Gravity's Chain (4 page)

Typical Bebe: he was so good at playing the guilt card and he was even better at knowing my appetites. He knew that, despite my indifference to the world, there was still the burning desire to win the Nobel. I might not care for my colleagues but I did care about the one accolade that meant real and not false recognition. Bebe was right, what I'd said was not good news for the committee. Now I regretted my childish outburst. ‘And I don't suppose the company guys will be too pleased either.'

Bebe smiled that smile of his. He had no children: if he did, this smile would have been for them, but he saved this gift for me.
‘I'll handle them. I'll tell them you're tired after the UK shows, you know, stressed. You'll get a telling off, they'll increase the security, then it will be forgotten.' He saw the continued worry. ‘It's all right, they won't stop the parties.'

‘Is there anything I should do?'

‘No, leave it to me. I'll write an apology and talk to some of the committee. You still have a lot of friends there, a lot of friends.'

There were a hundred and fifty guests already gathered in the Orchid Room, which pulsed with music and talk. Before the inevitable crush engulfed me, Bebe placed a full glass of tequila and ice into my hand. ‘Here's your lemonade, Jack,' he shouted in a more exaggerated manner than was necessary, but it gained the ear of the nearest five people. Instantly those standing close were sucked closer by my mere presence and those on the outer stepped forward to fill the void. I was a social magnet. Many of the people I recognised: they were always at these parties. They represented either Taikon or the myriad of other smaller companies who are allowed a piece of my pie in return for some corporate favours to Taikon. I'm continuously told how I rely on these people, but I know and they know that they actually rely on me.

I have learnt the art of navigating these parties. It is a kind of charisma autopilot. Push the button and I'm set on a weaving course through the throng, spinning the same old lines, placing the same old pat on the back; an ear to a conversation, a smile and a laugh at the appropriate moment. One eye, though, is on the women. It appraises arses, thighs and the delicious curve of a stocking-covered calf. I know so many of these women are available to me. The mere sight of my entrance places them on heightened alert, ready to meet me. Well, meet may be a distortion
of the truth. I never just meet women at parties any more. Any flirtatious movement of an eye or brush of the shoulder is intended to gain an introduction or a favour. Some are here simply to sample sex with the famous, some to advance themselves, some to surreptitiously gain advantage for another—and then there are the girls Bebe has paid to be here, to broaden horizons and ensure choice. Whatever the motive, nothing is left to chance; there's nothing involuntary or spontaneous at these parties. I miss the innocent times, the genuine and uncertain meetings, the anxiety of wondering if this might be the lucky night. I've given up on women with consequences. More often than not I gravitate to Bebe's dubious girls—definitely no consequences there.

I saw two women who went straight on the A-list. Both were dark-haired, early thirties, wearing dresses that hugged slender hips and revealed silky black calves—shining paths to hidden treasure. One was a genuine guest, accompanying George Mason, but she has caught my eye twice; the other had been invited by Bebe.

‘George, how are you?' We shook hands vigorously, but I ensured that my attention was saved for his companion. She was quite gorgeous up close. No heavy make-up needed to cover facial blemishes. Her skin was perfect.

‘Good, Jack, good. Great show tonight, fucking dynamic.'

‘Thank you, George.' George Mason was one of the important men at the party. Vice-president of Taikon's European division, he's the man who signs the cheques and, more importantly, signs my cheques. Shagging his woman would be an insane decision. ‘It means so much to me to hear you say you enjoyed the show, George. You know how much I value your comments.' I moved
closer to his companion until my thigh touched hers.

‘Likewise, Jack, likewise. We value you very, very highly and you're doing a wonderful job.' I wondered what he might think of me when he heard about the impromptu press conference just half an hour before. Or just what was in my mind for his woman. George's temper was legendary. Bebe said he was a thrower and that whenever George was angry anything on his desk was at risk. ‘Let's hope this little spat with Driesler can be sorted out before things get into a slanging match. We don't want him fucking up everything we've worked so hard for.'

Whoops. I smiled bravely—poor George was behind the news. ‘No, we don't. He's just a little prick anyway.'

‘Quite. Still, he needs to be put to rest.' He smiled at me. ‘We wouldn't want to diminish our investment, would we?'

‘No, George.'

‘Too much money spent on you to find out you might be wrong.' Despite his nervous laugh the seriousness of the comment wasn't lost. Clearly there had been discussion on the subject at the highest levels in Taikon. I could just imagine the frenzied email and memorandum traffic between Taikon's various global offices as every scenario was considered and played out to possible end games. Nothing would be left to chance. It occurred to me that George already knew my fate if my theory was proved wrong. In fact he was probably responsible for implementing any plans.

‘I'm right, George, Superforce is the real deal, you can trust me.'

‘Oh I do, Jack.' He spoke with some menace to remind me of his authority.

‘Now, George, enough of work. Are you going to introduce me to your friend?'

Obviously, from the degree of his wince, he could think of nothing worse. He hopped from one foot to the other. After all, George knew better than anyone what went on backstage. ‘Of course, how rude of me.' His voice was edged with fear. ‘Jack, let me introduce Lucy.'

‘Lucy, delighted.' I kissed her hand, an old-fashioned gesture I know, but one I felt she might appreciate. Poor George positively bristled. The perfume on her wrist was fresh and expensive. Her fingers lingered on mine as she slowly withdrew them. ‘Tell me, Lucy, who's your favourite, John Lennon or Paul McCartney?'

‘Sorry?'

‘If you had the choice of either Lennon or McCartney, which one would you like to spend the evening with?'

She giggled. ‘Oh, I see. I think it would be McCartney.'

Pretending to catch the nod of someone across the room, I made my excuses, to the amazement of an open-mouthed Lucy and the relief of a sweating George, and left. Bebe replaced my empty glass with another filled with tequila and ice before I approached the second woman on my list. I swallowed half the drink in one long gulp. My head was entering a familiar grey zone and I was feeling mellow. She was standing alone. ‘Hi, my name is Jack Mitchell.'

‘Angel.' She dragged on a cigarette and blew smoke to the side as she discarded her name like a piece of rubbish. In contrast to Lucy, Angel's make-up was heavy, hiding a row of spots on her chin.

‘Pleased to meet you, Angel.' Her face was pleasant enough with its frame of black hair, whereas her body positively simpered in her dress. ‘Tell me, who would you rather spend the night with, Lennon or McCartney?'

‘Lennon,' she said without hesitation.

‘I thought so.' I leant forward and whispered in her ear, to which she nodded and walked to Bebe, who stood at the side of the party watching. Together they left. I'd marked her with the smallest nod at Bebe, like a cat marking a favourite garden post.

The party died an hour later. Near the end, Lucy left with George, glancing at me over her shoulder, pleading for an understanding. She knew Paul McCartney was the wrong answer and wanted—no, needed—to know why. Unfortunately I was in no mood to ease her despair. Once they left, only two groups of guests seated on opposite sides of the room remained, slouched in chairs, drinking wine straight from the bottle as they laughed at their silly slurred jokes. Bebe was in the doorway, hovering. He sought me out and casually told me he'd spoken to some people about Driesler and it was still looking good for me with the Nobel committee. I never asked Bebe how he knew these mysterious people: I just accepted that after all his years at Taikon it was natural. I thanked him with a stroke on the shoulder, which was warmly accepted with a grateful smile, and downed another tequila.

Angel was waiting in my hotel room. She sat in the middle of a huge burgundy sofa, holding a cigarette aloft in one hand, a drink in the other and her legs crossed, jigging her airborne foot to a secret tune. The sofa cushions were soft and she'd sunk deep, pulling her already short skirt higher to reveal a stocking top. She acknowledged me with a professionally indifferent nod and took a long pull on her cigarette. Without speaking I pulled a small bag of coke from a case in the wardrobe. We did two lines each off the glass-topped coffee table. I didn't need to ask her agreement; Bebe would have ensured her willingness before issuing an invitation to the party. After so much drink, the coke was a bomb.

We had sex three times. I don't make love now; I have sex. I do it because it's there, just something else to fill the emptiness. I once saw a nature programme about some monkeys that engaged in constant and meaningless shagging. The males were at it constantly, copulating with total indifference that verged on boredom. And the males groomed their mates at the same time. Hips pumping, they would remove a flea and munch away. That's how I am now: I just go through the motions. There was no excitement with Angel; in fact there never seems to be excitement with any woman these days. The joy is in the anticipation, the knowledge that I can have sex with no consequences and no effort.

I'd forgotten Angel's name by the following morning. Such a situation should call for some cunning and guile, but I was past such a pantomime. ‘What's your name?' I asked, without opening an eye to protect me from the pain nesting in my head after the drink and drugs.

She moved a bony knee into my back. ‘Angel.' Her voice cracked from thousands of cigarettes and a dry mouth.

‘Real or professional?'

‘Didn't worry you last night.' She shifted sharply to find some yearned for comfort and grunted when it eluded her. ‘Shit, my head is thumping, that coke was some shit.' The bed wobbled as she levered herself to her feet. It took several attempts to find her balance and she groaned when she took her first steps. ‘God, I need a piss.'

‘Classy.'

‘That didn't worry you last night either.'

‘You got your rewards.'

‘Sure,' she said with heavy sarcasm.

She walked around the corner of the bed and into view as I finally prised open my eyes. ‘Smart prick,' she muttered in my general direction. I watched her pad her way to the bathroom, her feet lazily scuffing the thick pile of the carpet. She was slim and tall, but with enough flesh on her thighs and hips to nicely round her body. The skin of her buttocks was translucent, as though the tougher brown skin of her back was rubbed away by the demands of her job. Briefly she half turned as she struggled to find a light switch on the inside bathroom wall. I closed my eyes; not wanting to see what I suspected would be a face considerably less attractive than it had been in the soft lying light of the evening.

Several minutes later, accompanied by a toilet flush, she returned. Her breasts were heavy and swung in time to her walk. She slipped into bed and put her hands between my legs. I'm not much of a morning man, but I answered her invitation and entered a well-known and well-worn place.

Afterwards Angel propped herself up with a pillow, pulled the sheet up to her chin, which was a strange shyness given all we'd done, and lit her first cigarette of the day. What dedication to her profession: a fuck before a fag. Impressive. She took an enormous drag and blew out smoke like a geyser. Inevitably she coughed and then sighed with the relief of the nicotine. ‘So how come you haven't married again?' She spoke as she exhaled her second drag. This time smoke chugged out in little puffs on her words.

This was a conversation I wanted to avoid. ‘Just haven't.'

‘Afraid of the commitment? Is that why you spend your time with girls like me?'

‘Something like that.'

‘Why did your wife kill herself?'

‘Sorry?'

‘I read about her in a
Times
article.' She saw my look and rolled her eyes. ‘What's with the surprise, the fact I read the
Times
or that I can read at all?'

‘Point taken.'

‘It said she hung herself. Why did she do that?'

‘I don't know. Let's forget this now, shall we?'

‘People don't just hang themselves. There had to be a reason for her to do such an extreme thing.'

‘I don't want to talk about this, Angel.'

‘Did she leave a note?'

‘Life isn't like the movies. No, she didn't leave a note.'

‘And there wasn't a hint of what had gone wrong in her life?'

‘Look, she left no note, she said nothing, she had no fucking reason to kill herself, but she did—she hung herself and she left me alone. Satisfied? Now let's move on.'

Angel took one long last drag of her cigarette and stubbed it meticulously in the glass ashtray, making sure nothing was left burning, and then she lay back and stared at the ceiling. ‘You blame her, don't you?'

‘What? What the fuck are you talking about?'

‘You've no idea what went wrong for her, you don't understand, so instead of facing up to the hard questions, you just blame her for leaving
you
alone. How self-centred is that?'

‘You know nothing about my wife, or about me. Don't presume to understand.'

She got out of bed and gathered her scattered clothes, remaining silent until she reached the bathroom door. ‘I understand all right, Jack. I understand completely. And, what's worse, I'm right but you can't even admit it.'