by T M Heron
Ingrid Claire steps out of a dressing room. She’s wearing a full-length, white evening gown. It’s incredibly modest and covers just about everything. I’ve never seen a garment accomplish that and still manage to look so outrageously sexual.
I freeze.
It feels like someone’s kicked me in the gut, and all the air is temporarily gone from my lungs.
Ingrid hasn’t seen me. She stands in front of the main mirror assessing herself in a detached manner. Words wouldn’t do her justice. Regardless of the situation I can’t drag my eyes away from her. Even though I actively hate her.
Then, probably due to weeping women being a relatively rare phenomenon in exclusive eveningwear shops, Ingrid spots us in the mirror. She doesn’t turn around. But I see compassion sweep across her face, then admiration, then, as she recognizes the perpetrator of the gallant behavior, astonishment.
I angle Mother around so I’m no longer facing Ingrid. Toss both gowns at the assistant. “We’ll have midnight. No wrapping, just a bag.” I hand her my Visa.
I sit Mother down on the couch. “We can go, Mother, if you really must. But I’m not letting you do the speech.” Not if it’s going to end up like this.
Ingrid is still watching, and I know she must have heard everything as well. I ignore her. Although good things are on the horizon as I’m going to land Ray Investments, it’s hard to make them out right now. I’m not sure too much else could go wrong with my life.
◆◆◆
I deliver a moving and insightful speech at the charity gala. I had Eliza write it.
Ingrid Claire of all people is there in that white gown. I’d like to abduct her in it. No, even worse, I’d like to have consensual sex with her. I’d like her to sleep with me voluntarily. My thoughts grow maudlin. For all I know I’m useless at normal sex. I only engage in it when necessary, and I’ve never cared to seek feedback. Ava would say anything to have a ring on her finger. I’ve no idea how to really please a woman. Wouldn’t know where to begin.
I slip into the men’s and snort rather too much coke as a result of seeing Ingrid. Which unfortunately was halfway through my speech. I didn’t look her way, but I’m sure she didn’t clap at the end.
After the coke the rest of the evening passes quickly in a glaze. I avoid Ingrid, say the right things to the right people, and my mother is proud. I’m proud of Mother too. She’s made it pretty well through a difficult evening. I realize the strange adrenalized sensations I experienced at the start of the evening were anxiety as to how she would manage. It unsettles me but warms me to be harboring such feelings.
20
It’s Thursday morning and I’m sitting in Anthony Hartman’s sumptuous office. My brain is a chemical smorgasbord but I’m totally on top of it. I’m celebrating something huge, as it happens. Last night, as the charity event dwindled to a close, Mother took me to one side and told me that RIL will be progressively moving their legal representation to Bakers. It was the surprise she’s had waiting for me.
“That’s quicker than we thought,” Anthony finally says. He’s about as stunned as I am. Neither of us can believe I’ve managed this as quickly as I have.
We spend ten minutes talking about how well I’ve done, what a meaty chunk it will add to Bakers’ bottom line, how devastating it will be to Turk & Quantrell to have lost their largest client, and how happy everyone here will be to have another huge, prestigious client. Patting ourselves on the backs. Seeing the new riches come pouring in.
“So you’re going to be having that talk with Packer earlier than you thought,” I say. “Because there’s already Ray Investments work for us to start on. But I’m not signing a single company up without being lead partner.”
Anthony waves an arm as if this is already accomplished. “I’ll speed it through. I’ll speak to the Wellington partners in person. Call Auckland and Christchurch. We only need a ninety percent vote anyway. You’ll get that no problem.”
He shakes his head. “That’s a staggering amount of work they need. It’s fortunate they’re coming on in stages. You’re going to be a very busy man.”
“We’re going to need another senior associate, two associates and at least four solicitors, eventually.” I place my workings on the desk. “I’ve tried to marry up the hours as to who will need to come on board when, but it’s not entirely predictable.”
I’ve been up all night doing this. High as a kite. And I’m even higher this morning. I have become the future me the past me had impatiently awaited. The great success story. It’s who I am, who I’ve always been on the inside. Now I’m finally here.
Leo Packer is about to experience an enormous threat to the status quo he’s happily exploited for the last few years. To revel outwardly would be inappropriate. But my coke-fueled glee is so intense it’s hard to contain.
I walk back down the hall to my office. I stand there looking out over winter, and winter looks more beautiful than ever before. It’s better than I could have imagined. All the effort I’ve put into my mother. All the things I’ve had to do to protect my reputation as of late. They were worth it. Nothing can threaten me anymore. I can put it all behind me.
◆◆◆
I’d like to call Mel and tell him the news but he’s in Sydney. He’s back for the weekend though. Perhaps Ava and I will shout Mel and Tara somewhere suitably ostentatious for dinner Saturday night.
As Anthony does his little talks to each partner, I get a progressive series of phone calls and visits to my office. Everyone is collegial and impressed. But I can already see a good touch of the green-eyed monster in many of them. Even the ones who I won’t be surpassing in earnings just yet.
The least rewarding visit is Finch. He doesn’t congratulate me. He doesn’t welcome me to the esteemed ranks. He bursts into my office in his shabby grey suit, sits down at my desk and frets,
“Do you think we’ve seen the end of the paint-throwing episode?”
“It’s highly likely, given she’s dead.”
“So you think all the drama is going to stop?”
I lean back in my chair making no effort to conceal my contempt. I am on the cusp of being surrounded by an impenetrable aura of wealth and privilege. Nothing or no one will be able to touch me. Finch sounds about as alarming as a dying fly.
◆◆◆
Leo Packer knocks before entering my office. His manner has transformed overnight.
“I’m helping Ant contact the Auckland and Christchurch guys,” he says. “You should have told me first, buddy. I’m your sponsoring partner.”
“I don’t need your sponsorship, Leo.”
He licks his lips. “Well done anyway. You’re going to have an awful lot of work to juggle initially.”
“Not really. You’re lead partner on the bulk of the work I’ve been doing. You are going to have any awful lot of work to juggle, buddy.”
Could this day get any better?
◆◆◆
Jo pops her head in. “Ingrid Claire is here. Do you have a minute?”
I nod importantly. Although my heart beats a little faster, I’m invincible today. And finally in the right space of mind to deal with this bitch.
To my horror, my resolve melts the moment she sits down. She is a vision. Dazzling red hair falling in loose waves around a face so pale she looks otherworldly.
“I’d like to apologize,” she says.
“Like to be on good terms with all the partners, do you?” It’s meant to come out cold, but it sounds bitter and waspish.
A look of confusion crosses her face. “What?”
There’s an awkward silence, for me anyway, as I realize she doesn’t know I’m being made partner. Of course she doesn’t. I cement my teeth together to stop myself from saying something asinine.
Ingrid clears her throat. “I liked your speech the other night. I, ah, I saw you, you know, the day before. In the shop?”
There’s an awkward silence I desperately want to fill but my mind is blank. Until I rem
ember my mother’s breakdown in the dress shop.
“There’s no easy way to say this, about the bad start we got off to. Which is, well, it’s my fault really. That I prejudged you. Anyway, I’m sorry about that.”
I go in for the kill, but nothing comes out.
Ingrid says, “I’ve always been a soft touch for the victim. I made a misguided assumption, in the car park. She’s small, you’re big . . .” She holds up her hands in a gorgeous, bemused gesture.
“It was an understandable assumption.” The words blab out of my mouth and just keep coming. “And you can make it up to me by having dinner with me. Now you know I’m not an axe murderer.”
Her expression of mild congeniality clouds over.
“I’m sorry.” The apology has been made and she’s already starting to look cool and elusive again. “Coffee?”
Never in my life have I been in a position where I’ve had to negotiate downwards for the pleasure of spending time with a woman. And I hate her for it. Hate her. I feel my throat tighten and think of all the things I could do to make her sorry for this if she were hogtied. But I don’t want that for her and me. I’m not sure what I want but it isn’t that.
“Maybe a coffee sometime,” she says. But her voice is insincere. In fact, she’s not even trying to fake sincerity. She’s just nuked the shine off my day of glory, and I have no idea how to make her pay for that. Or even if I could bring myself to do anything to her. I pinch the bridge of my nose and let the billing projections from Ray Investments flow through my mind in an effort to re-elevate my mood.
21
The partnership process is too protracted for my liking. It’s been a week now since the wheels were set in motion. There are all kinds of legalities and firm protocol and Law Society procedures. Nothing is ever fast enough.
But the air in Corporate smells different and everyone’s breathing it. People are already behaving differently towards me. And I feel different. I’m beginning to understand why all partners walk around with the same over-inflated air of self-importance and entitlement. Even lackluster, mediocre ones who shouldn’t, like Finch.
Bernadette Duncan sits in my office. She angles her legs then crosses them in a well-rehearsed manner. A lot of quality thigh is on display. Few men would find this cause for complaint. In my opinion every woman taken on by Bakers should look like Bernadette. In fairness, the largest proportion of our people, both male and female, are very well-dressed and very good-looking. Despite this there are still a number of extremely unattractive lawyers drifting around, their sky-high IQs by no means compensating for the visual pollution they create.
Bernadette is our Public Relations consultant. True to form she is suitably glamorous and edgy. With the exception of a couple of the women in Litigation she is the only woman in the firm who wears color. I’m sure she’s high on the list of women my colleagues fantasize about when they’re having sex with their wives of twelve years, or their mistresses. She gives me a smile that says, “Shut your office door and you can have me right here, on the desk.”
I return the smile in kind and wonder if she’s purposely booked this meeting for end of day on a Thursday.
Although I have no desire or intention to sleep with Bernadette I’ve always flirted back, because everyone else wants her. I feel obliged, by way of staying true to the red-blooded man this firm knows me to be. The kind who gets his kicks by bedding women like Bernadette, rather than singling out young girls and closing in on them.
“We need your official photos sorted, like yesterday,” Bernadette says.
“Hold me back,” I say.
She gives me an exact replica of her, “Shut your office door,” smile.
Stupid mole.
Bernadette says, “We’re waiting an additional week before public announcement.”
“What?”
She holds up a hand. “There’s going to be an article front page of the next National Business Review about some hotshot coming in from Britain. I don’t want him stealing any of your thunder.”
I feel a stab of anger at the hot shot. “Are you sure? I mean, how do you know what’s going to be on the front page?”
“It’s my job,” says Bernadette. “But you’re missing the point.”
“Which is?”
“Most partnership announcements don’t make front page. But given your pedigree and immediate connection to Ray Investments, I’m seeing a front-page story.” She scribbles something on her notepad. “Of course we’ll still make the standard media announcements. What do you think?”
“I’d have to shut my office door to show you what I think.”
Bernadette meets my stare, totally up for it. But unbeknown to her Anthony Hartman is about to interrupt us.
◆◆◆
Anthony Hartman is already quite high but doesn’t realize it.
Drugging people to achieve a specific outcome is a skill set I’ve acquired over time. Mastering the science has taken enormous amounts of patience and endless experimentation. Any simpleton can splash GHB into someone’s drink and render them unconscious within minutes. But I have never needed or wanted anyone unconscious. I like my girls to be very much alive and in the moment.
All the men I’ve taken to Lily’s have unwittingly been on one or another of my personally designed concoctions, as befitting the individual and the occasion. Not that I have any intention of taking Anthony there. But when he dropped by my office late Thursday afternoon, already drunk, I couldn’t help myself.
“We just won DSB/Gibbons,” he says.
I pour us a drink. Glenfiddich. No drugs, just straight alcohol at this stage.
“Everyone thought Bell Gully had it in the bag.” Even half-cut Anthony manages to say this without sounding like a braggart. He throws back his drink. “Billy Angelo is on the Crispy board with Alexandra Stythe, but we didn’t think it was enough of a connection.” He loosens his tie, and grins.
I loosen my own tie, a subconscious sign to Anthony I’m in accord with him. I throw in a wide slow grin for good measure.
“There’s nothing sweeter than unexpected revenue.”
I could correct him on this: there is just one thing. Instead I turn my back and give a quick stir to the second drink I’ve poured. It contains the tiniest granule of Ecstasy. Just enough to engender feelings of enhanced wellbeing and generalized goodwill. In about forty minutes.
I’m more than delighted it’s me he’s come to see. Smirking, as if we’re the best of pals. Which I fully intend to happen in the course of time.
Outside in the office area others are getting louder and jovial as near-end of week fever collides with the news about DSB/Gibbons. Bottles of wine are being opened and imported beer fetched from the chiller. Those who worked on DSB have momentarily forgotten they’re ageing ahead of time and their personal lives are a mess and are feeling invincible.
I pour Anthony a third drink. It has Clonazepam in it. A very underrated prescription drug. If you’re wanting to relax inhibitions, retard human motor controls, and introduce an element of confusion into memory, then Clonazepam is your best friend.
The talent, though, lies in combining it with Ecstasy. One is a depressant, the other a stimulant. The competing effects place enormous pressure on the body. Anthony will think he has the mother of all hangovers tomorrow. I added the remaining Ecstasy tab to my own drink earlier, so I probably won’t be feeling much better. But it won’t be anything a little coke won’t fix.
“I’ve just been speaking with Phillip,” says Anthony. “He told me the strangest thing.” He takes a more sedate sip of his drink. Doesn’t register the slight bitter taste of Clonazepam. “It stays within these walls.”
“Of course.”
“That double murder case they’re talking about in the papers. The Canadian woman. You’re familiar with it?”
“Of course.” You have no idea how familiar.
Anthony hesitates. “It’s bloody odd. I shouldn’t be repeating . . .”
/> I’d like to tell him that by tomorrow he probably won’t remember repeating it. Instead I raise an inquiring eyebrow.
“They’ve had a big break.”
My chest tightens. But at the same time I’m certain I left nothing behind at that scene.
Anthony finishes his drink. “They think the male victim, the one found in the bath, was one of the Park Rape Team.”
I pick up my drink and drain it. Feel my chest go back to normal. There you have it. Dukie has fucked up somewhere along the way. All credit to me for getting rid of him.
“How do they know that?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I shouldn’t know this.” Then he laughs, a strange inward laugh as if in response to something he’s said to himself, inside his head. And I know both drugs are doing their thing.
“Imagine the shit storm this will stir up,” I say.
I feel as if I’ve just snorted uber-coke. As with anything to do with the Park Rape Team, I can’t wait for this to hit the papers. Maybe I’ll write a contemptuous letter to Anthony’s bloody brother-in-law, our trusted Police Commissioner, which is no doubt where this information came from. Or phone in a fake anonymous tip to the Dominion Post.
I tune back into Anthony who is pouring himself another drink. “They’re not making it public,” he says. And I get the feeling it’s not the first time he’s said this to me. “It won’t be public information until they get the second guy. For the first time they’re finally one up on him.”
Only now they’re not.
“Anyhow, there it is. One of the pricks is dead. Maybe it’ll all stop now. I’ll toast to that.” He gives another little self-laugh. He’s in no state of mind to appreciate the confidence he’s just broken.
I drop my sanctimonious expression. It’s wasted on him at present. There’s no need to be appropriate while he’s in this state. “You think they’ll ever catch the other one?” I say.
I can’t help myself. The Park Rape Team’s tentacles are always beckoning me, and the chance to discuss it with someone like Anthony is irresistible.
