We All Fall Down (38 page)

‘Great.' A lifetime of good manners compelled him, against all his inclinations, to ask, ‘And how are you doing, Russell? See you got rid of the Jaguar.' He tried, tried really hard, not to admire the Aston Martin's gleaming paintwork and the walnut facia, did his utmost to forget the heritage of the car and the numerous Le Mans victories, pretended he couldn't hear the rumble of the six cylinder engine capable of delivering around 240 brake horsepower and a top speed of over 230 kilometres an hour. He even attempted to control the twitching of his nostrils so that Russell wouldn't realise he was inhaling the smell of soft, high quality leather, probably hand-stitched from the carcasses of a dozen baby heifers raised on some unique milk formula. It wasn't just a car from a bygone age, for Hugh it was also from a different existence.

‘That crock of shit!'

Hugh was looking at the Aston despite himself.

‘She's a beauty, isn't she? Real chick magnet, I can tell you.' Hugh grunted, non-committal. ‘How you doing, mate?' – the subtle emphasis on the ‘you' conveying in a simple, one syllable word the fact that Russell was doing very, very well, thank you. Why doesn't he just ask outright, Hugh thought,
Have you managed to get yourself a car like this yet, or are you now, as I suspect, relegated to riding a pushbike?

How was it that Russell could end up in such a car? It was an automobile rather than a car, a paean to English nobility and racing history. It reeked of class. And therein lay the problem: Hugh's ex-managing director had no class whatsoever. He should have been in a Bauer: the car that had been marketed so cleverly to appeal to both gentlemen drivers, those who appreciate the history of fine automobiles, and the nouveau riche, the slick entrepreneurs of the money markets, the real estate developers, the conmen, salesmen and Russell Grants of this world.

‘Great, just great.' He was suddenly conscious of his clothes – what they described in the trade as ‘leisurewear.' His T-shirt in particular was an old favourite, featuring, along with the fading
Kill the Boredom
message on the front, several rips and holes. It did not look impressive next to the sartorial, branded elegance of Russell Grant, fortunately almost eclipsed by the gaudy gloom of his car's interior. He was able to see himself, as well as the passers-by, reflected in the gleaming paintwork; everything was mirrored there, including his own miserable, impoverished existence. He could feel each hair of the stubble on his jaw, was aware of each stress furrow on his brow. If he'd been able to do it without being observed, he would have shifted the two plastic bags to behind his back. If he'd been able to, he would have shifted himself to somewhere on the other side of the globe. Overall, he felt that his words, ‘Great, just great' did not quite ring true.

The traffic edged forward.
Thank God
, he thought,
this painful conversation is about to end
. A car behind Russell sounded its horn. His ex-boss looked in his rear view mirror and mouthed, ‘Fuck off!'

‘Mate, hop in. Got time for a quick jar?' He reached across to open the door.

‘Russell, I'd love to …' Putting a restraining hand on the car door, no longer used to thinking fast on his feet, his brain scrambling for the slick riposte, the ad man's witty summation, the
mot juste
. How could he wriggle out of this one? ‘Love to, Russell, but I have an appointment right now. I'm actually running late.' Then added as a desperate, last minute stab at veracity, ‘Need to get home and change.' He wished he'd been walking faster, more urgently when Russell had hailed him a minute or two earlier, not dragging his feet like he had nowhere to go.

He couldn't possibly go for a drink with his ex-boss. It wasn't even a consideration. Having to place his plastic bags down by his seat in some ritzy bar – and knowing Russell, it would be ritzy – that would be unbearable. And then having to pretend for at least an hour that his own career bore many striking similarities to that of John Singleton or some other advertising high-flyer would be too great a challenge.

‘Shame, mate.' Russell not only looked sceptical, but appeared disappointed at missing the opportunity to boast to a lesser mortal about his countless successes and conquests. ‘Another time then.' He flicked a business card into Hugh's hand as he pulled the door shut. ‘Give us a call. Might be able to put something your way. Have to go, this bastard's giving me the hump,' and he gave the finger to the driver in the car behind, who responded with another envious blast of his horn. ‘See you, mate,' he shouted as his face was wiped by the upwardly gliding window, and the Aston Martin glided forward with a heart-stopping rumble.

Hugh sighed and continued on his way.
Seems to be doing all right for himself
, he thought. He'd heard – from where he could no longer remember – about a year after leaving The Alpha Agency – that it had been taken over by one of the international advertising agency networks. Russell, and one or two of the other Board members, were required to continue working for two or three years, to ‘bed down' Alpha's clients in the new enterprise. That was the kind of language they used: bed down. Hugh had never been quite sure if this meant tucking them in for a comfortable night's sleep or laying them across the desk and fucking them senseless. The massive pay-out Russell would finally receive was performance related. In truth, he didn't have to perform; he simply had to ensure that none of his clients walked out of the door during those two or three years. Hugh suspected the man was now retired, and probably not yet fifty. He determined not to consider whether such a reward was deserved, and made a conscious effort to stifle his rising feelings of envy.

He knew Murray had retired, he knew that for certain. He and his wife had sold their house in Cremorne and moved to the Blue Mountains. Murray now spent his days gardening. That had always been his main love, his passion, which always struck Hugh as being at odds with how he perceived his ex-colleague. Murray, to him, had always been a city person, an eating – and once upon a time, a drinking –
bon vivant
character, all expense accounts and the various trappings of success. He tried, now, not to be jealous of both Russell's and Murray's good fortune, although it was next to impossible for him not to compare his own impoverished position with theirs.

He looked at the business card that had been thrust into his hand. It read, ‘Russell Grant. Brand Strategist.' So he was still working, but no longer at Alpha. The title sounded particularly nebulous, which meant Russell was probably still earning a fortune producing nothing, all smoke and mirrors, fancy footwork and fast thinking. But then that's exactly what he was, and had always been – an entrepreneur. He'd never had the qualifications to be a conventional businessman, a corporate manager, so he'd become an entrepreneur instead, a fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants man. And no doubt Russell would be proud to be described as an entrepreneur, the kind of person who delivers the goods and services people demand at a price they can afford. That was his usual method of working, the source of his current wealth, so why change it, especially when it was obvious no one had yet tumbled the modesty of his business skills.

From there it was a short distance to thinking about Fiona's offer to set up an agency with him, their own agency. He thought how different it would have been to The Alpha Agency, how professionally it would have been run. He could have put into practice his ideas about management: being proactive rather than reactive, working in partnership with their clients, and doing everything to promote their interests. Such musings were self-defeating, of course. The fact was, he hadn't taken her up on her offer, and thinking about it now was just too painful. He'd thrown it away, turned down the chance of a lifetime. He knew he'd made a dreadful mistake: not only would Fiona have been alive now if they'd set up an agency together, but he probably wouldn't be in this financial mess either. He also realised that he wasn't entirely to blame, that it wasn't completely his fault. If it hadn't been for Kate and Tim, his enormous mortgage burden, and all his family responsibilities, he could have taken Fiona up on her offer without a second thought. But at the time he'd felt trapped, and had made the mistake of trying to do the right thing by everyone.

* * *

He wasn't comfortable when she suggested where they should meet for lunch. ‘I haven't been there, but it sounds like my kind of place.' He was compelled to say, ‘Penny, I'm not so keen on going to that restaurant.'

She misunderstood him. ‘You've eaten there?'

‘It's not that …' Hesitating, before admitting, ‘It's out of my price range right now, until I find work.'

She shouted at him down the phone, ‘That's so typical of you. I'm paying, Hugh. I'm not even going to discuss this. It's on the company. Be there at one o'clock on Friday. If you're not, I'll never speak to you again. Do I make myself clear?' And she laughed while he muttered his acceptance.

There was a difference between them now, an inequality. He was aware of it, and wondered if she was too. The variance was because he had so little money. So much in life is based on how deep your pockets are: the way you're treated by others, your place in society, the quality of life you enjoy. Money might tie you down, but it also liberates.

‘So, how's the bachelor life? Having fun?'

They'd met a few times since his divorce, yet she always asked if he was coping, being by himself. He nodded, adjusting his cutlery at the same time. ‘I'm hardly in a position to live it up at the moment.'

‘You need a job.'

‘Tell me about it.'

They ordered their food, and Penny chose the wine. ‘Are you all right? You look as if you've lost weight. This makes me exceedingly jealous.'

He shrugged. ‘Yes, I'm fine.' He was aware of the temptation to fish for her sympathy. By labouring the fact he was now alone might be the way to get her into his bed. Yet he also knew the opportunity for a relationship had passed. She ignored his half-hearted overtures whenever they met up, and he was now resigned to being locked into the role of ‘just good friends'. Forever.

‘Are you getting much work?'

‘None. I'm out of the loop now – completely.' He shifted in his chair. ‘My problem is, I've never done the networking thing.' It was a lame excuse.

‘You were like that in London, I remember. But you had work then.'

‘It doesn't seem right that you should have to drink with colleagues in pubs every night, present papers, write articles and attend official functions in order to get work.'

‘It's the way of the world, unfortunately.'

‘It shouldn't be.'

She laughed. ‘But it is.'

‘I don't want to talk about work, Penny.'

‘We don't have much to talk about then. We can't talk about your divorce, we can't talk about your work, so we'll just have to talk about me. Goody!'

While she was telling him how her company was increasing its share of the bottled water market, she called their waiter over and ordered some Highland Stream water. He said they only had French and Italian waters, or Mount Franklin. Hugh watched her turn on all her charms, and he ended up promising to order in some Highland Stream. Hugh found it quite engaging that she became so animated talking about her product.

‘You'll never guess: we got an approach from Cadbury Schweppes. They're interested in buying us.'

‘Are you selling?'

‘Not yet. It's too early. They're only making an offer because they think we could become a threat. When we really are a threat, that's when they'll make us a serious offer. Then I'll be able to retire to my Pacific island paradise.'

‘Stifle the competition, create a monopoly, and screw the consumer. Nothing changes very much, does it?'

‘My, we do sound cynical today, Mr. Drysdale.'

He asked what she'd been up to.

‘I've seen a bit of Australia. Been to the various State capitals. Still not done the outback. I want to go to one of those Bachelor and Spinster Balls. There's one coming up in country New South Wales soon, so I'm going to see if I can pick myself a broad shouldered, slim hipped cowboy, the kind of guy who stares off into the distance with penetrating blue eyes and is hung like a horse.'

It wasn't until after the main course that she raised the subject, quite without warning or any kind of build up. ‘Hugh, serious question: how'd you like to come and work with us? You have the kind of expertise we need right now.'

Hugh frowned, giving a short, sharp shake of his head, almost a double take. ‘No more than you yourself, surely? Why would you need me?'

‘I'm moving more and more upstairs. To the bedroom – ha ha. Not being serious. But I do need help. I'm serious about that.'

He felt, despite the fact she was being sensitive in her approach, that she pitied him. It wasn't a good feeling. She must have seen him hesitate.

‘Hugh, this is a growth industry. It's the future, believe me. Last year, in the US alone, do you have any idea how much Americans spent on bottle water? Eleven billion dollars. They also spent over one hundred and fifty million advertising the stuff – not that that concerns us. We have a problem keeping up with demand as it is. Our task at the moment is to increase the speed we take Highland Stream water out of the ground, and to maximise our bottling capacity.'

He was reminded of when he was a child and his father used to get excited telling him about the future of computers. There was the same enthusiasm now, from Penny, the same belief and commitment. He knew that he'd lost that. There was very little that excited him now in the business world.

He was fiddling with his dessert spoon and fork, thinking furiously. He didn't want to hurt her feelings, and was unsure of the best way to answer her question.