Ordinary Joe

by Jon Teckman

  Bill introduced his team and there were grunts of acknowledgement as Bennett offered his hand to each of them and then smiles and hand clasps when my name was mentioned. Buddy invited each of his team to introduce themselves and then it was down to business. Bill explained how important the PPP account was to Askett Brown and that he had brought Joseph Bennett across from our Oil and Minerals Division to strengthen the entertainment team. Then he invited Bennett to begin his presentation setting out how he saw the relationship between the two companies developing over the next few years.

  Bennett rose to his feet and clicked a button on the small remote control unit hidden in his palm. A screen inched its way down the wall behind our heads and we swivelled in our chairs to achieve the best possible view. Bennett cleared his throat and took a long sip of water before clicking the remote again to bring up the first slide. With some surprise, I realised he was nervous.

  This was the first big presentation Bennett had made since joining my division. Fortunately, he had swallowed a little of his monumental pride and asked me to help him with some background material. I’d given him data on the performance of recent PPP releases, their share of the UK and European markets, future growth potential, etc., working hard to make sure that the analysis was bang up to date, the forecasts realistic and defensible. Buddy’s team would see through any inflated or overly optimistic figures in a heartbeat. I’d sent the data through to Bennett a week before the meeting, knowing that he would want to add his own style and interpretation. He hadn’t so much as acknowledged my efforts, let alone asked any questions about the material. His one comment that morning – as we’d made our way to the meeting room – had been: ‘Thanks for all that guff you sent me, West. Interesting – but a bit tame for this lot, so I’ve spiced it up a notch. Watch and learn, my boy. Watch and learn.’

  He spoke briefly over the title slide, introducing himself again and explaining what he was going to talk about, then trundled headlong into the main presentation. From the moment the next slide appeared, I knew we were in for a long and painful morning. Under the title ‘Oil Magnet’ was a picture of a group of self-satisfied men in business suits and hard hats standing on an oil platform. On their shoulders sat an insufferably smug Bennett holding a huge fan of high-denomination banknotes.

  He paused to let the image sink in, then intoned in a low stage whisper, like the commentary at a Planetarium, ‘The Alpha Seven oil platform, the North Sea, 150 miles from land. That man being held aloft by a group of grateful shareholders is, of course, Yours Truly. In my hand is just a small part of the profit I’d delivered to them from that one small platform.’ His voice rose as his nerves receded. ‘The guys seemed to think these incredible results were all down to me. But, of course, that’s not true. I reckon only about 90 per cent of that success could be pinned on my slender shoulders.’ He laughed to indicate that this was an attempt at self-deprecating humour but, as was often the case with Bennett, he laughed alone. ‘My aim, gentlemen, is to put you in the same position as these guys on the screen.’

  ‘What?’ Buddy interjected. ‘You want to take us 150 miles from civilisation to kiss someone’s ass? Have you never been to LA?’

  Bennett ignored the laughter from both sides of the table and pressed on. ‘No, sir! I mean, I am going to put you on top of your world. Let me explain.’

  For the next forty-five minutes, Bennett ran through a series of highly complex, extraordinarily dull and generally irrelevant slides based on a complete misunderstanding of the information I’d sent him. His first twenty slides were all about the wonderful world of mineral extraction and the crucial part he had played in it. By the time he turned his attention to the film industry, he had all but lost his audience. A couple of the Americans were checking e-mails or playing Angry Birds on their iPhones. Buddy was clearly and loudly asleep.

  Unable to understand the information I’d given him and too proud to ask for an explanation, Bennett had simply ignored my stuff and pressed incoherently on with his own. Every slide displayed his ignorance in glorious Technicolor. He presented a plethora of statistics showing how Printing Press Productions was failing compared to the other Hollywood studios, ignoring the fact that most of their competitors had at least a seventy-five-year head-start on them. Everyone – except Bennett – knew that PPP’s performance in the three years they’d been operating had been sensational – but, as long as they were only able to distribute only six to eight films a year, they struggled to compete on equal terms with the major studios who were distributing twice as many. What they were looking for now was an injection of capital to help them move to the next level of operation. What they were getting was a lecture on how they needed to rethink their film-making strategy and concentrate on making more films that people like Bennett and his mother wanted to watch.

  After Bennett’s final slide, there was a brief silence while people came to terms with the fact their ordeal was over – like hostages released from a long siege. Len nudged Buddy to wake him, making no attempt to conceal what he was doing. Bennett clapped his hands together enthusiastically and said: ‘Right gentlemen – and lady – any questions?’

  All eyes fell on Buddy as he lifted himself slowly in his chair. He drew out the dramatic pause by leaning forward to pluck an orange-flavoured boiled sweet from a bowl in the middle of the table, unwrap it and pop it into his mouth.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said eventually, ‘I have a question for you, Mr Bennett.’ He pushed the sweet into one of his cheeks with his tongue. ‘My question is: what’s it like to fuck Olivia Finch?’

  The collective intake of breath threatened to suck all the air out of the room. All eyes switched to Bennett, who sat tight-lipped, his face reddening, his usual sangfroid blown to smithereens, his hoped-for triumph derailed. ‘I …’ he began, but Buddy’s question had not been intended for an answer.

  ‘You fucking jerk!’ he bellowed. ‘You have the audacity to sit here wasting our time with this crap when the only one of our assets you seem to have any handle on is Olivia Finch’s ass. We’ve travelled over 5,000 miles to listen to this horseshit and we’d have gotten a better idea about our future prospects if we’d stayed at home and cracked open a fortune cookie. I suggest you go back to your pals in the oil business, Mr Bennett, ask them to dig you a nice big hole and bury you in it.’

  He turned to me, his face stroke-red with rage. ‘Joey, I want you to rework these figures into something that makes sense and bring them to my hotel room by five o’clock this afternoon. If they add up, Askett Brown keeps our business and you’ll get a drink before we go to the movie tonight. If they don’t, I’ll be looking for new advisers in the morning.’ Then he turned to Bill Davis, jerking his thumb in Bennett’s direction. ‘And Bill, I don’t ever want to see this moron near me, or my business or, most of all, my talent again. OK?’

  It was another question that didn’t need an answer, but Davis nodded, dumbstruck, anyway. Buddy stood up and gathered his papers from the table – making a point of leaving his copy of Bennett’s PowerPoint slides untouched. The rest of his team followed suit. There were no handshakes or goodbyes – just an uncomfortable silence that hung heavily in the room as if our guests had brought a sample of high-grade LA smog with them.

  Eager to regain control over events, Bill Davis rose to his feet. ‘Andrew, would you show our guests out, please? Joseph, Joe – my office in five minutes.’ Then he turned and followed the Americans out of the room.

  I made a hasty exit and found the nearest bathroom. I stood at the sink and splashed cold water on my face, hoping I could wake myself from this nightmare. Suddenly I felt a sharp push in my back. I lurched forward, almost banging my head on the mirror. Looking up, I saw the incandescent reflection of the angriest face I had ever seen.

  ‘It was you, wasn’t it, West, you little cunt!’ Bennett spat out the expletive with such hostility that a shower of saliva rained down on the back of my neck. ‘I’ve been totally fucking humiliated in there and
it’s all your fault, isn’t it? You did it and then made sure I carried the can.’

  He grabbed me by the shoulders and turned me around, pulling me towards him until I could feel the hot breath from his nostrils on my forehead. His upper lip was curled and flecked with spittle, his eyes shining with rage. I was sure he was going to hit me – and damn sure it would hurt – but I tried to front up to him as best I could.

  ‘Wh— what do you mean?’ I asked, my voice cracking like a frightened child’s. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand how he’d worked the whole thing out so quickly.

  ‘You know exactly what I mean, arsehole,’ Bennett raged, tightening his grip on my collar and starting to bring his hands together, squeezing my windpipe.

  ‘I … I … I don’t …’ I tried to articulate something but had no idea what. My throat hurt and I was beginning to fear for my life.

  ‘You set me up, didn’t you, West? You gave me all that shit information and made me look a bloody idiot in there so your fat friend would have me taken off the job. I’m going straight up to see Bill Davis now and I’m going to tell him that you’re behind this. You hated it that I got promoted above you, didn’t you? And now you’re trying to undermine me with your bloody Jew mates. Well, you’re not going to get away with it. Come on, you little bastard,’ he said, finally relaxing his grip, ‘let’s see what Bill has to say.’

  Like most of his colleagues at the top of Askett Brown, Bill Davis didn’t like confrontation. If he had, he would have gone to Sandhurst straight from school rather than seeking out a more lucrative living in the financial sector. Companies like this tended to manage themselves. If a chap (because invariably they were chaps) performed well, he got promoted until such time as he ceased to perform well, at which point he would be advised to seek an alternative career path. Disciplinary issues rarely arose, and that suited Bill Davis down to the ground.

  When Bennett and I arrived in his office, he was standing behind his large desk looking out of the window, staring at the distant landmarks of Westminster and the South Bank of the Thames.

  Without turning to face us, he forced out his opening words as calmly as he could. ‘Well, that was bloody embarrassing,’ he said. After he had delivered this salvo, he turned around but found it too much of a strain and addressed his next remarks to the surface of his desk, his fingers gripping the bevelled edge so hard that his knuckles turned white. ‘I don’t know exactly what happened in there and I’m not entirely sure I want to know. But the two of you had better sort it out – and quickly. Have you got that? Joseph,’ he said to Bennett, ‘I want you to lay low for a while. Give the premiere tonight a miss and keep as far away from Guttenberg and his crew as you can, especially that bloody Finch woman. Is that clear?’

  Bennett started to answer, but Bill was having none of it. He had planned what he was going to say and wasn’t going to be distracted. ‘I said, “Is that clear?”’

  Bennett nodded. He was clenching his fists and opening them again like a boxer receiving his final instructions before a bout, his face still impregnated with anger, his ears such a deep shade of vermilion that I feared they might spontaneously ignite.

  ‘West,’ Bill said to me, ‘you have four hours to sort those numbers out and get them over to Guttenberg. Got it?’

  I nodded. Bennett’s rage boiled over. ‘But it was all West’s fault!’ he yelled, unable to control himself, desperate to clear his name. ‘He gave me all that crap information in the first place. He set me up. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s behind the whole bloody thing with the girl as well.’

  Davis came down on him firmly. ‘I said I don’t want an inquest into what did or did not happen in New York. We don’t have the time for that right now. All I want is for the two of you to sort this out as quickly as possible and keep our client happy. Joe,’ he said to me, ‘you go and prepare the stuff for Guttenberg. Joseph, you and I need to have a little word over a coffee. Sit down and I’ll have Sarah bring us one in.’

  I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I hurtled down the four flights of stairs back to my floor and set to work unpicking the figures for Buddy. It wouldn’t take long – all I had to do was go back to my original data and jazz it up a bit.

  Soon after I got back to my desk, Polly came over with an Americano. A good assistant always knows when strong coffee is required. And, of course, she wanted to know about the latest developments in the ‘Bennett Affair’. I fobbed her off by telling her I had to concentrate on the presentation, even though I was well ahead of my deadline. I didn’t want to talk about what was going on right then – or face up to the fact that I might be enjoying the sight of Bennett being hung out to dry and pecked at by all comers.

  Bennett appeared a little while later. He had calmed down a bit – his ears would only have registered a couple of hundred on a Geiger counter now – but he was still seething. Striding to my desk, he managed to be both quiet and aggressive at the same time. ‘Thanks a bunch, pal,’ he said from between clenched teeth. ‘I’ve spent forty-five minutes being read the riot act by Bill Davis, and it’s all your fucking fault. Just remember, West, you may be the big “I am” with these guys at the moment, but you’re not untouchable. The whole ruddy business is only worth a fraction of what we get from one player in oil, so don’t think we rely on keeping cosy with your pal Guttenberg. If he, or any of the rest of them, ever talks to me like that again, I’ll punch his bloody lights out. And then yours.’

  I couldn’t imagine that this had been the conclusion of his conversation with Bill Davis, but I thought it best to let the matter lie. However unlikely it was that Bennett would resort to physical violence in the office, it wasn’t a chance I wanted to take. He was bigger than me and had developed his fighting skills in the toughest environment there was outside of the military or the penal system – an English public school. The last fight I’d had had been when I was twelve and, if I remember correctly, she’d given me a bloody good hiding.

  I nodded silently, never taking my eyes off his. I hoped I wasn’t showing my fear but feared I almost certainly was. My mouth had gone dry – too dry for me to speak without squeaking like a cartoon mouse – and I felt redness spreading from my neck up across my face and beyond the distant frontier of my hairline. He held my gaze for some moments, before, satisfied he had made his point, he turned and stormed away, scattering Polly and an assortment of other assistants who had gathered to see what was happening. As the rest of them raced to their phones to spread the latest news, Polly asked if I was all right and offered me a fresh cup of coffee. I said yes to both, not because I felt all right or wanted another coffee but because I needed the few minutes it would take her to fetch one to regain my composure. When she returned, my hands were just about steady enough to take the cup from her without spilling the hot, black contents.

  ‘You should have stuck one on him, Joe,’ she said supportively. ‘He may be bigger than you, but I reckon he’s just a big bully. You’d murder him in a fight.’

  ‘Thanks, Polly,’ I said, ‘but let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d better get these figures done for Buddy. I’ve only got a couple more hours.’

  WEST END, LONDON

  By half past four I was all tuxed up and in a cab on my way to the Dorchester. Buddy greeted me at the door of his palatial suite like a long-lost son. As he led me along the short corridor to the lounge, he enlightened me about exactly what size of an arsehole he considered Bennett to be. I didn’t encourage him, but nor did I challenge his analysis, nodding and smiling politely as he unleashed a tirade of invective. It helped that Bennett really was an arsehole of Nobel Prize-winning proportions, but I still felt guilty at revelling in his humiliation.

  I went through the figures with Buddy and he roared an appreciative ‘That’s more like it!’ He was already half into his dinner suit and as soon as my presentation was over, he rose from his seat to finish the job. His large, round belly looked ready to explod
e out of his straight-out-of-the-packet, white dress shirt which looked at least a size too small to contain it. He desperately needed a cummerbund – ideally one reinforced with steel – if he was to avoid a sartorial calamity.

  ‘Let me get your slides over to the guys in LA so they can start working on them while we’re out enjoying ourselves,’ he said, pressing a couple of buttons on his laptop, then rising with some difficulty from his comfortable armchair. He took the memory stick out of the computer and went to hand it to me. Then he remembered something. ‘Oh, by the way, Olivia’s meeting us here too. That cocksucker Reynolds has bailed on us at the last minute, so I’m her date for the night. Lucky girl! Listen, she’s really sensitive about the situation with your dickhead pal and I don’t want her thinking everyone in the whole of London’s talking about it? So could you do me a big personal favour and play dumb about the whole thing? I’ve told her that I spoke to Bennett and sorted everything out, so she can just relax and enjoy the evening. If she finds out what I really said to that jerk-off in the meeting today, she’ll hit the fucking roof!’

  I nodded again – I’d have been more gainfully employed mounted on someone’s dashboard with my tongue hanging out – but inside I could feel the panic rising. I needed to get out of there and fast.

  ‘Listen, Buddy,’ I said, ‘I really should pop back to the office before we go. Drop this data stick back and check a few e-mails, you know. I’ll meet you at the cinema later.’