Surviving Michael (4 page)

‘Charlie, darling,’ Richard says, turning back to me, ‘how are you?’

‘I’m okay, Richard, thanks. You know, getting by.’

‘Good,’ he says, but he says it just as I’m finishing my sentence. As if this was going to be his reply no matter what I said.

‘And your family?’

‘Fine, thanks.’

‘Good, good. And your friends?’

‘Jesus, Richard. Are we going to go through my fucking address book of how everyone is?’

‘It’s very important to have friends, Charlie.’ he says, ignoring me completely. ‘Good friends that is. More important than even family.’

‘What’s going on? Richard.’

‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘I never had you down for much of a family man. Or for having too many close friends for that matter. No disrespect intended.’

‘No, no, dear. None taken. I can see why one might have that impression of me.’

‘Trust only cash. It’s your only true friend. Isn’t that what you told me?’

‘Yes, quite. Which reminds me.’

He reaches into his jacket pocket, but then leaves his hand there as Trish approaches the table with his tea.

‘I brought you an espresso, Charlie,’ she says, all sweetness and charm.

‘How awfully delicious and thoughtful of you dear,’ says Richard.

‘Anything for Charlie’s agent. We’re all big fans of him.’

‘Well, I just hope that he realises how very lucky he is.’

‘I doubt it,’ she says. ‘Only ever interested in one thing. Like most men. Present company excepted, of course.’

‘Oh, don’t mind me. I know exactly what you mean.’

‘Piss off, Trish,’ I tell her.

‘See what I mean?’ she says and makes a face at me, before shuffling off.

‘What an absolutely ravishing and charming girl,’ Richard says, making sure that she hears him as she walks away.

It produces the desired result, and she throws him back a smile over her shoulder.

‘And what an absolutely cock straightening arse she has as well,’ he says to me, and removes his hand from his jacket. He places the envelope in front of me. I lift it as he pours his tea.

‘You know what she said to me last time, just before we fucked?’ I ask him as he sips his tea. ‘“Go on, Charlie. Lash me out of it”.’

Richard spits out his tea, and almost breaks the cup as he places it back down on the saucer. A couple of people look over, including Trish, and I can’t help but smile myself.

‘Apologies,’ he calls to her. ‘It’s still a little hot.’

‘It’s a bit light, isn’t it?’ I ask him, holding open the envelope.

He doesn’t answer as he pours himself another cup of tea, fully composed again. He raises the cup to his lips and slurps noisily.

‘Don’t you think I earn my twenty percent, then?’ he asks.

‘Of course, you do. It’s just…’

‘Just what?’

‘It’s just not what it used to be,’ I tell him.

‘Nothing is as it used to be, Charlie. It’s all ephemeral, I’m afraid.’

‘It’s all what?’

‘It happens to us all, Charlie.’

‘What does?’

‘The changing of seasons. Starting a new chapter, and various other such metaphors. Not just for you. For both us.’

‘Are you saying I’m getting old?’

‘Old?’ he laughs. ’No, dear. I’m getting old. You...’ he pauses, ‘you are merely over-ripening.’

‘Don’t be crazy. I’m fitter than I’ve ever been in my life. I spend two hours a day in the gym. This,’ I tell him, holding up the envelope, ‘this is just because of the recession. Things have taken a downturn for everyone.’

‘Have they?’ he asks, taking out a silver cigarette case and lighter from his pocket.

‘You know you can’t smoke here, don’t you?’ I tell him.

‘Yes, yes of course. Their mere presence gives me comfort.’

Delicately with the tips of his fingers, he turns the lighter over and over on the cigarette case, and I think he’s gone into a slight trance, when, without looking at me, he asks, ‘do you remember when I first approached you, Charlie?’

‘Of course.’

‘You thought that I was just a dirty old man trying to come on to you.’

‘Well, I was half right, anyway.’

‘Yes,’ he laughs, ‘I suppose you were. We spoke for a while. I thought you were the perfect candidate.’

‘Thank you.’

He stops turning the cigarette lighter, and looks at me almost sternly.

‘That wasn’t a compliment, Charlie.’

I look into his English blue eyes. They somehow don’t seem to be as sparkling as I remember.

‘You know something I never told you,’ he continues, looking away from me again. ‘After you gave me your number, I almost threw it away. But avarice and a certain amount of affection got the better of me, and the Lord knows only too well how weak my flesh is.’

‘Are you trying to get more than twenty percent from me?’ I ask him. ‘Is that what this is all about?’

‘Oh Charlie, don’t be so asinine,’ he says and puts the lighter down. ‘Of course not. I wish to make amends.’

He reaches into his inside jacket pocket again, and pulls out another envelope.

‘There,’ he says, sliding the envelope over to me.

It’s a lot thicker than the first one, and I open it slightly. Inside are several thousand Euro, stacked in bundles of fifties.

‘You’re firing me?’ I ask.

‘I’m not in the business of giving redundancies, Charlie, but you can tell yourself whatever you wish. Consider it a parting gift, if you like, but the truth is that it’s your money.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘It’s every penny of commission that I’ve ever earned from you.’

I look into the envelope again and whistle for effect. ‘That sure is a lot of fucking, Richard.’

He laughs. ‘A lot of satisfied customers.’

I place the envelope back on the table.

‘And what if I don’t want it?’

‘Then you’re a bigger fool than me, boy,’ he says in suppressed anger. ‘But we all have to live with the consequences of our decisions. So too will you.’

I look inside the envelope again. He leans into me and puts his hand on my knee. ‘The recession has changed things, you’re right. But not in the way you imagine. I have young bucks contacting me on an almost daily basis. They all want a start. I can’t keep up. There’s a legion of talent out there who’d rather choose this business than emigration, even if they tell themselves that it’ll only be for a few months.’

He pours some hot tea into his cup, but doesn’t drink it.

‘The way I see it, Charlie, you have two choices. You can change your image and upgrade, which means investing in a few nice suits, trim off some of those golden locks of yours, even dye it to a more sophisticated colour. Some elocution lessons, a bit of serious reading. Learning a little more subtlety, or even grace. Begin escorting and entertaining the ladies, rather than just banging them in the hotel lift.’

‘And buy an umbrella?’ I suggest.

He laughs.

‘You could also take the cash. Walk away.’

‘Into the sunset?’ I say.

‘If you like. There’s enough in that envelope to choose any sunset you’d like in the world. Take that waitress out on a proper date?’

I sneer at this.

‘When was the last time you were on an actual date?’ he asks. ‘Today, it might seem somewhat implausible but believe me, soon it will be impossible.’

I look down subconsciously at the envelope.

‘Why me?’ I ask. ‘I can’t see you offering this to all your employees.’

‘I don’t.’

‘So?’

‘I don’t know, to be perfectly honest. Perhaps you’re just one of the nice guys, Charlie, and I’d like to see you keep some of that whatever it is you have, before it’s too late, and you end up like... well, someone you’d rather not be.’

He gets up off the chair slowly, as if he’s aged ten years in the last ten minutes.

‘You okay, Richard?’

He sighs.

‘I’m going away for a few days. Back to England.’

‘A royal summoning?’ I ask.

‘No. To bury my father, I’m afraid.’

‘I’m sorry, Richard. I didn’t know.’

‘How would you know? How would anyone know?’

He picks up his umbrella.

‘I see you’re packed already,’ I say nodding to the umbrella.

He smiles.

‘Goodbye, Charlie,’ he says and holds out his hand.

I pick up the envelope and place it into his outstretched hand.

‘How much reading are we actually talking about?’ I ask.

‘No, Charlie.’

‘Just one thing though,’ I tell him. ‘I’m not touching my hair.’

He closes his fist around the envelope, and then places it back inside his jacket pocket.

‘So you are a fool, then,’ he says.

‘Possibly,’ I say. ‘But then I’m learning from an expert.’

‘YOUR DA WANTS YEH,’ Tony Tiernan calls out to me as he walks by.

The spanner slips off the bolt and out of my hand, although you can barely hear it hit the ground because of the music blaring over the workshop speakers. Hit FM 106. From morning to night that’s all they play. I’ve spoken to my dad about it, but he just says it keeps the lads happy and working, and that’s the most important thing. Of course it is.

I usually wear small headphones during the day and listen to audiobooks on my iPhone. I know that it separates me from the rest of the lads, and I know sometimes they slag me behind my back, and even in front of me, but I can’t hear them because I have my headphones in and the radio’s blaring.

I like to listen to contemporary novelists mostly; Martin Amis, Sebastian Faulks, Colm Toibin, Sebastian Barry. I also have a myriad of books from the self-help genre, but I prefer to read them rather than get them on audio. Brian Tracy, Tony Robbins, Robin Sharma, Wayne Dyer and a hundred more. My favourite book is
The Alchemist
by Paulo Coelho. It’s an allegorical novel about one’s journey through life in search of a personal treasure, and that’s what I believe we’re on, and that when we want something, all the universe will conspire in helping us to achieve it. At the moment, I’m listening to Stephen Fry’s memoir. It’s actually the second time I’ve listened to it. I love the intricacies of his flamboyant career, and he has such a serene and mellifluous voice that I sometimes…

‘For fuck’s sake, Danny. Your da’s fuckin’ waitin’ for yeh,’ Tony bellows at me again, and then returns to singing every third word from some banal song playing over the speakers. He sounds like a lobotomised gorilla that they’ve shaved and taught the rudimentaries of the English language. His big bald head and a six inch scar across the top confirms this. Girl... be... night... foreverrrrr…

All the lads have great respect for my dad. It’s not just because he owns the place, he’s kind of one of those man’s man. If Shay says jump to any of them, they jump. One would think the fact that I’m his offspring would have some sort of positive bearing on their overall attitude towards me. It doesn’t. I believe it has quite the contrary effect. It’s as if they’re jealous that I’m his son and they’re not. I wish I didn’t feel that he sometimes endorses their sentiments.

When he was a mechanic for the Formula One driver Nigel Mansell in the eighties, he was like a celebrity on our road. Flying off every few weeks. That was pre-Celtic Tiger, of course. A weekend away in Blackpool would have been considered alluring. I was only six or seven then, but I do remember him coming home from Rio de Janeiro, or Monaco, or even Australia, and he’d arrive laden down with gifts from wherever he’d been, and everyone would come round, all the neighbours and aunts and uncles, and I’d think he was just the biggest man in the whole wide world. He’d only actually stay in the house with us for an evening or two, usually to get over his jet lag, then he’d be down in the local, buying everyone drinks, and regaling them with stories of life in the fast lane. Then he’d be gone again. It’s no wonder I’m an only child.

Everyone used to tell me what a great man he was, and that I must be so proud. Up until I was about ten years old I only had their word for it, as he was never around that much to prove it to me. They told me about the great sacrifices he was making for me and my mother by having to be away for so long, but when he eventually did come home to stay, he still wouldn’t be around much.

‘Nigel said he wouldn’t go to Ferrari without his best mechanic,’ is one of his favourite quotes. Everyone always nods respectfully at that one. But the thing is, and everyone fails to bring it up, Mansell did go to Ferrari, and my dad came back to Dublin. He set up this garage, Plunket Motors, and then rode the wave of the Celtic Tiger until he now has a football team of mechanics working for him. Since the recession hit, though, about half of them have very little to do all day. I said it to him at home a hundred times. He needs to start getting rid of the extra weight or we’re all going to go down. ‘I’ve never laid off one member of staff in all my years,’ is another one of his favourites, which is all very well, except that I know he’s pumping all his savings into this place just to stay afloat. That’s his retirement money, and my mother’s.

Christ, how many times I’ve dreamt of leaving this place. It was only with my mother’s urging that I even started here in the first place. And it’s still because of her insistence that I’m here today.

‘Keep an eye on him,’ she always says to me. ‘Don’t let him get too far ahead of himself.’

‘I won’t, Mam,’ I promise her. ‘I’ll make sure he does okay.’

Only problem is that keeping an eye on him not getting too ahead of himself has held me back so much.

‘Come on in and sit down, son,’ he starts. ‘We need to talk.’

Son? Talk? Christ. It’s worse than I thought.

An exorbitant painting of a prodigiously mustachioed Nigel Mansell looms above and behind him like some sort of gay Orwellian deity. His whole office is a gallery of photographs of himself with various eminent dignitaries in the world of Formula One. At least eminent two decades ago; shaking hands with a very young Bernie Ecclestone; his arm around a very sober looking Ayrton Senna; drinking a coke with a very French looking Alain Prost. And his most revered, non-Mansell photo, of himself standing beside Enzo Ferrari.

Perhaps I’m not being fair, as there are also a few photos of yours truly. After his retirement from Formula One, he bought me (or us) a go-cart for my eleventh birthday. I’d asked for a computer, but never mind. He proceeded to drive me from one rain soaked weekend event to the next. I tried my hardest, honestly I did, to appease his insatiable appetite for me to be the winner at the end of every race. This conflicted somewhat with my own appetite to simply being alive at the end of every race.