by Tony Salter
'I've only got two things I want to say,' I continued. 'The first is to thank Dieter and all of the team at Insight for their incredible, professional help over the past twelve months.' Everyone knew everyone at this event and I waited for the ripple of polite applause to end. 'The second is, of course, to thank Julie Martin. Not only did she commission me to write this book – God knows why – but she's also been unbelievably supportive throughout the process. And, let's face it, it was an easy task for me. The story of Julie Martin and Pulsar is one that writes itself.' This time, the applause was much more enthusiastic and it was clear just being in the same room as Julie was a big deal for most of the invitees. She was properly A-list.
'So, thank you again for coming and I hope to get a chance to talk with a few of you over drinks.' That was it. I'd made it. The lights went down and I felt my whole body sag like an abandoned puppet. I looked over to Julie but she was already being mobbed and I knew she'd be tied up for hours. That was OK. A drink was what I needed most of all.
'So, how come you got such a big credit ... ? Banging the boss, are we?' Susie was a freelance PR working on the launch. She was stunning and knew it. I wasn't sure whether her blue silk dress left everything or nothing to the imagination. 'Julie's a lucky woman. A bit old for you, maybe?'
I smiled and leant towards her. 'A gentleman wouldn't dignify that with a reply,' I said. 'Now would he?'
'I was rather hoping you weren't that much of a gentleman.' I could tell Susie was a believer in getting to the point but, even after hours of trying to empty my self-filling glass of Pol Roger, I was still sober enough to remember to keep my distance from the school of beautiful barracudas which had been circling me all evening.
I could see Julie over Susie's shoulder, talking to a group of important-looking executives but, true to form, still keeping half an eye on the whole room and definitely aware of everything I was up to.
I'd learned early on in our relationship that Julie was unusually possessive and I had no intention of stepping out of line. As I was the star turn, however, the launch party was proving more of a challenge than usual. The whole room was a sweet shop filled with an exceptional array of temptations. Where had they all come from?
I'd never been the centre of attention before. Julie had taken me to plenty of premieres and opening events but I'd always been the 'plus one' and usually ended up trailing behind her while she worked the crowd. Watching her in action was a master class; she never switched off – every air kiss, each witty or pithy aside, the choice of when and how to smile, they were all moves in the huge, multi-dimensional chess game which was her life.
Her business life, that is. Business and personal life were very different for Julie, which was probably the reason why she was so keen to have me seen as the creative force behind the book. I had actually written it – every word – but so had all of the other commissioned ghostwriters behind every celebrity memoir or CEO-Lit corporate puff piece on the market. As a general rule, the ghostwriter wasn't mentioned and was usually contractually forbidden from ever talking about their role.
Everyone seemed happy to live with the deluded idea that all of these illiterate C-list celebrities or highly paid, uber-busy CEOs had managed to find the time and the ability to spend a year or two writing a book. The involvement of an unknown professional ghostwriter was frankly boring and did nothing to sell books.
Julie was different. She did everything possible to push the Pulsar brand, but kept her own profile tightly under wraps. She wasn't exactly a recluse but, like many successful business owners, was skilled in avoiding publicity about her personal life. Stories seemed to slide past, or through, her as though she were a ghost. The Ghost and the Ghostwriter - that was us.
On the odd occasion when the media thought they'd got their teeth into something potentially meaty about Julie, they quickly found out what a cornered vixen – with billions in the bank and some very good lawyers – was capable of. In recent years, most journalists had been pre-warned by their editors not to bother. Messing with Julie Martin was too expensive.
The waiter came to top up our glasses and I looked over at Julie. I managed to catch her eye and she smiled at me. Even from five metres, I still felt the physical jolt. She was so gorgeous and exciting, I struggled to stop myself from standing there slack-mouthed and gawking at her.
'Sam? So are you a gentleman, or not?'
I turned back to the delicious Susie, who may have been very beautiful but was a poor shadow of Julie. 'On another night, in a different time, who knows,' I said. 'But I am tonight. Have you read the book?'
'A shame,' she replied, subtly pulling backwards and away from me. 'But not such a surprise. Of course I've read it. It's my job to have read it. Not bad.'
'Not bad? Is that all?'
'Well, it's definitely better than average, and quite an exciting story for a business book,' she said. 'I'd like to have read more about what might have been though. If Pulsar or something similar hadn't come along?'
'Yeah, that would be interesting, and I've thought a lot about it, but it wasn't the book I was commissioned to write. This was the story of what did happen, not what might have happened.'
'I get that,' she said. 'But there's another story there too. Maybe a novel. You should work on developing it and see what happens.' She put her glass on the table and leant forward to give me a chaste kiss on the cheek. 'Anyway, I need to wander around and do my job. Make sure you let me know if you decide to stop being a gentleman at any point.'
I was having a surprisingly entertaining conversation with Dieter, his wife and our American publisher, but was keeping an eye on the big clock in the corner. I knew we wouldn't stay any longer than scheduled. We never did.
Sure enough, a man in a dark suit walked over to me at exactly eight o'clock. He looked ex-military, probably one of the Guards regiments, but I'd not seen him before. It was hard to keep up.
'We're leaving sir,' he whispered in my ear. 'Rear entrance. Two minutes.'
I was used to the routine by now and made efficient excuses to Dieter and his stout teutonic frau, before following the security guard to the exit. I had no idea what our dinner plans were, but doubted I'd be disappointed.
We'd arrived by helicopter, but the black Mercedes didn't take the turn to the airport and the driver brought the limo to a stop after three or four minutes. This was unusual and I started to run through some of the anti-abduction training we'd been given.
'Is everything OK?' I asked Julie. 'Should we be stopping so soon?'
'Don't worry. Relax,' she said. 'You won't be needing those muscles. At least not yet.'
An invisible figure opened the door.
'Come on,' said Julie. 'Let's go.'
I slid over and followed her out of the car. We'd driven the short distance down to the marina and were parked behind an enormous motor yacht. Its jet-black hull was almost invisible against the night sky and the white superstructure seemed to be floating on air.
'Welcome to the Hesperus,' said Julie, walking ahead of me up the gangplank to a huge deck area empty except for a single candlelit table and two chairs. By the time we'd sat down the limo had disappeared and we were already motoring softly out to the harbour entrance.
'I didn't know you had a boat,' I said, overwhelmed by the shimmering beauty of the bay of Cannes as it gradually opened up in front of me.
'I don't,' she replied. 'But I have a friend who does.'
There is a problem which goes beyond a first-world problem and is reserved for those people who can afford absolutely anything. How do you make anything special when everything in your life is the best?
I hadn't been in Julie's world long enough to really understand how this worked, but was beginning to see that it was possible. If you surround yourself every day with perfection, how do you find something better?
We found it that evening.
The meal was a unique piece of theatre; Julie had flown over a young French chef, Pascal Meillasoux
, who was starting to make a name for himself in New York. He'd been in Cannes working on our meal for three days.
Pascal had also chosen the wines. With my extensive experience of drinking fine wines – extensive being a combination of short, but intensive – I'd learned that, beyond about fifty euros a bottle, the price was not the most important factor when picking wines.
I didn't really believe food matching was everything it was cracked up to be either, but the simple art of ignoring the bullshit and choosing wines which tasted good was massively underrated. Pascal didn't put a foot wrong.
The air was warm and silky, the boat was majestic, the staff were attentive ghosts and the backdrop of the Esterel mountains was sublime.
All of the luxury and beauty would have been perfect with or without Julie. But she was on scintillating form – witty, charming, flirtatious and unbelievably sexy, and that added the 'je ne sais quoi' which tipped the balance beyond mere perfection.
And, for a few moments, I almost ruined it.
We were finishing the meal with a bottle of Krug Clos D'Ambonnay and, what with all of the champagne I'd drunk earlier, I should have known that I'd had too much.
'Are you ever going to tell me about yourself?' I said, out of the blue.
'We had a deal, didn't we?' Julie's voice was sharp-edged.
I blundered on. 'I know we did, but you can't blame me for being interested. You know everything about me, but I know nothing about you.'
'And that, you lovely boy, is how it's going to stay.' Julie swept her arms out in a grandiose arc which covered the boat, the inky sea and the rocky cliffs. 'Aren't you happy?'
'Of course I am. I've never been so happy in my life. I'm just curious.'
'Well, you know what happened to the cat. You should learn from that.' She poured the last drops of champagne into her glass and dropped the upside down bottle clattering into the ice bucket. The harsh noise was sobering and I realised I might have just made a big mistake.
Julie sat upright and looked at me for a few seconds. I could sense her weighing up her options. A cool breeze slipped across the deck and I shivered. A few seconds more and then she leant back into her chair and smiled.
'Come over here and give me a kiss, you idiot.' Her voice was soft and sensual. 'I've been wanting you ever since I saw you up on stage this evening.'
Going Back Home
By 2025, most major technology companies and banks were committed to fingerprint recognition as a means of secure identification. When a Russian hackers' co-operative launched a kit which allowed even amateurs to lift fingerprints and create latex simulations, there was widespread panic.
A number of researchers had already recognised that the unique shape of our cardio-rhythms might be a more foolproof option. They struggled, however, to find a way to match the rhythms quickly and accurately.
Julie Martin's 'moment of truth' was to recognise that the technology was already in place to solve this issue. She only needed to acquire the necessary copyrights and patents and to build the right commercial structure.
"Pulsar. Behind the Firewall" Sam Blackwell, Insight Business Press 2040
After Gramps died, it was only a matter of time before Dad decided to sell up in Jericho and move back in with Granny. There was no way Granny was going to sell the vicarage, but it was too much for her to manage and she needed help. She'd been a bit forgetful and loopy ever since I could remember and, without someone around, it was easy to imagine her doing something stupid like falling off a ladder or setting the place on fire.
I think Dad had been quite lonely himself since I left home and it would probably be good for him too. I never quite understood why he never found anyone else after Mum, but there was always something in the way blocking it. I got on well with him – we were good mates – so if he hadn't talked about it by then, it seemed unlikely I'd ever know.
It was after midday on Saturday by the time I got home. Julie had been childish and petulant about me 'swanning off and deserting her' but there had to be some limits and, in any case, I'd promised Dad I'd be there. She'd make me pay later in some way or other, no doubt. Her constant mind games had started to get under my skin, making me feel constrained and claustrophobic and I'd recently found myself wanting to say and do perversely contrary things, simply to wind her up. Not smart, but it gave me a small sense of independence and control.
Uncle Daz was already there, helping Dad to box things up.
'Hey Boy,' he said, wrapping me up in a huge man hug. 'I've not seen you for months. How's it going?'
'Can't complain,' I said. 'You know. Champagne, yachts, five-star hotels, celebrities, Michelin stars coming out of my arse. The usual, really.'
'Yeah,' said Daz. 'Same old, same old. What gets me is that we don't come across each other more often. I guess we're just on different yachts.' His lazy, plummy billionaire's accent was spot on. 'Are we ever going to meet this sugar mummy of yours?'
'I wouldn't hold your breath,' I said. 'I don't think you and Dad'll be meeting her any time soon. She's extremely private.'
'... and we're not good enough for her. I know. I get it. I've spent most of my life not being good enough for people. I'm used to it.'
The great thing about Uncle Daz was that he genuinely didn't give a damn what people thought of him and had no interest whatsoever in the trappings of wealth. He didn't particularly object to other people having stuff, he simply didn't want any of it for himself.
He kept trying to meet Julie because he cared about me and wanted to make sure I was OK, but that was it. Dad was a bit different – it would have been impossible to grow up with Granny without picking up a fair amount of cut-glass snobbishness – but years of friendship with Daz had helped smooth off the sharpest edges.
'Well, that's OK then,' I said. 'Where's Dad?'
'He's upstairs. Been there for a while.'
When I walked into the room, Dad was sitting on the edge of his bed, holding an old shoebox in both hands; his thumbs were pressed tightly onto the lid, forcing it to stay shut as though there were something inside struggling to escape. He was looking straight ahead, eyes half-closed by the effort of keeping the box tightly sealed. I could see his shoulders sagging, his whole body crumpling into the bed, driven downwards by the heavy weight in his hands. He looked shrunken and frail and, for the first time, I realised he was getting old.
'Sam,' he exclaimed, as he looked up and saw me. 'I'd begun to think you weren't going to make it.' He put the box down on the bed and stood up to give me a hug. 'You're looking well.' he said, stepping back to appraise me, hands squeezing my shoulders. 'Impressive! You must be in the gym all the time.'
'And running, and yoga. I've never been as fit. How about you? You looked wiped out when I came in.'
'Oh, I'm fine,' he said. 'I was miles away. You know I could still take you apart on the tennis court, don't you? Muscles or no muscles.'
'Maybe, but not because you're faster and you're not even a better player any more. No, you'd probably win because you're a devious bugger and because there's some small, sensitive part of me that cares. I'll probably always let you win because you'd be so sad if I beat you.'
'Bollocks,' he said, smiling. 'And there's only one way to find out.'
'Tomorrow morning then,' I said. 'No prisoners and, if you have a heart attack, it's my game. Has Granny got the net up?'
'I doubt it, but it won't take us more than ten minutes to sort it out. No excuses.'
'Not looking for them,' I said. 'What's in the box by the way? You looked as though you were going to give yourself a hernia the way you were squeezing it.'
'I'll tell you later. Let's go down and give Daz a hand. I've already been up here for ages.'
After an hour of packing the more valuable, and breakable, bits and pieces into boxes, Dad called a lunch break. We sat around the dining table in front of a big plate of sandwiches and it suddenly hit me like a sledgehammer between the eyes; this had been home for my entire life but it
would be the last time I would sit here. I had been so caught up with the book and my crazy, ridiculous life with Julie that I hadn't realised what a momentous milestone it was. Not until that moment. As I looked across at Dad, I could see he'd been thinking about it for a while.
'Penny just dropped, has it?' Dad said.
'Yeah. It hadn't crossed my mind until now,' I said. 'How stupid is that? In a couple of hours, that's it, isn't it? The movers don't want us around tomorrow and the new people get the keys on Monday.'
Daz was watching the two of us carefully and looked at me. 'Your whole life 'til now,' he said. 'Funny to imagine, isn't it?'
I didn't know what to say. Everything was moving too quickly. 'It's the only place where I was with Mum,' I said. 'I'm going to miss it.'
'Me too,' said Dad. 'But we need to move on. Let's you and me have a talk about it after lunch, eh?'
'I read your book,' said Daz, changing the subject. 'It's not bad.'
'D'you think so?' I said. 'Sales are going gangbusters and the reviews are good, but I'm not sure how much of it's down to my writing. The Pulsar story is amazing and that's what sells it.'
'Maybe,' said Daz. 'But that doesn't make it readable, does it? I've read a few of these corporate vanity books in the past and most of them make me feel a bit sick. Lot's of self-congratulatory drivel from overpaid duffers who just got lucky. Your book tells the story like it's an exciting adventure.'
'Well it actually was an exciting time,' I said.
'I know. Don't forget I was actually there,' said Daz. 'Your book took me straight back to the good old days when it looked as though civilisation and society were about to go seriously south. You were only a kid at the time, but you've still managed to get hold of the feeling we all had. What d'you reckon Roops? I know we're both biased but ...'
