it up at the moment.’
‘You need a job.’
‘Tell me about it.’
They ordered their food, and Penny chose the wine. ‘Are you all right? You look as if you’ve lost weight. This makes me exceedingly jealous.’
He shrugged. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ He was aware of the temptation to fish for her sympathy. By labouring the fact he was now alone might be the way to get her into his bed. Yet he also knew the opportunity for a relationship had passed. She ignored his half-hearted overtures whenever they met up, and he was now resigned to being locked into the role of ‘just good friends’. Forever.
‘Are you getting much work?’
‘None. I’m out of the loop now – completely.’ He shifted in his chair. ‘My problem is, I’ve never done the networking thing.’ It was a lame excuse.
‘You were like that in London, I remember. But you had work then.’
‘It doesn’t seem right that you should have to drink with colleagues in pubs every night, present papers, write articles and attend official func
tions in order to get work.’
‘It’s the way of the world, unfortunately.’
‘It shouldn’t be.’
She laughed. ‘But it is.’
‘I don’t want to talk about work, Penny.’
‘We don’t have much to talk about then. We can’t talk about your divorce, we can’t talk about your work, so we’ll just have to talk about me. Goody!’
While she was telling him how her company was increasing its share of the bottled water market, she called their waiter over and ordered some Highland Stream water. He said they only had French and Italian waters, or Mount Franklin. Hugh watched her turn on all her charms, and he ended up promising to order in some Highland Stream. Hugh found it quite engaging that she became so animated talking about her product.
‘You’ll never guess: we got an approach from Cadbury Schweppes. They’re interested in buying us.’
‘Are you selling?’
‘Not yet. It’s too early. They’re only making an offer because they think we could become a threat. When we really are a threat, that’s when they’ll make us a serious offer. Then I’ll be able to retire to my Pacific island paradise.’
‘Stifle the competition, create a monopoly, and screw the consumer. Nothing changes very much, does it?’
‘My, we do sound cynical today, Mr. Drysdale.’
He asked what she’d been up to.
‘I’ve seen a bit of Australia. Been to the various State capitals. Still not done the outback. I want to go to one of those Bachelor and Spinster Balls. There’s one coming up in country New South Wales soon, so I’m going to see if I can pick myself a broad shouldered, slim hipped cowboy, the kind of guy who stares off into the distance with penetrating blue eyes and is hung like a horse.’
