Terms & Conditions (19 page)

But all he said was, ‘Great night, mate, we should do this shit more often, all we do is work work work, we need to have fun together. We're brothers.'

Oscar didn't seem to notice, or care, that I didn't reply; instead he pushed me a little forward and pointed down the corridor towards Nina, who was talking to Doug. Oscar whispered, ‘She's a fucking peach, that wife of mine. God, I love her to death, Frank, in ways that even poets would fail to express, I love that buxom French bird.'

‘I'm not sure any poet could best that,' I said. ‘Actually, Oscar, that is very sweet,' and I meant it.

Oscar winked at me and said, ‘And did you notice Nina's new tits? I know you were looking. It's all right, you get brother's privilege, you can look, buddy. Just look, mind you! What tits! Went to Sweden to get them done. Aren't they brilliant? I tell you, Frank, you should get
Alice done. Just look at Nina. She's got new lips, new tits. I love it. Sex with Nina now is like fucking a diff erent woman. Man, it's like I'm having an affair with my own wife.'

‘You are truly the least charming man I know,' I said to Oscar, who must have misheard me and said, ‘Thanks, mate, I appreciate you saying that,' as we both stumbled into the dining room and returned to the table, where I sat down and Oscar leered at his wife's breasts for a while before stuffing more chocolate into his gob.

‘Eeezzy, Ozzgar.'

I experienced a strange moment when Alice – by now a little drunk and smiley – suddenly grinned at Oscar and said, ‘So when is the firm going on to the stock market? When are Frank and I going to be rich beyond our wildest dreams?'

Oscar frowned. Even his calm countenance rippled. And I was stunned. Taking the firm to the stock market was probably the most confidential thing happening at that time. Even though I had told Alice about the weapons manufacturer, I had not told her about Oscar's plan to put Shaw&Sons on the stock market. Firstly because I didn't think it would happen but secondly because that sort of thing was top secret, to stop insider trading. I couldn't imagine how Alice would know about it. Oscar looked sheepish and I realised that he must have told her. But when did they talk?

I stared blankly at Oscar and said, ‘You shouldn't have told
anyone
about that.'

Oscar regained his composure and, without looking at Alice, said, ‘Well, good news is hard to hold, Frank. And it might still be happening, and yes, if it does, it'll make all of us very rich, so cheer the fuck up and let's have another drink, shall we?'

My wife got up and retreated to the kitchen, realising she had made a mistake, and I puzzled over when she and Oscar would have talked about something like this but I too was over the tipsy line and so I filed it away to discuss it with her when everyone had gone.

Nina then became the unofficial star of the evening by asking Doug all the direct questions that none of us ever dared to ask.

Her first was her best. ‘Where is your wife, Doug? You did not wish to bring her?'

‘I don't have a wife, I'm afraid,' replied Doug.

‘No reason to be afraid,' said Nina. ‘What of your girlfriend? Man like you, so clean and smart, successful, with the good looks, must have a girlfriend somewhere, or maybe you are French at heart – you have many mistresses?'

Doug smiled in a way that he obviously hoped would put Nina off this particular line of questioning.*

* But Nina was not polite and English like the rest of us; she didn't read an awkward social moment as something you had immediately to quash with humour or a brisk change in topic.

She was French and she wanted an answer.

So again she said, ‘So, Doug? Your girlfriend?'

By now intrigue had muted the other conversations around the table, and everyone tuned into Doug and Nina.

Doug smiled and said simply, ‘Well, OK, my girlfriend is called Dave and he's a lovely man who I have lived with for many years.'

Nina thought this was hysterical and shouted, ‘A girlfriend called Dave. You English are so the funniest.'

I smiled at Doug, who shrugged and added, ‘We are rather funny, I suppose, and I promise I'll bring my lovely wife Dave to the next dinner. He too speaks a little French, we are both terrible Francophiles.'

‘Well, this is such marvellous news,' Nina said in her high voice, raising a glass to Doug. ‘Gay Francophiles are my absolute favourite type of Englishmen.'

Doug raised his glass back and they both said, ‘Cheers,' in unison and Doug, slightly embarrassed, said, ‘Here's to faggie Francophiles everywhere. Bottoms up!' Which made Nina hoot with delight and shriek, ‘Bon Dougie!'

In the wake of this small revelation other conversations re-established themselves but I stayed with Nina and Doug as they chatted away like age-old friends.

‘And what is it you do?' Nina asked.

‘I'm an actuary,' Doug explained.

‘Oui, but what are you actually?' asked Nina.

‘No, an actuary,' clarified Doug.

‘Sorry, that was my attempt at a joke,' said Nina.

‘No, I'm sorry,' said Doug quickly. ‘That was a failure of my sense of humour.'

‘Lost in translation, I think. Actuary, you're the maths man for the insurance, yes?' Nina said.

‘Exactly,' said Doug.

‘So reply to me this,' Nina said. ‘Why do I pay more money than my fat husband for basic health insurance?'

‘Ah well, a very astute question,' said Doug, as Oscar shot an ugly look at Nina. ‘In insurance terms it's an unfortunate truth that women simply cost more than men.'

‘Well, we are certainly a more precious commodity,' said Sandra.

‘Indeed,' shrieked Nina.

‘I completely agree,' said Doug.

‘Even though you like the boys more than the girls,' said Nina.

‘I may like being with boys but I like talking to girls more,' said Doug.

‘This much I can see,' said Nina, who turned to Sandra and added, ‘Why are gay men so much easier to talk to, Sandra?'

Sandra said, ‘Something to do with the fact they don't want something from you.'

‘Ah oui, le pussy,' said Nina.

‘Le pussy!' squealed Sandra. ‘Love it.'

I felt that childish flush of drunkenness as I laughed along, and looking around the table I spotted a few tipsy twinkles in people's eyes.

‘Time for a cigarette, non?' said Nina, walking over to the window where she tried to determine if my wife's little white bowl – which cost a fortune and was supposed to be art – was an ashtray. My wife was already rushing off to the kitchen and she returned with a grotty lid, to which Nina, crinkling her nose in disgust, said, ‘This will do.'

Watching Nina place her hip on the windowsill and smoke that cigarette, I was for a moment consumed by inappropriate fantasies. It must have been the wine mixed with that slight lull that comes after dinner when the food hits the bellies of the guests and everyone slows down, leans back, sated with wine and small talk.

Nina looked immaculate: framed by the window, jet-black hair falling sensationally, milky neckline, and a thin stream of exhaled smoke rising from her lips before being whipped apart by the wind.

I looked at Nina and my wife: Nina was made up of all the soft, voluptuous parts that my wife had worked so hard to whittle away. Nina was a positive to my wife's negative, an expression of my wife's impression, a bust of my wife's relief. Nina was rich in warmth, wit, and a certain wealth of flesh that held a man's eye. When she leaned in to tip her ash, the buttons of her blouse strained to contain the weight, and her cleavage was a fleshy exclamation mark into which I pitched myself . . .*

* Jesus Christ. I was actually coveting my brother's wife! How horribly clichéd and fucking Freudian. Fuck Freud. And to hell with these dumb fantasies which I'd allowed to creep in. I felt repulsed at the idea of going to a place that Oscar had previously ploughed. Jesus, I was pissed.

Doug took his apple juice and sat in a chair as Nina smoked. I pretended to listen to my wife talking about some HR issue, but really I was still eavesdropping on Nina and Doug.

‘So how do you sell life insurance, Doug?' asked Nina.

‘I simply sell death,' he replied. ‘I look at you smoking and I say, 54 per cent more chance of dying before you're fifty.'

Nina moaned and said, ‘No, Dougie! You're sucking the one pleasure I get.'

Doug said, ‘Your pleasure is going to suck days off your life. Let me tell you a story. A woman. Thirty-six years old. Non-smoker. Good health. Last Tuesday, out with the office on a bonding day, waiting to take her turn on a quad bike. What happens?'

Nina replied, ‘Crushed to death by the bike? I am guessing.'

‘No no. Such things are for movies, Nina. No, the 36-year-old non-smoker has a stroke. Before she had even turned the bike on. Stroke!
Just like that!
Stroke!
' And Doug said
stroke
in a disturbing, almost loving, way.

‘Jesus, Doug. Was she OK?' Nina asked.

‘Oh, she was fine. I have her covered by the best policy money can buy. Million-pound policy. No problems. All taken care of,' said Doug.

‘What a relief,' said Nina. ‘She's out of the hospital y et?'

Doug smiled, ‘Oh no, she's a vegetable for life.'

‘Jesus,' Nina said. ‘You are like doom and gloom. Monsieur Death!'

‘I think the opposite,' said Doug. ‘All the terrible things and sudden deaths, all the statistics remind you that you have still made it through; we, all of us here, at this very dinner, in this room, are still alive and kicking. So enjoy it before you become a statistic too.'

Nina said, ‘You're a philosophical insurance man, Mr Doug.'

Doug said, ‘So are you going to offer me one of those naughty cigarettes,' and this brought the wickedest smile to Nina's face as she offered Doug a cigarette.

‘Are you actually going to smoke a cigarette?' I asked Doug.

‘I'm a statistics man, Frank, and I know the risks and I know that there's one statistic that beats all the others which is –
you only live once, my friend
,' and he winked at me and Nina sparked his cigarette and they both cackled like schoolchildren, puffing away.

‘And she's always telling me not to eat chocolates as she smokes like a chimney. I tell you, everyone just picks their organ and punishes it. Interesting evening,' said Oscar, and looked at me, whispering, ‘Who knew old Doug was a bloody batty boy?'

But he said it slightly too loud and, from the way Doug flinched slightly, it was obvious that he had heard. Oscar had taken all the funny sophistication of the evening and debased it with one sentence. It was a gift of his and I watched as my wife failed to hide her disgust, stood up and started to clear the plates away.

Doug and Nina returned to the table and Doug was talking about me, pointing to me, saying, ‘Frank here is the man, a clever man, who writes many of my policies.'

I blushed, warmed by the feeling of a compliment from Doug, and said, ‘They're hardly rocket science.'

‘Don't put yourself down, Frank,' said Doug. ‘You're one of the best in the business.'

Wine and compliments were too much. My face burned with pride and I made sure not to look at Oscar, who I knew was preparing some put-down.

On cue Oscar said, ‘Frank's our Contract Killer.'

‘How do you mean?' asked Nina.

‘He's so good at writing insurance contracts that make people think they're protected when actually they're not,' said Oscar. ‘So they pay insurance all their life but the thing they die from is usually not covered. Frank makes things like life so expensive. So people die uninsured. Hence – Contract Killer. Frank's contracts kill.'

Oscar loved this and laughed but Doug looked as if he was about to say something to defend me, furious that Oscar had twisted his small compliment into an insult. Before Doug could reply, Nina did it for him, saying, ‘Oh do shut up, Oscar, and use your fat mouth for what it was built for – eating chocolate.'

Oscar looked like a little boy reprimanded and I would have paid all the money in the world for a photograph of that expression.

Nina looked to see if I was OK, and I joked, ‘I warned you, everyone – read your contract,' and shrugged my shoulders. ‘I'm the king of confusion. Put on this earth to be obtuse.'

Bored of putting me down, Oscar turned his attention to Sandra, who I watched cower politely under what I assumed Oscar thought was a charm assault. Unfortunately, with so much alcohol in his blood, the subtext of Oscar's conversation was embarrassingly obvious.

Oscar grinned and said, ‘So I've been asking around after you and people tell me you're the best commissioning editor in the biz,' the booze causing his smile to slip to a leer.

Sandra said, ‘No, not at all, I'm one of many.'

‘Don't be modest,' protested Oscar. ‘Let's be straight:* there aren't many women in this terrible man's world who've done as well as you.'

* Let's be obscure.

‘Actually, publishing is a female-dominated industry,' corrected Sandra.

‘Look,
Sandy
, can I be honest with you?'* asked Oscar. ‘I love your blouse.'*
¹

* Can I lie to you?

*
¹
I love your tits.

Later in the evening we scattered to different corners of the sitting room: Oscar and Nina having a low-burning argument on the sofa about how much chocolate he had really eaten and whether he had hidden some in his pocket; Alice talking about gym training with Sandra; Sandra looking bored to death; Doug and myself outside on the small balcony playing a game we enjoyed from time to time.

Called the Fast and Famous, it involved Doug and I determining the lifespan of celebrities. Doug said, ‘Look at Brad Pitt. Sure, good-looking, no denying it. But I read he's a smoker, plus he's addicted to coffee, loves it, espressos every day. Him and Clooney always drinking coffee in Italy where the coffee is illegally dosed with lethal amounts of caffeine. Plus, lots of kids, so lots of stress. And the wife, Angie. She's uptight, has problems with food, this difficult time with the mastectomy, so Brad has problems. More stress, more tension. He's coming up to his fifties. I give him fifteen years tops. Then dead.'