In the Fifth Season

by Jonathan M Barrett

  #

  When the bedroom was this silent, Samantha knew Andy would be awake, vexing himself.

  "What is it, darling?" she asked. "Please tell me, I'm so tired. I really need to sleep."

  "Nothing." The silence deepened before Andy said, "OK. Sometimes I feel like I'm walking a tight rope – the only thing is, I don't know how to do it – but I understand if I stop or look down or think about it, then I'll fall."

  Now was the time to show resolve. Samantha sat up. "We should leave here as soon as we can. You should really find something else to do."

  "What?"

  Samantha caught the hurt in his voice. "I don't like these people," she said. "They're all using you."

  Andy laughed. "And I'm not using them?"

  "I care about you. I don't care about all the others." Samantha switched on the bedside lamp. "Let's go. Andy, I'm serious. You resign tomorrow, and we could be anywhere in two months' time." She shuddered at the torture it would be, before she added, "We could go back to Singapore, be near your parents."

  Andy blinked in the sudden light. "Oh, Sammy, imagine how walking away from this would look on my CV."

  "It wouldn't matter."

  "And it wouldn't matter to you if we lost everything?"

  "No," Samantha said, "and besides, I could go back to work if you don't find something straight away."

  "What, go back to having your bum pinched in business class? I'm afraid that's a bit hard to believe." His patronising sigh stung her.

  Samantha eyed Andy as he straightened the duvet. "If you really think that, you don't know me." And she snapped off the light, snatched a pillow into an embrace, rolled over, and was asleep before Andy could extricate himself from this first wrong turn.

  4

  No one competed with Rob Hamilton for a bottle of pinot noir in the aisles of Liquor Mega. He slapped a gold credit card on the counter where the notes and coins of student loans were meted out for six-packs of Tui and Raskalnikov vodka mixers.

  At home, Rob carved the foil from the neck of the bottle, lined up the point of the corkscrew, and twisted to release the genie that would grant his wish of blissful intoxication. But, when he pulled at the cork, the corkscrew snapped. "Jesus Christ." He traced his finger across the fractured metal. "What crap!" After a struggle, he managed to push the cork in with a knife, and poured himself a glass of frothing wine.

  The cat padded from his daylong slumber and arrived, tail high, in the kitchen. He insinuated himself around and between his master's legs, mewling coarsely. Rob stooped to stroke the sagging belly. The cat's name was Oggi. It was not a name Rob would have chosen. He would have called him something ironic like 'Rover' or 'Spot'. But five years ago, his friend Melissa, lawyer to the oppressed, had asked Rob to look after the cat for a while. Like the refugees Melissa represented, Oggi came with his alien name and a long, unhappy story implied. Rob picked up Oggi, careless of the white hairs that always clung to his black jacket. The cat's eyes closed, and his body vibrated with depthless joy.

  Rob knew he wouldn't speak to another human being for more than half a day. That was just 0.01% of his allotted three score and ten but it added up when repeated so many times. "Fancy some fish, my furry former-fucker?" he inquires of the cat. Oggi knew the routine well. He couldn't contain his emasculated pleasure as Rob circumcised the tin. Oggi let out a belly deep yowl in anticipation, and clawed at Rob's heels. Then the powerful ex-tom hunched, obscenely noisy, over a bowl of stinking fish meal.

  Rob downed his wine, poured another glass, and, turned on the radio. He was pleased to hear a familiar voice compere nostalgic music. He flitted through the identikit photos and irate residents of the local advertiser. Before dropping it in the wastebasket, he removed the home improvement supplement with its before-and-after roofs and driveways, and, best of all, the oddly pornographic pictures of coy models stepping from showers: this was reserved for the bottom of the litter tray.

  The post held no surprises but his voice mail told Rob that his big brother, Chris, would be in Wellington for the weekend, and they simply must touch base.

  Rob filled another glass. "'Touch base', eh? Chris, Chris, when will you ever learn? We communicate with words. We are not fucking bonobos."

  FRIDAY

  5

  Many who attended the Dependable cocktail party the night before lay abed late, squirming in hangover and regret. But, in his hotel suite, Owen Huntly was woken by the first light pouring through the gap he'd left in the curtains. He slipped from the bed and into a thick bathrobe. On the way to the balcony he stopped to admire his sales trophy once more. He lifted it and inclined the base to read his name, recorded five times in succession. But he was puzzled. It did say Salesperson of the Year, not Salesman. He could swear it hadn't in previous years. Owen savoured the memory of the lovely Samantha Wu pointing that fact out to him.

  He slid the doors open, and the noise of traffic rushing in caused the woman in his bed to turn over, but didn’t wake her. Last night, she'd giggled nervously, pressing against his shoulder, as he roared from the balcony to the world, "I am a winner. I am a champion," time after time. Owen stepped out and peered down twenty stories to watch the tide of black suits. He felt an urge to piss on the drones below him. A southerly wind chilled his face but he didn’t mind at all – bring it on. The city held little interest for him. He looked across the harbour to the encircling ranges, and pictured the snuffling, grunting, stickable piglife waiting for him there.

  Back inside, Owen knew he was already bored with the woman in his bed. Most men would find her attractive, and, in his place, would hope to keep her, but Owen wished she'd slipped away before dawn. She'd moved across to where he'd lain, and brought a pillow into her embrace. It was a close and loving reflex, and he loathed the way a one-night stand might assume so much. Had he really thought she or any of the others could fill the hole Artemis had left? He followed the trail of strewn underwear to her jacket, and read the woman's nametag, silently mouthing the words, 'Andrea Jackson, Customer Services Manager'.

  Owen took a small black book from his pocket and turned the pages of careful handwriting. "First say to yourself what you would be, and then do what you have to do," he read aloud. "E– Epi–" He gave up on the sage's name but inhaled deeply as he pondered the words of wisdom. Then in a few quick paces Owen was across the grand room and at the bed. "Hey, Andrea Jackson, haven't you got some customers to service?" He whipped the duvet off the naked woman and strode to the shower without looking back.

  6

  Andy Wu's silver Mercedes purred along the still uncrowded streets. He manoeuvred precisely into one of the three reserved spaces in the basement of Dependable House. On the wall was a palimpsest: 'Wu' stencilled over the shadow of 'Gisborne'. He never failed to notice it.

  Andy strolled into the foyer as the cleaners trudged out and was disappointed when their response was not as cheery as his greeting. He didn't normally use the swipe card that let him override requests for the lift, but, today, knowing the building would be almost empty, travelled straight to the tenth floor. Cynthia, Andy's executive assistant, was in already and engrossed in a magazine. The chairman of the Dependable, Sir Gerald Leet, was also visiting. He kept an office at Dependable House with red and green lights above the door like a level crossing. The red light signalled he was in and not to be disturbed – even by his CEO.

  "Oh, hello, Cynthia," Andy said. "You're in early today."

  She didn't respond. Clearly some newsreader's pregnancy was more interesting than his arrival.

  "So, who's in with Sir Gerald?" He tried to sound matter of fact.

  Cynthia shrugged and turned a page. "He was in before me."

  Andy sat at his desk but couldn't concentrate. After twenty-two minutes he heard voices and looked up, expecting the chairman to come into his office for a heads up about the meeting. But a group of three men walked past Andy's door without acknowledging him. One was Sir Gerald and another was almost certainly his
deputy, Michael Dyer. They obscured the third man. Andy checked whether Cynthia could fill him in, but she wasn’t at her desk.

  7

  A black wave surged out of the railway station and, with the first hint of a green man, flooded across the street. Rob Hamilton's head hurt and he was dawdling. A sneaking suspicion troubled him: maybe he'd not been as sober at the cocktail party as he assumed. But, round the corner of Bowen Street, he joined the rush, slipping into the peloton next to a smart young woman in training shoes. She glanced across at him, and stepped up her pace. He matched her, and managed to get slightly ahead. In some cultures, he thought between ragged breaths, two adults – similar age, well, not that far apart, different sex – catching each other's eye on a street corner of an impersonal city might lead to – certainly not the two of them haring down Lambton Quay, elbows flying, pretending they're so important they must rush like this to their desks or deaths. The young woman pulled ahead and made the last flashes of a red man a few metres ahead of him. Rob was left behind a wall of buses, panting, holding a traffic light for support, telling himself the trainers had given her the edge.

  When he reached his desk, hot and rumpled, Rob sat for an hour thinking what he should do, waiting for the phone to ring or an email to pop into his inbox to spur him into action. He slipped out for a latte-to-go. Back in the office, he took an envelope from his in-tray and pulled out the galleys of a marketing brochure. He scored a correction in bold red. He knew it would be ignored. Marketing couldn't care less about split infinitives or hanging participles, things he increasingly held dear.

  Bruce Buller knocked on the open door and filled the lower half of the doorway. Buller was rumoured to be a champion ballroom dancer, but Rob had never believed it. Champion pie eater, maybe. And yet the man did have something terpsichorean about him, despite his egg shape and the straining belt that exactly bisected him.

  "You got a few moments for me?" Buller said.

  "Come in. I won't be a minute. I'm just finishing something urgent."

  Rob looked for the tell-tale signs of a ballroom champion. And, indeed, the head of the National Claims Team – its acronym unfortunately pronounced 'nicked' – didn't move like a fat man; he arrived, elegantly, as if on castors.

  Buller clutched a file to his belly while Rob finished his important work. He flashed a disapproving look at the mess of papers on Rob's desk, and said, "Confucius, he say 'tidy desk, tidy mind'."

  "Really," Rob said, well aware of Buller's fetish for tidiness, "and what does Confucius have to say about an empty desk?" He made a final correction to the marketing brochure, and gestured Buller to his conference table.

  "Did you have a good time at the cocktail party?" Buller said. There was a sly note in his voice.

  Rob avoided his eye. "Always do, but I don't suppose that's why you're here."

  "No. It's that claim I was telling you about yesterday."

  And thereby stuffed up my chances of happiness, Rob thought. "Artemis Washburn, wasn't it?"

  "God, you've got a good memory. Well, it's a right old rort," Buller said and tapped the file. "Two mill sum insured. Less than a year old. The life insured fell–" He made speech marks with his fingers, and paused for comic effect, "–off a cliff." He pushed the file across the table to Rob and added, "It stinks to high heaven."

  "Who's the intermediary?" Rob said.

  "Who do you think?"

  Rob wouldn't stoop to answer such a question and turned the pages to scan the application form.

  "I'll save your time – Owen bloody Huntly. Jack the lad himself."

  Rob thought, Oh crap! but said nothing. Buller's smug smile told Rob his body language had given him away. He looked down and flitted through the file.

  "The deceased was quite a looker," Buller said. "You can be sure she was one of Huntly's conquests."

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Is everything here?" Rob asked, knowing Buller would take this as an insult.

  "I think you'll find everything you need."

  "Leave it with me then." Rob shut the file, but, as he did, the image of the first document registered in his consciousness, and he opened it again. "Hold a minute. Don't you think it might be a tad premature to draft a letter of declinature before I've even looked at the case?" Rob said. He'd meant to sound sarcastic, it probably came out indignant.

  "Come off it, mate," Buller said. "You know as well as me it's a suicide. And suicide is excluded in the first year."

  "Actually, I don't know she committed suicide. Sure, perhaps she did, but accidents do happen."

  Buller folded his arms and flushed at the neck. Rob felt blood rushing to his cheeks. He made a display of reading Buller's letter and marked a correction with a big X. Can’t the man just get and go?

  "Look, Bruce, you may well be proved right. But, until we've properly investigated the claim and made sure our case is watertight, we have to assume everything is above board. I don't need to tell you, if this gets to court – and of course it will – we'll have to prove she committed suicide."

  Buller relaxed a little in the light of Rob's flattery but wouldn't give in. "I'd bet my pension it was suicide."

  Despite knowing Buller was about to be nudged into early retirement, Rob didn’t say what he was thinking – I wouldn't do that if I were you – you'll be needing it soon enough. But he saw that Buller, a man who'd spent his entire working life suspecting others, had detected his unease.

  "Hey, have you heard anything about what they're planning for me?"

  A vindictive person would have told the truth, but Rob said, "This place lives on rumours. I wouldn't give it a second thought until Miss Gore invites you in for a friendly chat with–" He hesitated; he didn't think he should pronounce the acronym as he normally did as 'hurt'; "–the Human Resources Team."

  "No. I suppose not."

  After Buller had gone, Rob returned downcast to Artemis Washburn's file. He knew Buller was on his way out, and his own complaints about his unprofessional behaviour had probably played their part in his downfall, but he couldn't understand why people like Buller didn't just do their jobs properly. If you spend a third of your adult life working, why not do it well? Rob scanned through the file again. No body shots, thank god. But, when he looked at the passport photo of Artemis Inglewood Washburn, Rob was struck by her image. It was more than the brightness of her eyes, her cheekbones and the marvels of American dentistry, he was reminded of a song from his youth – the light pours out of me. That was it: Artemis Washburn looked radiant.

  8

  In his day dreams, Andy Wu often imagined an in-depth Fortune article charting his success against the odds. Andy Wu (29) casually sits – no, stands – on the windowsill of his office, high above Wellington harbour – previously imagined as Singapore and Hong Kong. Occasional reveries have featured backdrop vistas of Toronto, London, New York, although Samantha’s heart remained set on Sydney. The observant eye would note evidence of Samantha's aesthetic feng shui audit, a tasteful constellation of Zen pebbles aligned on the vent of the air con. Young Cambridge graduate grows the dowager of New Zealand insurance into Asia's hottest company.

  The psychometric tests Andy took before his appointment as CEO classified him as an upper range hyena, combined with mid-range dolphin – and no more than traces of bonobo.

  "What on earth does that mean?" Samantha asked.

  "Hyenas are natural team players," Andy told her. "And an upper range hyena is a natural leader. Dolphins are highly intelligent and creative. It means I fit the CEO profile exactly."

  "And bonobos?"

  Andy blushed. "Um, apparently they touch each other a lot."

  "But you hate team sports."

  Samantha was of course right but today Andy craved the company of a team of bright others, and so he'll be the first to arrive at the meeting, even though it would be more becoming for him to sweep in at the last moment, settling urgent issues on his mobile, to take the empty chair at the head of the table. Andy smiled as he recall
ed that only once, and then half in jest, he'd referred to the executive meeting room as 'the ideas incubator'. Straight away, the New Strategy Team – invariably referred to as the NST, to save time – had adopted and refined it. 'Brainstorming in the double-i with the NST' sounded so much more bleeding edge than 'a meeting with the consultants in the tenth floor meeting room'.

  Andy picked up his portfolio, marched down the corridor and pushed open the dark-wood doors. The lights were dimmed to a sepulchral gloom as though the beached whale body of his predecessor, Ralph Gisborne, might lie in state on the long table. Andy switched the lights on full.

  After the rancorous demutualisation of the Dependable and the subsequent shareholder coup, Sir Gerald Leet had headhunted Andy to be its new CEO. Plenty of eyebrows were raised about Sir Gerald's choice of this young foreigner to lead the country's second oldest insurer. But his glittering CV had persuaded the financial press to give him the benefit of the doubt. Within a month, Andy had rid himself of most of the previous upper management, 'the old school' as he described them to Samantha. Despite their generous severance packages, they persisted with their vexatious demands that ranged from sponsorship of a pensioners' golf day to a further share in what remained of the company’s superannuation fund.

  Andy tugged the cords of the window blinds to let in the maximum of disinfectant light. Half the framed photographs on the walls recorded the old school at golf tournaments. Andy loathed golf, a complete waste of time and prime real estate. His other major occupational dislike was black tie functions. The rest of the photographs showed the old school at formal dinners. Their faces were red from port; their jug ears and golf ball noses alight. And, in clouds of cigar smoke, they swilled brandy balloons capacious enough for carp.

  The photos were screwed to the walls and, rather than find someone to remove them (facilities and utilities being in the process of an outsourcing tender), Andy had covered them in brown paper systems diagrams. But, occasionally, in a groundbreaking meeting, the weight of the new ideas caused a corner to peel-off and, gathering momentum, revealed the old buggers, smug in their golf shirts or dinner jackets, laughing at the youngsters' efforts.

  Through the stiff paper, Andy kneaded adhesion back into the putty, securing the corners to the wall. Then he greeted the NST, all seconded consultants, as they joined him, their agendas and buzzwords well prepared.

  It was an awesome meeting. Team members referred to Harvard Business Review papers as fluently as Cynthia could explain the plot of last night's Shortland Street. Their PowerPoint presentations on the effective use of capital were as slick and hip as a Lady Gaga video. Andy promised to take their outsourcing recommendations to the impending board meeting for approval. "A matter of rubber stamping," he assured them. The Customer Services Team – 'cost', as one of the consultants had so aptly pronounced its acronym, would be first to go to Bangalore. Then, the Treasury Investment Team will be outsourced to Dubai. Andy knew this wasn't all they had in mind, but he held up his hands and said, "Enough, I think, for today."

  Back alone in his office, pumped with adrenaline yet feeling lonely, Andy sifted through the papers on his desk. These were mundane things, not great matters of strategy. After a cursory glance, he authorised a high denomination cheque, but then a memo headed 'strictly confidential' caught his attention. A week before he'd instructed Rob Hamilton to analyse the contract between Owen Huntly and the Dependable, with a view to termination. Andy had calculated Huntly's special commission rate meant the Dependable lost at least a thousand dollars on every policy the man sold.

  Andy started to read his internal counsel's memo, but it was written in such cautious legalese that he gave up and dialled Rob's extension.

  "Hello. Rob Hamilton."

  "Andy here." Like Elvis and Madonna, 'Andy' is enough. "I've got your memo on the Huntly contract."

  "Ok."

  "I appreciate we need a formal opinion for our records but I'd like you to tell me our options in one sentence." Andy could hear Rob rustling papers but no answer comes. "So?"

  "How long can the sentence be?" Rob laughed, but Andy didn't.

  "Ok, the old contracts, like Owen's, are pretty much weighted in favour of the salesperson – you can thank Ralph Gisborne, as ex-Sales himself, for that – but, if we can prove Owen has committed a serious breach of the contract, for example, some type of fraud against the Dependable or withholding good faith information, then we can terminate his contract forthwith without any further obligation to pay him commissions, even on policies he's already sold."

  Andy couldn't resist a smile at Rob's managing to deliver his opinion in one breath. "All right," Andy said. "I want you to go down to check out Owen Huntly on his own turf, and I want you to investigate him thoroughly."

  "Is there any particular reason you want to terminate the contract of our top salesperson?"

  Andy caught a patronising note. "I have my reasons," he said. "I'll also find you someone competent from the NCT to go with you to help with this Washburn claim."

  "Washburn?"

  "Yes, the big suicide claim. Huntly sold the policy. You have seen the file, haven't you?"

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah." Rob sounded grave. "Tell me something, Andy. You're an actuary. In your opinion, what is the statistical probability of a healthy, wealthy and, well, beautiful fifty something woman committing suicide?"

  Andy didn't need to think about it. "Approximately nil."

  "That's exactly the number I had in mind."

  Andy suspected he may have been bettered. "Oh, by the way, have you been for your medical yet?"

  "Actually I'm going this afternoon," Rob said. Andy had not expected him to sound so willing.

  9

  At first Rob was outraged that members of the New Management Team should need to undergo a medical check up. "I think you may be taking the team metaphor too far", he emailed Miss Gore, leader of the Human Resources Team, only to have a pedantic explanation of the company's significant investment in the NMT's human capital, and its concern, of course, for team members' health. But, since she didn't specify a particular doctor, Rob took the opportunity to look up Phil Denniston, an old university friend. He reckoned the indignities of a medical could best be mitigated if the examining doctor was someone whom he'd witnessed engaging in undignified behaviour on countless occasions. And, since Rob had kept Phil's stag night infidelity secret all these years, surely Phil would not reveal anything inappropriate about Rob to his employer?

  At Phil's rooms, Rob had been pricked and prodded and was now being auscultated.

  "Do you keep in touch with any of the old crew?" Phil said. "Cough."

  Close up like this, Rob observed how his friend's ears had sprouted a rich growth of hair, presumably to offset the loss from his crown.

  "A few, occasionally. I send all my problem employees to Melissa at the Community Law Centre. You'd be amazed at the number of people we have with bailiffs at the door or abusive partners. Then, I buy her lunch once a year to assuage my guilt."

  Phil returned to his desk. Rob swung his legs off the examining couch and stood. He buttoned up and stuffed his shirttails into his waistband, then started to nose around the surgery.

  "Hey, it's a bit freaky, all these things you've got for probing bodies. Aliens would love to get their hands on them."

  Phil looked up from the form he was completing to flash Rob a look that said keep your hands off my equipment.

  "So, what's the damage?" Rob asked, his fingers poised above a scrutinising device with tubes and dials.

  "Please don't touch that, it's been sterilised. OK, your blood pressure is looking normal, but we'll have to wait a few days for the test results."

  "Perfect specimen then?" Rob said.

  "Actually, no. You're now officially overweight."

  "That's ridiculous. I've never been overweight." Rob looked at his side profile in the mirror, and practised breathing in.

  "Well, you are now. Look: height – weight." Phil pointed t
o a crude chart, clearly designed for scaring greedy children. "You're significantly into the orange – overweight. In fact, you're not far from getting a Mr Blobby sticker. There's no arguing with the body mass indicators."

  "Well, there ought to be." Rob pulled the shirttails from his waistband. That looked better. "Anyway, you're as overweight as I am."

  "That's not the point," Phil said, "and besides I'm not – I'm slightly under overweight."

  "I'm afraid I can't agree with you there. You're fatter than me. You always have been. Really, have you looked at the size of your arse in a mirror recently?"

  "That's irrelevant. I'm taller than you." Phil started to point to the chart but must have realised how silly this would be. "Anyway, Rob, as your medical adviser, I'm advising you to lose weight."

  "You've got to be joking. 250 kilograms and 20 Big Macs a day is overweight. Not a bit podgy around the belly."

  "That's the worst kind of fat," Phil said, without conviction.

  "Come off it – are you telling me that's worse than being super sumo size, your fingers too fat to operate the TV remote?"

  "The indicators tell me you're overweight." Phil looked back down at the form, even though he’d already completed and signed it.

  "That's crap and you know it." Rob tried to look over Phil's shoulder at what he'd written but retreated to the patient's chair when Phil warded him off with a glare. "Anyway, what time will you be finished up here?"

  "Last appointment is 5.30. I should be done by six."

  "Great. We could go for a drink," Rob said.

  "I can't."

  "It's Friday night for Christ's sake, Phil."

  "Friday afternoon. Anyway, I told you, I can't. I'm going to gym." It sounded like a confession but Rob assumed he'd meant it as a boast.

  "You, gym, since when?"

  "It's amazing what passing 40 and wanting to be around to see your kids grow up can do," Phil said.

  "Oh." Rob paused before adding, "So just a quickie, then, before you go to gym?"

  "I really can't. And that's the other thing. Your alcohol consumption puts you into the category of habitual heavy drinker." Phil reached for another colour-coded chart but stopped when he saw Rob's smirk. "So, I'm telling you straight. You're drinking too much."

  "That's bollocks and you know it is. Face down on Cuba Street with a bottle of meths is drinking too much," Rob said, "not a few sociable beers, once in a while."

  "Look, I've done my duty. I've warned you. And now it's on your file."

  "What? Have you honestly told my employer I drink too much? You Judas."

  "Hold on a minute," Phil said. "You told me how much you drink. All I did was write it down."

  "Well, thank god I didn't tell you the truth."

  Phil pretended not to have heard and said, "At least you've given up smoking. You have haven't you?"

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah."

  "Look, you're not 21 any more, Rob. It's quite simple: as you get older, the body stops forgiving you when you neglect it."

  "Ah, but that's it, isn't?" He didn't feel like a lecture, and fetched his jacket from the examination table. "I do feel like I'm still 21. I just don't know where the last 20 odd years have gone." He struggled into his jacket and stuffed his tie into a pocket. "Some bloody lost weekend."

  "Are you seeing anyone?" Phil said.

  "Fat chance of that."

  "I'll tell you something," Phil said, "you're more likely to meet a nice, healthy woman at gym than in a bar."

  "Who says I'm looking for a nice, healthy woman?" Rob hadn't intended to sound quite so bitter.

  "So what are you looking for?"

  Rob shrugged.

  Phil stood and approached with a grave expression. "How long is it since your parents passed away – three, four years?"

  "Five."

  Phil placed his hand on Rob's shoulder. "That's plenty of time for closure."

  Rob felt his eyes sting. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. I am over it." He didn't feel like Phil practising his pastoral stuff on him.

  "Hey, Rob, we're getting to that age when we lose our parents. I guess it's another phase of growing up."

  "Yes." Oh god. Had one of Phil's parents recently died? No, he’d been talking about them earlier. Rob glanced at Phil's hand, well meaning, but unwelcome on his shoulder.

  Phil clenched his fingers into a fist and tapped Rob on the arm. "God, you were always such a pain with your causes and quests. What are you tilting your lance at now?"

  Rob squirmed. "I've got a job and a cat. What more could a man want?"

  "Maybe you need to get yourself a hobby."

  Rob saw that Phil really was serious about a hobby, and cringed.

  At the door, Rob stopped. "Hey, Phil, you're a doctor. Tell me something. Why would a woman, who seems to have everything going for her, kill herself?"

  "Who knows?" Phil looked nonplussed and offered, "Clinical depression?"

  "No. I don't think so. She looked really happy. Actually, radiant."

  "Who was she?" He sounded genuinely concerned.

  "Oh, no one we knew. She was insured with the Dependable. It pretty much looks as though she committed suicide but the thing is, it seems impossible to me that you can look as radiant as she did, and yet be suicidal."

  10

  After the excitement of the outsource meeting, and, now the Huntly affair – he meant Huntley business – was in hand, Andy was bored. He was tempted to try a computer game, but Cynthia had once caught him playing Solitaire. She must have seen the reflection of his screen in the window, and helpfully suggested he could move the eight of diamonds. So Andy didn't dare risk a quick Tantrix tournament. Cynthia was too much like Ma for that. And how it would have hurt Ma after all the sacrifices she made for his sake to find him wasting his time, playing a silly game like that.

  Andy picked up the company newsletter – the Dependable Update – and, reading once more his editorial that the spin consultant had penned so well, was very pleased. He would show this to Samantha tonight, and she would probably offer to stick it on the fridge. Then he turned to the article on the Salesperson of the Year, and there, of course, he was: Owen R Huntly, confident, charismatic – taunting?

  When Andy strode through the vast open office to find the leader of the National Underwriting Team, junior team members scuttled away like crabs. Others muttered, "Hello, Mr Wu, er, Andy." But the Underwriter seemed unperturbed by an unannounced visit from his CEO. He was engrossed in a printout that, metres long, flowed across and over his desk like Rapunzel's hair to the floor. He continued his examination with his nose pressed to the paper while Andy folded his arms and tapped his foot. This old man, who Andy would have guessed is seventy if he didn't know the company's ready or not retirement age is sixty, was one of the few of the long-term employees who hadn't jumped or been pushed. After several prompting coughs, Andy managed to draw the old man away from what he said was is an absolutely fascinating ECG.

  "I wanted to talk to you about Owen Huntly."

  The Underwriter sat, made a steeple with his fingers and stared at Andy over his half glasses. "A remarkable man."

  "So I hear. In particular, his promiscuity."

  "Indeed."

  "Do you realise if this Huntly character ever contracted an STD, the South Island of New Zealand could be facing an epidemic that would make AIDS in Africa look like–" Andy searched for an appropriate simile.

  The Underwriter offered, "A one-off dose of the clap in a Shanghai brothel?"

  "Well, yes, I suppose you could put it like that."

  "Of course, it would have been far worse for the Dependable," the Underwriter added, presumably by way of comfort.

  "What do you mean?" Andy didn't understand how things could be worse than his own worse case scenario.

  "You see, we can safely assume many of Owen's sexual partners are Dependable policyholders."

  "Jesus Christ! What's the man's state of health?" Andy's human curiosity had turned to professional p
anic.

  "Robust. As you can imagine, it would have to be." The Underwriter paused, presumably out of respect for Owen Huntly's amorous capacity. "Look, Mr Wu, er Andy, I think I understand your concern, but I've known Owen Huntly for twenty five years, and he always takes measures. I can assure you of that."

  11

  At five o'clock, Toni Haast decided to give Mr Buller ten more minutes to get back from his appointment before she would need to run for her train. She'd fretted all day about disagreeing with his conclusions on Artemis Washburn. This morning, she'd tried to argue with him, without saying outright she thought he was wrong, but his neck flushed and finally he said. "Fine, never mind my forty years' experience, I'll take it up to Rob Hamilton. Let's see what old Perry Mason makes of it." Referring the claim to Mr Hamilton was a compromise, but, if Mr Hamilton was a Mason like Mr Buller, Toni wasn't sure this would progress the case forward.

  Toni checked the clock on her screen again. 5.06. Her bag was packed. She started to log off. In truth, she wouldn't be disappointed if she missed Mr Buller. She didn't like being alone with her boss after one of his afternoon appointments, which often involved too many drinks with brokers. Then it becomes 'call me, Bruce, love'; 'I could teach you to tango', and shameless brushings against her. Toni had been a nurse and wasn't easily disgusted by the human body, but her boss's belly nudging her shoulder as he lectured her about fishy claimants sorely tested her gag response.

  Mr Buller returned just as Toni was about to leave. He looked shrunk and gutted, not puffed up and bouncy, as she'd expected. He carried a cardboard box. He didn't attempt to flirt with her, he just muttered something about Miss Gore, the horror, the horror, went into his office and shut the door without even a glance into her cubicle. After a few minutes, Toni knocked. She had a vague premonition of him hanging from the light fitting. She knocked again and opened the door.

  "Mr Buller."

  He hadn't hanged himself. He was packing personal things into the cardboard box.

  "Oh, hello, Toni." He looked surprised. "Are you still here?" His voice was soft, evenly kindly.

  "I wanted to talk to you about the Washburn claim," she said.

  His expression was blank as though the HRT had erased his memory.

  "That fishy claim we discussed this morning," she said.

  "Oh that. I handed it over to Rob Hamilton. You'll have to speak to him about it." He struggled to fit a framed certificate of obsolete competence into the box. "Thirty five years. How old are you, Toni – if you don't mind me asking?"

  "Twenty eight."

  "Here’s a thought, I started working here seven years before you were even born." He laughed. "You know–" He coughed and brushed the corner of his eye with his knuckle. "When someone retired from the Dependable, it used to be a celebration of a working life."

  "Are you retiring?" This could not be true. How many times had he told her about his plans for retirement, starting with his trip to the Blackpool International Foxtrot Festival in 2015?

  "Oh yes. I'm not saying I should get fireworks and a gold watch, but I did expect something more than, 'Would you like security to help you with your box, Bruce?'"

  Toni wanted to ask him outright – so what's going to happen to the team? I mean, am I going to get a promotion or will they bring someone else in? But she'd never ask anything so insensitive. "So that's it? They terminated you, just like that?"

  "That's about it. I've got plenty of accrued leave, so I'll officially retire at the end of the year. Miss Gore said they'd arrange some kind of function then –but they won't, of course."

  Toni nodded. She guessed they wouldn't make a decision about the team leader until he's officially gone.

  Her ex-boss held up a certificate. "Look at this." Bruce K Buller, Employee of the Year (senior clerical category) 1978. Neither sure why, they both laughed.

  Toni didn't tell Mr Buller that this afternoon Mr Wu had phoned Toni personally to ask her to go down to Exmouth with Mr Hamilton to investigate Artemis Washburn’s claim.

  12

  When Andy told Samantha about the Underwriter, the Salesperson of the Year, his amorous capacity, and the measures he always takes, she said, "Well, how on earth would he know?"

  "Exactly." Andy said. "I didn't dare ask."

  "Why ever not? I would have."

  "Yes, well. It was very odd. The whole thing is too weird for me to be seen showing too much interest." He straightened the orchids in their rectilinear vase. "It would be prurient."

  Samantha thought he did, in fact, seem very interested.

  Andy fetched his brief case and took out a copy of the Dependable Update. "Here's a picture of the man, what do you think?"

  It was strange. Static, in the photo, the Salesperson of the Year didn’t look like a Greek god at all. His silk suit was crass, and, with his perma-tan and primped curls, he had the air of a Dorian Gray rock star. Actually, he looked comically vulgar, but, all the same, sad. Despite the bravado, his eyes weren't smiling. Samantha turned the page to the picture of her husband under the banner Direct from Andy's desk and said, "Mmm, I think he's seriously gorgeous. I certainly wouldn't be able to resist him." She opened the magazine wide to show Andy that she was swooning over his picture, but Andy didn't look.

  "Jesus Christ! Why am I showing you his picture? You know exactly who he is. You were all over him at the damned cocktail party, weren't you?"

  Samantha was too shocked to respond.

  "We're going on conference to Tahiti with these people." Andy ran his hand through his hair. "And is that what I've got look out for – you fawning like a schoolgirl over this lecherous old goat?" Andy stormed from the room before Samantha could explain.

  Andy's outburst had exhausted Samantha, and she went to bed early. But, like a child, he soon forgot his tantrum. She left him to watch the business round up. When he came into the bedroom, she was reading a glossy magazine. "Ah, good old Cosmo," he said, without checking the title, "50 new ways to please your lover, is it?" And he went to the bathroom with a knowing smile.

  Samantha switched off the bedside lamp and pretended to be asleep when Andy returned. Oh god, he really has misinterpreted things, she realised, as he snuggled naked and tumescent next to her. She felt his hand trace the contour of her thigh, over her hip, her waist. He gently clasped her breast, and pressed against her.

  "Please, darling, don't." She wriggled free from his embrace. "Sorry, I don't feel like it."

  Her rebuff was hardly likely to please him, but she hadn't expected his reaction. "Don't feel like it – with me? Is that what you mean?"

  Samantha didn't respond immediately.

  A week before their wedding, she'd come close to calling it off. They'd been making love. She was lying across Andy's chest, sated and sleepy, and, when he'd murmured her name, she'd looked into his eyes, expecting some soft utterance. But his voice was cold. "I really do dread to think what you got up to before you met me."

  "What's that supposed to mean?" She’d asked, so shaken she could hardly get the words out.

  "Oh come off it, everyone knows what airhostesses are like."

  "Well, I don't."

  "Fine. Forget it," he said and manoeuvred from beneath her.

  "No, let's not forget it." Samantha wrapped a sheet around herself and knelt up. "You as good as accuse me of being some kind of slut. And then say let's forget it."

  "I didn't mean that. It's a cultural thing. I don't expect you to understand."

  Samantha didn't remind Andy it was her copy of Lao Tzu on the bookshelf, that her apartment, not his that had feng shui. And when he'd explained how he was really a banana – yellow on the outside, white inside – she'd declared herself to be a boiled egg. "Go on, I'm listening."

  "I know my parents wanted to me to become the image of the little Englishman – St Werbergh's College, Cambridge, and so on – but they didn't expect me to take it so far as to marry an English girl. It's a Confucian thing, respect for elders, female modesty.
" Andy had flashed a nervous glance at her, as though he'd expected her to slap him.

  But Samantha had gently pulled at Andy's stubborn shoulder until he faced her. She straddled him, took his face in her hands and fixed her gaze on him. "Listen to me, Andy. You're not the first man I've slept with, but you are the first and only man I will ever love. If I hadn't known other men, I could never have been so certain about you." She pressed his face. "Do you understand that? You are my life." He'd seemed to understand then, and she'd heard no more of that sort of nonsense until now.

  Tonight Samantha was not so tolerant. "Oh, for Christ's sake, Andrew! You really are such a cretin sometimes." She snatched up the duvet, turned on the light, and stomped to the guest room. There she writhed in guilt as she imagined her poor, silly darling, illuminated, perplexed, and priapic.

  SUNDAY

  13

  By Sunday morning, Samantha Wu had forgiven her husband's jealous outburst, and with a full day away from the office he seemed to have forgotten Owen Huntly. She told Andy she didn't want to do anything energetic that morning. If the weather was right, they would often cycle along the corniche in matching Lycra bodysuits on bright green racing bikes; today a leisurely walk to Te Papa to see an exhibition would be good for her.

  "Ready, for your Oriental parade, Mr Wu?" she said. That was their private joke, and Andy would understand everything was back to normal. Too elegantly dressed for Wellington, they stepped out into the gusts and sunshine.