So Prim and I said our goodbyes, and I went home to marry Jan, thinking — stupid bastard that I was — that I would live ‘happily ever after’. An imprecise phrase, that; bound as it is round the word ‘ever’ which has a different duration for every one of us. . for every two of us.
In our case, Jan’s and mine, it meant a few months; time for us to settle down in an eagle’s nest in the middle of Glasgow, time for us to discover what happiness really is, before. . no, that has to stay in the past. I can’t avoid the flashbacks, but I won’t talk about it again, unless I really have to.
In the wake of that. . thing, Prim came back into my life, like a strong hawser tethering me to the ground, giving me something on which to focus. With nothing better to do, but knowing from experience that we had to do something, we leased a small office in Mitchell Street Lane, re-established our old business, Blackstone and Phillips, Private Enquiry Agents, and watched the client list expand to bursting point.
Primavera rented a flat, a two-bedroom place in the Merchant City, owned by an Aberdeen lawyer whose older kid had just left Glasgow University and whose younger sprog was still at school.
We kept separate social lives for a while; or tried to. But mine consisted mostly of going for a pint with my copper pal Mike Dylan, and Prim’s involved reading a lot and going to the movies on her own. So after a while we started going to the movies together, and sometimes I’d go to Prim’s for supper afterwards, or she’d come to mine. In the beginning, neither of us stayed over. We’d been over that course before; and furthermore having a business relationship to protect, we were careful to keep things on a ‘good pals’ basis.
Then one Friday night towards the end of September, after we had seen Armageddon, polished off a couple of steaks and watched Men in Black on my video, when Prim picked up the phone to call a taxi, I put a finger on the button and cut her off.
It wasn’t the same as before; it couldn’t be. We weren’t as exuberant as we had been at first, — the truth is, that had gone before we split — but there was a new tenderness there, a new maturity in the way we approached each other. We didn’t use any dangerous words, but afterwards, we fell asleep easily enough; at least that hadn’t changed.
She gave me one funny look the next morning, when I came into the kitchen as she was loading her hand-washed underwear and shirt into the tumble-dryer; a slightly apprehensive glance, as if she was searching my face for signs of guilt. I smiled at her, trying to let her know without saying it that she needn’t have bothered, that there was no one, anywhere, who would take the slightest exception to she and I sleeping together.
That night, when I came back from my Saturday job, she had moved her clothes into the wardrobe and drawer space which I had made ready for her. Jan’s space; Jan, who, everything else aside, had liked Prim enormously.
And that very same night, we won the lottery. Not the mega-jackpot, you understand, only three and a quarter million, but a clear blessing nonetheless upon our new beginning.
It made no difference to us. Honest. We had plenty of money to start with, our business was going well, and my Saturday job was bringing me in even more.
My Saturday job? Oh yes.
About eighteen months back, I had been dropped by my lawyer pal Greg McPhillips into an investigation which involved some extremely crazy gentlemen, and a couple of ladies, involved in the sports entertainment business. . in other words, wrestlers.
As a cover I had agreed to become the circus’s master of ceremonies, or ring announcer, calling the bouts on the Global Wrestling Alliance’s television shows. To their surprise, and even more, to mine, a few people thought that I was quite good in the part, and so after the smoke had cleared from the explosive conclusion of the real job which I had been hired to do, Everett Davis, the extremely big boss, had asked me to stay on, and had given me a contract backed up by a few share options in the holding company.
Since then, GWA had gone truly global, and Everett was spending more than half of his time in the States, servicing his recently signed network deal there and completing the take-over of his main rival, Championship Wrestling Incorporated, formerly run by his rogue half-brother. Oh yes, and with the take-over, my share options had gone sort of global also: they were worth around half a million dollars.
Even after all that, I was still taken by surprise when I found out that people other than children and eccentrics watch cable and satellite wrestling programmes. I was in the office one Tuesday morning transcribing an interview with a witness in a constructive dismissal action, when the phone rang. Prim answered, then handed it across.
‘Good morning, Oz,’ said an easy, slightly smarmy voice. I struggled to place it, but it sounded like most tele-salesmen I’d ever heard, professional, entreating, anonymous. ‘I’m Mark Webber, from RHB and F.’
‘I don’t think I need any of those,’ I told the guy.
‘Hah! That’s what our secretaries think too. But seriously. .’ I tried to take him seriously, but failed ‘. . we’re an ad agency, in Covent Garden. We’re casting for a new commercial for a client in the children’s leisure sector.’
Okay, I thought, play along for a bit. ‘Children’s leisure, eh. Which branch would that be? Smarties, chocolate eggs?’
‘Play accessories.’
‘Ah. I see. Would they be toys, then? My nephews have a few of them. I must tell them that they’re accessorised.’
Mark Webber laughed, as if it was expected of him. For a second I felt like a politician addressing a party gathering. ‘I get your drift, Oz; we creatives do tend to fall into line with our clients’ corporate language.’
‘Indeed? What else do you market? Beverage transporters. . cups and saucers, like?’
‘Touche, old lad. I can hear already that you’re just the man for us.’
‘I don’t know about that, Mark. The only leisure accessories I use these days are limb-extending balata propellants. Mind you, I still can’t talk my Dad out of calling them golf clubs.’
The man’s laugh took on a manic tone. ‘God, that’s wonderful. It’s a humbling experience for a guy like me to be exposed to a Northern sensibility. Maybe we should ask you to write the script as well.’
‘As well as what?’
‘As well as doing the voice-over, of course. Listen, this is the story: the client, Roxy Matrix, is launching a new product in October aimed at the Christmas market. It’s a power accessory, personal rather than electronic. .’
‘You mean it’s a toy, rather than a video game?’
‘I suppose so. It allows the child to become actively involved in play and to create fantasies around its persona.’
‘You mean it’s a doll?’
‘Companion, Oz; at Roxy Matrix they call them companions. ’
I managed to turn a chortle into a cough without Mr Webber noticing. ‘This companion? Is it inflatable?’
‘No, no, no. It’s solid, powered, and about twenty per cent of life size.’
‘Does it have muscles, or tits?’
‘Both, in fact; there are two variants. What we’re talking about here is a plug-in rechargeable, robotic partnership simulation, alternative humanoids whom the young people can adopt as leaders and role models.’
‘You mean like parents used to be? Brilliant idea,’ I said in a sudden burst of artificial conviction. ‘Ideal for a high achiever partnership in a double-income situation. Buy a couple of these simulated partners for the kids and the carers can devolve young people management responsibility to them, freeing up more time for income generation.’
There was a silence on the other end of the line. I guessed that Mark had finally figured out that I was ripping the shit out of him. (That’s like taking the piss, only a lot less gentle.) Or maybe it was the other way around, and he guessed that he had been well and truly rumbled. Across the room, Prim and Lulu, our secretary, were staring at me, each of them just a touch glassy-eyed.