by Peter Butler
I need that drink - my mind is in bad place.
I sit at the bar sipping a single-malt with ice when I'm joined by an elderly man who introduces himself as Hector. Uninvited, he sits beside me. Oblivious to the fact that I had come to gather my thoughts he proceeds to regale me with some stories from his past. Hector, it turns out, is a retired Aussie doctor, returning home after visiting his son in London for the past month.
After I had downed my second scotch I was glad Hector had developed a thirst at the same time I had. He was telling me yet another story about a patient of his, many years ago: 'She was a very elderly, fragile widow and I had to help her up onto the examination table,' he was saying. 'She was very nervous as she had come for an internal examination and a Pap Smear. I'd never treated her before and she explained that her husband had been dead for five years and she didn't see the point in having the test, but her daughter had been nagging her to get it done.'
Hector took a sip of his ice-cold beer, then continued. 'She was lying there on her back with her knees bent and her dress hiked up to her waist, when she timidly announced, "There are cobwebs up there." I had my back to her, as I was gloving up at that stage. I was keen to relax her so I joined in her joke and said, "Not to worry Mrs. Lindsay, I'll just brush them aside." I turned around only to see her pointing to a cobweb on the ceiling.'
We both burst out laughing. I imagine Hector had probably told this story a thousand times, but still got enjoyment from it. The more time I spent with certain old people, the more I determined, in my own mind, the type of old-bugger I should be in about forty years' from now. Hector had convinced me that I needed a strong repertoire of funny stories and I made a mental note to start writing them down from now on, just in case my memory starts to go... before my knees... or my heart... or my liver... or my...
We parted company with a promise to try and meet for drinks on the next leg of the trip. As I walked away I realized I had missed an opportunity to get information on date-rape drugs from the good doctor.
With familiar apprehension I punched Sunny's number into the planes satellite phone.
'Hi, this is Sunny.'
'Thank God. I have you at last. Didn't you check your messages?'
'Messages? No. This is the first chance I've had to take a break on this shoot. Who is this?'
'Sunny, this isn't the time to bring Heidi back. It's Gary, in case you really don't recognize my voice. I'm about five miles in the air and a few thousand miles away from you, so maybe I sound different.'
'Gary,' she said in a cautious, questioning way. 'Are you the Gary who waves goodbye to women in a peculiar manner? A way that would definitely get you arrested if you did it in the street?'
'Yes. That would be me. I like to put my heart and soul into farewells.'
'I'm reasonably certain it wasn't your heart that was waving at me, so it must be your soul we're talking about.'
'Sunny, as much as I love joking around with you I need you to be serious, please.'
My somber tone brought about the change I was hoping for, and she said cautiously, 'Okay... what's the problem?'
'I've given a lot of thought and done some internet research on what might have happened to me last night and it comes down to one thing. I believe I was given Rohypnol - it's odorless, colorless and tasteless, so it can be slipped into a drink without the target being alerted.'
'The date-rape drug?'
'Exactly. The symptoms are: sedation within half an hour of ingestion. Loss of consciousness up to two hours later. The symptoms last about eight hours and complete memory loss after all of that, is normal.'
'That does sound like a description of you.'
'And all of this happened just after your boss bought us a round of drinks.'
Sunny was incredulous, 'You're suggesting that Simon gave you Rohypnol?'
'Don't be daft,' I countered. 'I'm suggesting that Simon was trying to drug you, but I got that drink by mistake.'
'Oh, Gary, that's just silly,' she countered my serious tone with lightness. 'I've known Simon for a couple of years. He's a bit of a sleaze, but he's never shown any interest in me. Plus, he has a beautiful wife and a baby girl,' she paused a moment, presumably thinking of more ways to shoot my theory down, then added. 'And we're both up-to-our-necks busy with this TV show we're making.'
'Shit!' I exploded, just as an elegantly dressed middle-aged woman walked by. She gave me a scornful look, poked her nose even further in the air and kept walking towards First Class. I waved an apology to her back. I used my hand, the old bag didn't warrant the type of wave that I reserve for Sunny.
'Sorry Gary, I know you want to find out what happened to you. The drug idea makes some sense from your description of the symptoms.' She paused, then added cautiously. 'Did you have yourself tested?'
'No... I didn't even think about that.'
'Too late now. You need to do it within hours of it happening.'
She surprised me with her knowledge of the subject. 'How do you know about the testing procedure?'
'I don't live under a rock,' she laughed as she said it; like it was common knowledge. 'Besides, I'm a producer. I'm meant to be up to speed with things that are happening in the world.'
'You're very cocky, Miss Heidi,' I said, and smiled to myself. 'Would you humor me enough to at least keep an eye on Sleazy Simon and not put yourself in a position where you're alone with him?'
'You do realize we work in the same office and he's my boss. It just can't work. Even today, he drove me to this shoot and he'll need to drive me home.'
'I meant... don't join him for a quick drink at the end of the day.' This wasn't going as well as I'd hoped.
'One date! That's all we've been on and already you're trying to tell me what I can and can't do, who I can see...' She was laughing as she said it. Thank God.
'One date - plus we've slept together... and you've seen me naked. That's a stronger relationship than most of my married friends have.'
'Slept, being the correct word... and in reference to your last point - you have the nerve to call me cocky.'
'Stop it Sunny,' I conceded the game to her with a laugh. 'You have a way of making the blood flow out of my brain and into a part of my body where it can do absolutely no good, at the moment.'
'Is that your way of saying you're waving goodbye to me.'
I cracked up and laughed loudly, just as Mrs. First Class walked by again, giving me my second disdainful look. 'You should drink less, or use some of your money to buy yourself a new bladder, you haughty old cow.' I whispered to her back as she moved out of hearing range.
'Why do I need a new bladder?' Sunny asked in a confused manner.
'Sorry,' I chuckled. 'I was just talking to a woman who seems to be either incontinent, or planning on robbing me.'
'I believe you when you say the blood seems to have drained out of your... ' She stopped talking abruptly and I could just make out the sound of someone else talking to her. After a few seconds she came back. 'Sorry about that Gary. Brian, our director, has finished setting up on the tennis court and I'm required. Have a lovely trip. I'll give some thought to your suggestion.'
The phone went dead.
***
Sunny placed her phone back into her bag and hurried through the house and out to the tennis court. Phones were strictly banned from any area where shooting was being carried out except for Simon who kept his phone in his shirt pocket and set it to vibrate mode. Sunny took up her position beside Brian and nodded her approval of the camera angles he had set up.
Ashleigh was dressed in a black, tight fitting shirt that had something emblazoned across the front and back that Sunny couldn't make out. His shorts were bright red and his tennis shoes matched the black of his shirt, the red laces matched his shorts. A baseball cap rounded off what was clearly a well-orchestrated human billboard. Ashleigh didn't miss many chances to advertise his companies.
At the other end of the court stood a statuesque, redhead dres
sed in the same outfit, but in reverse - her shirt was red, shorts black and so on.
David Delaney, the host and interviewer of Impressive People, sat in the umpire's chair. His earpiece carefully hidden from the cameras.
Sunny put on her headset, connecting her with David's ear and pressed the button to open the microphone. 'Brian says we'll most likely only use this sound as a guide, David. Ashleigh's not a pro so keep the dialog simple, we will need to overdub it.'
She walked out on to the court and strode up to Ashleigh, finally able to read the banner on his shirt - Dimonty Electronics. 'You bring new meaning to the word subtle, Ashleigh,' she said, gesturing to his shirt.
'Gotta let people know you exist, Sunny. There's no point in being a brilliant secret,' he retorted.
'I'm surprised you didn't have the name chiseled into the marble fireplace for the last shot.'
He looked at her like she had just said something profound. 'Bloody good idea. Can we shoot that scene again?'
Sunny looked at him with a frown and said, 'I wasn't serious, Ashleigh.'
He grinned at her and said, 'And neither was I - I just like to fuck with you.' The way he said this left little room for misinterpretation.
In an attempt at deflection, Sunny said, 'Play well and you might have a love-match with your tennis ace, in the other court,' she looked around at the matching billboard who looked striking. Literally - she was holding her racket like a club, and was looking back at Sunny with a little too much intensity.
Ashleigh noted the exchange between the women and gave a subtle grin. 'Georgina! She's an easy beat,' He focused his attention on Sunny and said, 'You're the one I'd like to play with.'
Sunny shook her head slowly. 'Not my game, Ashleigh.' She looked back at the redhead and realized if the woman's eyes were lasers she'd have been vaporized by them long ago. 'I came to tell you that we probably won't be able to use the sound from this shoot, we'll have to dub it later. Given that you're not experienced in lip-syncing you should keep the talking to a minimum.'
The irony was that as she said this, she realized that she'd forgotten Ashleigh was wearing a microphone and his lurid suggestions might have been overheard.
The huge grins on both the audio-guy and Brian's faces, gave her the answer.
***
'You can't do any more, Gary,' Truf said. 'She's a smart girl, she'll watch her ass - Sorry mate, terrible choice of words.'
'She said she'd "give some thought" to my suggestion of keeping out of reach of Simon,' I scratched my head in confusion. 'I don't think I've convinced her, Truf.'
'I repeat - she's a smart girl,' Truf said, his tone suggesting that the subject was becoming a little overdone. 'She's known him long enough to work him out. You're only going on my opinion of him and I'm notoriously bad at working people out. Look who I chose as my best friend...'
'Okay Truf. Sorry I've been a bit obsessed about this. It's just the uncertainty of what happened and the frustration of not being able to help her if she needs me.'
'I know mate, but she's managed to survive this long without your help, another week is not beyond her capabilities.' He said this in a flippant manner, leaving me in no doubt what he wanted to happen.
Truf having effectively closed the subject, left me with the choice of silently dwelling on it, or accepting I was powerless to help Sunny and move on. As I mentioned before, I try to not surround myself with idiots.
With two long flights to endure I let my mind wander back, evaluating my life so far. By most standards it would be considered a charmed life. I have a mother and sister who both have my love and gratitude for the role they've played in shaping me. As big sisters go, Megs is brilliant, providing both a mentoring role and a best-buddy role. Lately, she's moved more towards the best-buddy part as bringing up two small girls is a huge task.
There is one member of my family who has fallen to the wrong side of the tracks: My father, Alex Nixon. I have deliberately deleted him from my inner-circle; it's the only way I can deal with the situation. I wish mom would have the balls to divorce him, but she seems to be stuck in a world where loyalty takes precedence over her personal wellbeing. Megs feels pretty much the same as I do, but her feminine attributes allow her to be more forgiving in her dealings with him.
Alex Nixon has impacted on everybody in the family in a negative way, but none as much as me.
Back in 1995, when I turned fourteen, Ed, or Gramps as he was known to me then, took me aside on my birthday and said he was going to teach me how to make money. I was ecstatic, given that he had done that himself, rising from a penniless beginning to become a very rich man in the space of a few years.
My enthusiasm dropped a little when he explained that I needed to get a job during the school week and another on the weekend. I complained that I'd have no time for my friends, but he said; "You'll be surprised, Gary. The harder you work, the better you'll become at organizing your time. You'll find you have just as much time with your friends, but it will be better quality time."
He was correct, of course. I got a job delivering papers before school five days a week. On Saturday's I worked at O'hallorans Hardware. Both workplaces happened to be owned by friends of Ed, undoubtedly just a coincidence.
The deal Gramps made with me involved him 'lending' me my startup funds, with me paying him back a monthly sum from my jobs. One of the companies Ed was the chairman of was Nixon-Eagleby, one of London's top brokerage firms, and my money making practical course involved learning about the stock market from a group of that companies stock-brokers. Because I was just a kid my parents had to open the Trading account and corresponding bank account for me. We chose Charles Halifax to be my brokers because they were one of the first London firms to offer online broking. Ed needed me to be at arm's length from his business and being able to trade through my computer was infinitely better than a squeaky-voiced kid calling a Trading Room to do a transaction.
Over the next few months I spent my early mornings working, my days going to school and my afternoons talking to Gramps on the phone or in his City office. Saturday was hardware day and Sundays were spent mostly in Gramps home office learning the business of trading stocks from the master.
Gramps had initially given me three stocks to purchase with the money he had lent me and they were doing quite nicely. The more their prices improved the more I wanted to learn from him. I found myself using charts and what they call studies as my preferred way of interpreting the market and individual stocks. This meant I was looking at where the investment community were putting their money. Gramps worked more with what are called the 'fundamentals' which meant he looked for financially healthy companies with great assets and little debt. We complimented each other nicely and he fed me a few nice tips which helped refine the process.
By 1997 I had not only repaid Gramps his startup money, I had managed to build my account to an amount that would have allowed me to purchase a brand new Ford Focus. I restrained myself on the car purchase, because at that stage I was in love with trading and my charts were telling me that companies involved with the internet were starting to become hot. I moved myself totally into those companies, much to Gramps dismay - He wanted me to stay diversified which would give me more security. But I was young; one of the kids that Harry Buxton, my landlord, wants me to employ, and, as luck or good management would have it, I managed to double my wealth in the space of about nine months.
Now I could afford a mid-range BMW, and I wasn't even eighteen.
At Gramps insistence I sold half my stocks and left the money in the bank. That turned out to be sage advice as the market had a mini-crash not long after that. This crash gave me a reality check as I hadn't seen it coming and, prior to that, I was beginning to think I was invincible.
Part of me really wanted to buy the car with that money that was sitting in the bank, but a section of my brain had become so hooked on trading that I only saw money as something you use to buy shares with. I compromised and bought a
secondhand car for a few grand, as I was about to start University soon. I held on to the stocks that had crashed as I still saw a future for the internet companies.
Late in 1998 I was fully invested in my internet shares, again. I'd even convinced Gramps to lend me some extra money which had quickly gone in the same direction. With trading, timing is everything. Some say its all luck, but if you know what you are doing and it comes off - then you know what you're doing. Just like a pro-golfer trying to get the ball in the hole, when it comes off it can be spectacular. 1999 was my spectacular year. Internet stocks exploded and my wealth was now up to where I could purchase a top of the range Beamer. I was feeling completely bullet-proof. The feeling didn't last long. It wasn't that the market collapsed again, it kept on going and going, to the point where I could have bought a small fleet of Rolls Royce's.
The problem was: I wasn't in the market. All my shares had been sold. By my father. Without my knowledge. It seemed dear-old-dad had a gambling debt and no money of his own to settle it. But he did have access to a bank account, and my trading account was in his name. Problem solved. The bastard simply sold every share I had painstakingly built-up over the past few years and withdrew the cash.
He'd managed to save himself from having something terrible like having his legs broken by the gambling boss's thugs, or maybe even a bullet to the head, but I'll never know because I refused to talk to him from that moment on.
