IN THE FIFTH SEASON
Copyright 2010 Jonathan M Barrett
License Notes
****
THURSDAY
1
From the fringes of the cocktail party, Rob Hamilton watched Owen Huntly track down an intern. Rob knew from the Discovery Channel not to interfere with Nature, but, when he saw how the giggly twenty year old in her first cocktail dress had been cornered by the wolf in Armani, thirty years her senior, thirty centimetres taller, and thirty sinewy kilos heavier, he stepped in.
"Owen Huntly! Don't tell me the Parole Board let you out early." Rob's pulse raced as he slapped the big man on the back, and grasped and shook his hand. "Only joking, mate. Seriously, well done, Salesman of the Year – yet again. Oh, Sarah, Bruce Buller from Claims needs to talk to you urgently." The intern slipped away. Huntly's eyes squinted and Rob closed his own as the big man drew back the wrecking ball of a fist that could knock you half way across the hotel ballroom. Rob opened one eye. Huntly laughed and feigned a punch to Rob's jaw. Gold flashed in vulpine teeth.
Rob ducked into the crowd. The gnawing premonitions of backslapping strangers and soggy crudités, forced bonhomie and dyspepsia that had distracted him all afternoon have been realised, but he didn't care. Perhaps the many skulled flutes of champagne had helped. He joined and extricated himself from conversations that coiled back on themselves like Möbius strips. He laughed at jokes without catching their punch lines, and suffered the bigotry already in their cups. He smiled and nodded, exchanged an occasional handshake with a manager up from the provinces. Rob reckoned if he kept moving with apparent purpose he could avoid further engagement. But, when he heard the MC say, "Ladies and gentlemen… can I have your attention… ladies and gentlemen… please… I give you the new Chief Executive Officer of the Dependable Insurance Company… Andy Wu," he froze like the slow child, petrified in the silence of musical chairs.
"Hey, wait a second." Rob downed a glass of champagne and clinked it back onto the silver tray. The waiter, too young to be quite so camp, tutted and looked heavenwards as he took another.
The lights dimmed, and a snatch of We are the Champions boomed through the room. There was a general murmuring and shuffling forward as Andy Wu strode across the stage to the podium. His smiling image towered above the audience on a triptych of screens. Rob had met Andy almost daily in the two months since he took over as CEO, and yet he too was mesmerised as the handsome and youthful leader held his hands wide, today more tele-evangelist than his usual methodical actuary. "Team members of the Dependable, I want you to join me on a journey." But Andy's hyped-up opening soon lapsed into the monotone Rob had expected, and a twenty-five minute commentary on information-rich PowerPoint slides followed.
Rob was bored before the third slide and retreated to the bar. In the glare of the stage lights his photochromatic lenses had become shades, so he pocketed his glasses. Now blurry, the screens had a pleasantly psychedelic feel. Rob could make out a woman next to him, someone new enough to the Dependable not to know that drinks are never served during the CEO's presentation. He leant towards her, reckless in the near darkness. "Twenty points if he says 'going forward' again."
"And going forward–" Andy said within seconds.
Rob sensed her glance. Perhaps there was the hint of a smile in the gloom. "That was nothing," he said. "Our Stepford CEO is making it too easy." He breathed in her perfume and added, "All right, forty points for 'customer focus'." Rob realised he was swaying a little. He swigged champagne to steady himself as he tried to make out her face.
Andy said, "And, going forward our focus will sit squarely on the customer–"
"Come on, that's close enough."
The woman shushed him. He probably read too much into it, but it was a very gentle shushing, amused but proper, altogether a sympathetic kind of shushing.
Andy wrapped up, several times. After an awkward pause, a stomping ovation erupted. Once the clapping had petered out, and the lights came up, Rob turned to the woman, "Can I get you a drink?" He slipped on his glasses, and was taken aback. She was mannequin svelte. Her glossy black hair was cut in an audacious bob that revealed the nape of her neck and ironic ticks of eyebrows. She was immaculately and, no doubt, expensively dressed, but it was her sparkling eyes that belittled Rob most. Her smile was disabling as she took his nametag between her thumb and finger. "That's OK… Rob Hamilton." And she left him.
The sales prizes were next. People aahed in concert as pictures of tropical beaches flashed onto the screens. Ululating maidens in grass skirts and coconut bras thumped across the stage, and gyrated to the rhythm of tribal drums. Andy Wu stood paralysed amid the show, and Rob felt a pang of embarrassment for him, momentarily. The sales conference would be held in Tahiti – hence the African drums – Rob wished he could confide to someone.
Andy had handed out the sales prizes in an orgy of whoops and hugs, and Rob resumed his weaving through the melee, hoping for a proper chance to talk with that woman. He spotted her with Sir Gerald Leet, the Dependable's chairman, and his brutish deputy. Perhaps, she was the trophy wife of a big shareholder. It didn’t matter; he'd never have the nerve to approach her again. Yet, she did look like someone who might understand the fifth season. Rob imagined himself, confident as he'd been in the dark at the bar, starting to explain it to her. He'd tried so many times with others: "When I was a young boy, Dad told me you could have five seasons in one day – yes, five, not four – and me and my brother, Chris – he's a big hotshot merchant banker in Aussie these days – we used to play spotting the fifth season: raining when it's sunny, blossom in winter, that sort of thing. Of course, it's much more than that." Strange as it might sound, her being a misplaced goddess and he a crapulent toad, but maybe she was the one who could really understand it all.
It was a mistake to pause in reverie. Bruce Buller, the Claims Manager, snagged him. "Hey. Sarah the Finance intern just reminded me. I've got a claim declinature for you to sign off."
"Really?" Rob looked over Buller's shoulder, and scanned the room. "Can't we discuss it tomorrow?"
"Two million dollars – that's how much we're in for." This must count as cocktail party small talk for Buller.
"Is that so?" Rob spotted the woman standing alone, back at the bar. She had a gilded air about her as though she'd sashayed here from a Scott Fitzgerald short story.
"You won't have any problems signing it off from a legal viewpoint, will you?" Buller said. "In fact," he glanced at Rob, and then back to his glass, "I was wondering whether you need to see it at all."
Rob twigged what Buller's up to. "Well, I can't say that until I've seen the case. As legal advisor, I have to look at the legalities, don't I?" He gave Buller his disciplinary look. "Remember what the Ombudsman said in the Russell complaint?"
Buller's expression turned gloomy. "Suicide. The policy is only six months old." He gulped from his tumbler of scotch, and Rob wondered whether Buller's regret lay with the suicide or the demise of such a young policy. Buller shook his head and said, "Declinature, clear as day."
"Yeah, yeah, mate, but you know I need to see the file."
"Clear as day."
"As you say." Rob glanced over Buller's shoulder and saw Owen Huntly lifting the woman's hand to his lips. Oh brilliant, now his life had been ruined again, he might as well spend the rest of the evening listening to Buller prattle. "So, tell me, who's the deceased?"
"The name of the deceased was Artemis Washburn. It's a suicide." Buller checked his watch, emptied his glass, and walked away.
She, not it, you heartless bastard. Rob surveyed the knots of people: they were starting to get rowdy. He'd had a few drinks but felt sober as a presbyter next to these amateurs. At the bar, Owen Huntly was working his s
eductive magic. Rob slipped out.
2
No invitation to the Dependable cocktail party had appeared on Toni Haast’s desk this year. This had been a mixed blessing. On the one hand, she wouldn't have to put up with Johnny, her partner, discussing their private life with anyone prepared to listen, but, on the other hand, she wouldn't be getting an award. Toni had won 'Employee of the Year (non supervisory category)' for two years running, and chose gym membership as her prize. But this year the competition was overlooked in the company restructure, and, no matter how she cut and pasted the figures around her budget spreadsheet, she couldn't afford to pay the gym fees herself. But Toni was well practised in sweetening disappointment, and she told herself early morning walking was just as much fun as gym.
She had, of course, pictured what she might wear to the cocktail party, but she didn’t have a fairy godmother, and it would all be over by now. Her twins, Byron and Kyron, were tucked up in bed, and Johnny was asleep in front of the television. She wrestled the remote from his hand and zapped the screen, gathered up toys and their parts, and dropped them into the toy box. The house needed a vacuum, but Toni sat at the kitchen table and took a file from her shoulder bag – 0002847-1: death claim. It was against company policy to take files from the office, but she couldn’t get her work done otherwise. She scanned the claim summary: sum assured – two million dollars. God, a payout that big would be like winning Lotto. She allowed herself a minute to sit back to work out how she'd spend two million dollars.
Mr Buller, Toni’s boss, had scribbled comments on the file. He’d drawn a deep red ring around the intermediary's name, and he'd written: 'Very fishy – decline – suicide, clear as day'. How many times had she suggested to him that it wasn’t best practice to make those sorts of observations in writing? But he didn't seem to care.
Toni went through the documents and made careful notes:
Artemis Inglewood Washburn – born 1 May 1960, Santa Cruz, California.
Occupation – dream maker. Toni underlined this. What was 'dream maker' supposed to mean? How did that get through Underwriting?
Purpose of insurance – security for venture. What venture?
Significant medical procedures in last 10 years – tumour removed (non-malignant) 27 September 2010. Was it definitely was non malignant?
Died Exmouth – 9 August 2012.
Policy taken out – 12 April 2012.
Cause of death (provisional) – multiple injuries; coroner's report outstanding.
Policy owner – Artmor Investments Ltd.
Intermediary – Owen R Huntly.
How could Mr Buller have made those same facts into suicide? Toni sat back in the chair and rubbed her eyes. Did he have more experience, or was it just better understanding? She decided that neither explanation was right: her boss was plain wrong, and that was unfair to Artemis Inglewood Washburn, whoever she might have been, and it was unfair to her too.
3
Even in the dark of the car, Samantha Wu knew her husband was still smiling at his performance, and this let her relax. She unfastened her earrings and stowed them in her handbag. She was already imagining herself in bed.
"It went well, didn't it?" Andy said. "Look, I'm not saying my speech was the Gettysburg Address but–"
"Yes, darling. I told you, it was awesome."
"So, honestly, what did you really think of it?"
"It was – um – very – technical," Samantha said.
"Technical?"
"And inspirational," she added immediately. The streetlights flashed across her face as Andy drove. Samantha closed her eyes and inclined her sleepy head away from him.
"Do 'technical' and 'inspirational' really go together?"
"When you do it, they do." She yawned and squeezed Andy's forearm. Recalling the man who'd tried to get her to play bullshit bingo during Andy's speech made her smile. Now he was someone who didn’t know the meaning of 'career limiting move'. "What does Rob Hamilton do?"
"Internal counsel – why?"
"He seemed quite amusing."
"A bit of a clown, actually. He asked me if he could change his title to consigliere like in The Godfather. I don't see him surviving long. So you really thought my speech was both technically accurate – and inspirational?"
"Mmm." Should she tell Andy about Rob Hamilton calling him a Stepford CEO? No, he'd only feel hurt.
"Well, that's great."
Andy's enthusiasm for his new job was sweet, like that of a little boy fired up by the latest collectible cards. But Samantha thought he was fooling himself. None of the people who’d gazed up at him as he talked about embedded value and the cost of equity, could guess what a darling he could be when they were alone together. She couldn't tell him what she was thinking – Andy, they didn't care that it was you up there talking. They were clapping the style of the presentation, the numbers, your suit – anything but you, my you.
"Is something wrong?" Andy said.
"Oh, I don't know what it is, darling." She noticed his quick glance at her. He needed to know more. "All right, these cocktails parties. It's like you're running for president. And you have to do all that handshaking with these weird people, and laugh at their stupid jokes. It's all so fake – I just don't like it."
"No babies to kiss, though," he said.
"True, but lots of sales consultants wearing too much make up and not enough dress."
"Really? I didn't notice," Andy said and gave her a boyish grin.
"Naughty." Samantha tapped her husband's knee. But when she thought back on the cocktail party, it was more than the sight of bosomy young women with their arms around her husband that bothered her. She'd spotted the chairman, Sir Gerald Leet, and his sidekick, Michael Dyer, plotting in a corner. The chairman looked as though he'd been disinterred and Dyer's hands, knuckly and mapped with highway veins, were those of a strangler. Sooner or later they would do something nasty to Andy, Samantha was sure of that. She'd approached and hailed them brightly, and, as she'd anticipated, their conversation stopped dead. She steeled herself and kissed Sir Gerald. She was pleased to see the trace of her vermilion lipstick left on his cold, grey cheek.
And then there was the Salesperson of the Year. He swaggered over to the bar, cockily swinging a gilt trophy. He placed it in front of her. He obviously knew what impressed women in these parts.
"Salesman of the Year," he said, presumably in case she couldn't read.
Samantha tapped the trophy with a polished nail. It was so tempting to scrape off a tiny bit of the gilt to reveal the plastic that was surely beneath. But she knew that sort of behaviour was below the wife of the CEO.
"Very nice, but it says Salesperson," she said.
He ignored her. "Owen R Huntly." He held out his hand.
"Samantha Wu." She held out hers.
"Woo? That's an unusual name." She guessed he meant, but you're not Chinese.
"Samantha?"
"No, the other."
"Ah, it's not that unusual in Singapore."
Rather than shake her hand, the Salesperson of the Year gently pulled it, for a dreadful moment, Samantha thought, towards his lips. She heard the note of panic in her voice as she added, "Yes, my husband is Andy Wu – your CEO."
The Salesperson of the Year did not kiss Samantha's hand but nor did he seem perturbed to learn who she was. He turned her wrist and bowed to take in her perfume. "Well lucky old Randy Andy to have a wife who wears Banlieu by Vichy."
"That's clever." She didn't mean 'clever', she meant 'outrageous' or perhaps 'creepy', but she thought it was somehow clever all the same. She pulled back her hand.
The Salesperson of the Year might pass as a Greek god. Athletic, tanned and, with his greying gold curls, he was magnificent to look at – but coarse too – and she guessed pretty stupid, just how she imagined Greek gods must have been. But, like Western history, Samantha divided her life between before and after – in her case Andy. Before Andy, well, yes she might have had a fling with a G
reek god. After Andy, she’d found her purpose in life.
"I've got to go," Samantha told the Salesperson of the Year. "The CEO's wife must circulate."
"Sammy." There was urgency in Andy's voice as he called her back from her reverie. "What are you thinking about?"
"Oh, nothing."
When they stopped at traffic lights, Samantha saw that Andy was no longer smiling. She touched his hand as he griped the gearstick. A car screeched to a halt next to them. It revved and lurched in a pool of violet light, and, faintly discernible through darkened glass, four pasty youths stared at them. Samantha couldn't tell whether the expressions in the shadows of their hoods were malevolent or admiring. Andy pressed the central locking.
"I saw you talking to Owen Huntly," he said.
The lights turned green, and Samantha felt Andy's hand tense on the gear stick. "Leave it, darling." The hoons squealed off in triumph. Andy pulled away slowly from the mark and the engine growled like a pit bull denied a rabbit.
"I said I saw you talking to Owen Huntly, our esteemed Salesperson of the Year."
"Oh that–" Andy always winced if she swore, "–vain twit."
"He's very good looking, though." Andy checked her face for reassurance.
"Maybe, if you like that sort of over the top, testosterone dripping, male thing–" Samantha reined in her animation; she was supposed to be too sleepy to talk.
Andy didn't seem to notice and said, "Apparently many women do. I hear he's a real ladies' man."
"Not this lady." Samantha leant over to kiss his cheek. "Andy, I'm really, really tired." She rested her forehead against the side window once more. She should tell Andy she loved him, but his constant need for reassurance sometimes drained her.
"Well, Huntly needs to watch himself," Andy said. "One step out of line, and I'm going to nail that MF," he added in a badass cop voice.
Samantha didn't respond. So Andy tried again. "If Huntly doesn't watch out, he might just find himself the prey." He glanced again at her for approval, as if he was about to say, 'geddit?'
Samantha closed her eyes.