The boys are shown to a semi-circular booth in a dark corner away from the dance floor. There is a small palm tree planted in the middle of the table. A waitress wearing a revealing orchid-print dress hands out drinks menus.
‘I’ll do the ordering boys,’ Mark says, over the music. ‘We’ll have two Dead Man’s Chests.’
‘Blackbeard or Bluebeard?’ The waitress has bright white teeth.
‘What’s the difference?’
‘Blackbeard is made with Cristal, the Bluebeard with Moet.’
‘What would Dr Dre order?’
‘How the hell am I meant to know?’
‘Cristal then, please.’
The waitress notes down the order and glides over to the bar.
‘She’s so fit,’ Tony says.
‘That’s what you get in London boys,’ says Mark.
‘Mark, what did you order?’ Craig asks, concerned.
‘Don’t worry. My treat.’
‘Some of those chests were five hundred quid each.’
‘Yeah I know. I’ve got it covered.’
Sympathy for the Devil
is playing and the club is starting to fill up. Four horsey-looking girls in blazers are led to the next booth along. Bouncers appear with a rope barrier and cordon off an area in the opposite corner.
‘Someone famous is coming,’ Mark says, pointing over to the rope. ‘Last time I was here I saw Girls Aloud.’
‘What did they look like in real life?’ Tony asks.
‘Not that amazing.’
A pair of waiters dump two gold-plated treasure chests on the table. They flip open the lids and pour magnums of Cristal into the icy cocktail.
‘This is unbelievable,’ Tony says, sucking the champagne through a straw. ‘We’re going to be hammered.’
‘How are we paying for this?’ Adam asks.
‘Ad, don’t worry,’ Mark says, ‘I’ve covered it. Now let’s get smashed.’
He takes off his trilby, which leaves a line running around the
circumference
of his head, and puts two straws in his mouth. The girls in the next booth are watching as the four suck away, their heads bobbing up as they stop for breath.
Craig puts his straw down and leans back in his seat. Tony stops drinking as well. Adam and Mark continue sucking. Mark keeps
glancing
at Adam who is still going. Eventually Mark gives up and rocks back, his arms outstretched.
Adam bends his straw over the front of the chest he’s sharing with Tony and exhales. ‘Not bad,’ he says, smiling. He makes eye contact with at a girl at the next table who has flowing dark hair.
Mark nudges Craig and they attack the chest again. Adam and Tony watch as they finish off the last few millimetres.
‘Killed it,’ Mark says, triumphant. ‘Right, let’s get some more drinks in.’
‘No rush mate,’ Craig says, looking colourless.
Mark calls the waitress over and orders four Long John Silver Legs o’Lash.
Four hollowed out wooden legs are brought to the table. They are each two feet long and filled with coconut rum, Bacardi, pineapple juice, strawberry liqueur, passion fruit, lime, guava, grenadine, ginger beer and absinthe.
‘How are we meant to drink this?’ Tony asks.
‘We’ve all got to stand up and down it in one. It’s the rules. Come on,’ Mark shouts. ‘It’s all in the technique. Lift it slowly and then open your throat.’
The boys get to their feet, and on Mark’s count of three, lift the legs to their mouths and drink. People turn to watch. Craig lasts five seconds before having to stop, and stands his leg on the table. Tony has his eyes shut and drinks as best he can whilst Mark chugs away, holding the limb using an unorthodox backhand grip. Adam drinks with his knees bent, head tilted back and demolishes it in less than ten seconds.
He raises both hands above his head, shouts ‘WOOOO HA!’ over Duran Duran’s
Save a Prayer
and holds the leg upside down to prove it’s empty. The crowd clap and cheer and a tall, wiry young man with ginger hair and a flushed, familiar face jumps over the VIP rope. He’s wearing a pink striped shirt and faded jeans, and everybody stares at him as he bounds over to the table and gives Adam a high five.
‘Hey, buddy, that was awesome. That’s the quickest I’ve
ever
seen. What’s your secret?’ he asks in an overconfident, aristocratic manner.
The other three boys lowered their lash legs and gawp in
astonishment
,
Mark spilling drink all down his front.
‘There’s no secret mate, I just drink it,’ Adam says, unflustered.
‘Hey come over and have a drink with us later, yah. You’ll have to race Hugo. What’s your name?’
‘Adam. And you are?’ he asks.
He laughs. ‘You’re joking right? Come over and say hello. We’re over there behind the rope. I’ll tell my man. Nice work.’
‘Cheers,’ Adam says.
Mark tugs at the Prince’s arm as he turns to leave. ‘Your Majesty. Hi there, Mark Hunter. Pleasure to meet you. I’ll be over in a minute.’
He looks at Mark with disdain. ‘Who invited you, you fat fuck?’
Mark is presented with a bill for £1,500. The waitress slots his
Barclay-card
into a chip and pin machine but it’s refused. A look of panic spreads across his face and he hands over his MenDax American Express card, which works.
‘Are you all right, mate?’ Craig asks. ‘You look a bit pale.’
‘I’m quality, mate. Let’s get some more drinks.’
Mark tries to get the attention of a waitress, but the woman with the clipboard reappears at their table.
‘You’ll have to vacate this area. We’re got Delicious from
X Factor
and two girls from
Big Brother
coming.’
‘What? I’ve paid a fortune to sit here,’ Mark says.
‘Management decision. You’ll have to find somewhere else. Now move or we’ll move you.’
It’s three a.m. and the desert island disco is in full swing. Tony and Craig are on the sweltering dance floor jumping around to
Message in a Bottle
. Adam is pinned against the fish tank by a girl with platinum-blonde hair, next to two Middle Eastern girls dancing with a man in white jeans. Mark is at the bar drinking cocktails with a Russian woman who wants him to buy her a diamond bracelet.
J
ustin is in his office, on the phone. Unusually, the blinds are up and the door is open.
‘He keeps looking at me,’ Mark says.
‘Really?’ Amy replies, uninterested.
Mark opens an Excel document he’s called
KESRDA Retroactive Quarterly Revenue Accruement July 2008 to July 2018.
The spreadsheet is divided into forty rows which Mark has split into quarterly periods starting from July 08, and thirty columns starting at 10%, increasing in denominations of 0.5 up to 25%. The vertical columns are alternately coloured navy and pink with the text in white. He has filled in as far as October 2014. Mark grabs his Casio calculator, which has ‘Hunter 11H’ written on the case in Tipp-Ex, and continues to pump eight-figure numbers into the empty cells.
‘Who do you think he’s talking to?’ Amy asks about Justin.
‘No idea.’
‘I wish he’d stop laughing so loudly. It’s really annoying me. I can’t concentrate.’
‘What’s wrong?’
Amy sighs. ‘I’m dealing with Robert Finch from Crumb Renfia and he keeps emailing me asking the same questions, which I’ve already answered, over and over again.’
‘Big player?’
‘Not really.’
‘I wouldn’t even bother replying. You’ve got it easy. You should try making sense of these figures,’ Mark says, slurping his pint of apple juice and pointing at his screen.
‘What are they?’
‘Forecasts for the Kent Development Agency.’
‘Why’s it all coloured in?’
‘It’s coloured coded. Makes it easier to read.’
Justin strolls out of his office and straight over to Mark. His tan stands out against his white shirt.
‘Right Marky Mark,’ he says, leaning on a filing cabinet, ‘have you got any meetings planned this afternoon?’
Mark checks his Outlook diary, which is blank. ‘No, someone
cancelled
on me yesterday.’
‘Good. Have you got a valid passport?’
‘Yes.’
‘Excellent. You’re going on a special mission for me.’
‘OK.’ He smiles. ‘Where?’
‘I was meant to be meeting Henk Van Gilder from Dutch UT in Amsterdam at four o’clock, but I’ve got a cricket match for Old
Wilstonians
in Richmond so I can’t go. That’s where you come in. What do you know about DUT’s portfolio?’
‘I’m fairly familiar with it. I’ll take another look now though.’
‘Good idea. You’re booked on the ten past one flight from Heathrow and there’ll be someone to meet you at the other end. All you’ve got to do is turn up, shake hands and tell Henk everything’s hunky-dory. He
mentioned
something about a new product he’s looking at, but if he lets on he’s got more to invest, direct him through the usual Icelandic options. Normally he doesn’t ask too many questions. Last time I went out there, I was only in his office for about twenty minutes and then he took me out to a-’ Justin glances over at Amy, ‘straight to a restaurant and then we went out and got bladdered. He’s a great bloke, you’ll love him.’
‘Sounds quality,’ Mark says.
‘You’re coming back on the twenty past ten. BA business class both ways of course. Sorry it’s not later, but the late flight was fully booked.’ Justin checks his watch and walks backwards towards his office. ‘You
better
get moving actually. Book a cab and charge it to our account. Enjoy yourself.’
‘No worries, Justo.’ Mark saves and closes his spreadsheet and shuts down his computer.
‘Thanks Justin,’ Amy says sarcastically as he shuts his door. ‘Why do
you
get to go to Amsterdam?’
‘That’s business for you. Don’t be jealous, Amy. Why don’t you go and complain to your new boyfriend?’
‘I haven’t got a boyfriend, Mark. As you well know.’
‘Good. Anyway, I’m better at meetings than you are.’
‘What? How do you work that out?’
‘I just am. I’m a natural businessman. And businessmen like
meeting
other businessmen, not moaning women.’
‘Go and get your flight, Mark.’
‘It’s because it’s Amsterdam as well. You can’t send a woman there; it’s unethical. The only women in business over there stand in shop
windows
in their underwear.’ Mark laughs to himself as he zips his pencil case and walks out.
There is nobody using the self-service check-in, but Mark can’t get the machine to scan his passport so he joins the back of the queue at the executive check-in desk. In front of Mark is a tall man with long
straggly
hair, wearing jeans and a crew-neck jumper. Mark taps him on the shoulder:
‘Sorry mate, but you do know this is business class,’ he says.
The man, who’s slim and in his forties, looks back at Mark. ‘I’m fully aware of where I am thank you.’
‘I just thought-’
‘You just thought wrong,’ the man replies sharply, wheeling his case to the now-empty desk.
Mark checks his own passport photo and the lady at the desk calls him forward. Her hair is tied back and she has a blue and white
neck-scarf
tucked into her shirt. Mark hands over his passport and e-ticket. She checks them and types on her keyboard.
‘Are you checking in any luggage, sir?’
‘No. Business trip.’
She gives back his passport and prints a boarding pass. ‘As a Club Europe passenger, you may proceed through to the lounge area where you can relax before your flight and enjoy complimentary food and drinks,’ she says mechanically.
‘Sorry, I’m not a Club Europe passenger, I’m flying business class.’
‘Club Europe is our business class service, sir.’
‘Oh, good.’
Mark struts into the near-empty lounge. It’s drafty and
unexceptional
but has an excellent view of the runways, where a Virgin Atlantic
aeroplane is coming in to land. There are a handful of people dotted around on high-backed armchairs reading newspapers or typing away on laptops.
Mark orders a beer, helps himself to a turkey club sandwich and sits on a sofa facing the runways. He takes a copy of the
Financial Times
from the newspaper rack and squints at the sun. After swallowing his
sandwich
, he studies the wine list and checks the lounge’s departures board which hangs from cables in the ceiling. His flight is still not boarding. He scurries back to the bar and orders a bottle of Merlot.
Five minutes later, passengers for BA flight 0447 to Amsterdam are called. Mark tries to drink a second glass of wine, but can’t and leaves it there.
Club Europe passengers are directed left as they board the Boeing 737. Mark looks at the economy class seats before he turns through the curtains and a smiling BA stewardess with long curly blonde hair directs him to a padded leather window seat. There are six rows of six seats, divided by the gangway, with the middle seat of each trio kept free. Mark sits in the front row on the right and fastens his seatbelt.
The long-haired man from the check-in queue stops at the front and checks his ticket. He places his laptop on the seat one away from Mark and pushes his bag into the overhead locker.
A slim male steward stands at the head of the cabin for the safety briefing, which Mark listens to attentively. Expected time of arrival in Amsterdam is fifteen thirty.
The captain tells the cabin crew to prepare the aircraft for take-off. Mark wipes his hands on his trousers and shivers. He has a packet of mint imperials in his pocket and drops four into his mouth. He’s asked to pull up his window cover, against his wishes.
The aeroplane accelerates along the runway and ascends smoothly into the sky but Mark sits pinned to his seat with his head pressed into his right shoulder and his hands locked around the arm rests. His face is screwed into such a tight ball that the tendons in his neck stand out.
When they reach cruising altitude, he gradually turns his head
forward
and opens his eyes. The ‘ding’ to acknowledge that seatbelts can be undone sounds but Mark keeps his buckled.
An older stewardess with large glossy lips asks him if he would like any refreshments. He orders a glass of white wine and starts a game of
Monopoly against his BlackBerry. The long-haired man asks if he could turn the sounds effects off as he is trying to work.
Mark is soon £800 up and decides to build two houses. ‘Houses on Park Lane, baby. That’s the way I roll,’ he mutters. He then rolls a four which takes him to Old Kent Road and collects £200 for passing ‘Go’. The computer’s dog is sitting outside Fenchurch Street station. He rolls a one: Community Chest. A card pops up:
You have been caught having an affair with your 14-year-old daughter’s best friend. Your wife has divorced you and has been awarded sole ownership of your bank account and any houses you own. Go straight to Jail.
‘Bitch,’ he says.
An hour later, Mark is £3,000 behind the computer. He picks at the penne pasta in the bowl on his lap and drinks his sixth glass of wine. There is a pasta stain on his shirt which he hasn’t noticed.
Suddenly the plane shakes violently. He spills his drink over his trousers and drops his BlackBerry. An announcement comes over the intercom:
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. You will have noticed that the seatbelt sign has been switched back on. There are
currently
storms over northern Europe and we may encounter some
turbulence
as we prepare to land. Please return to your seats and ensure all overhead lockers are safely fastened.’
The plane jolts right and Mark shuts his eyes as glasses rattle in the galley. The aircraft dips, throwing passengers forward and he lets out a small squeal. A baby is crying several rows back. The stewardesses do their best to look calm. The plane stabilises but then the cabin lights dim and it lurches left. Somewhere near the cockpit, there’s a loud thud. Mark thrusts out his hand and reaches across the empty seat to the man next to him, who swats him away.
The plane continues to judder and Mark pushes his head back into the seat and closes his eyes. The captain’s voice again sounds over the intercom:
‘Cabin crew, please prepare for emergency landing.’
There is a commotion in economy class where at least one woman is screaming. The young blonde stewardess at the front of the cabin undoes her seatbelt and rushes through the curtain, passing the male steward who heads to the cockpit.
‘No, no,’ Mark mumbles, digging his nails into his leg.
The aircraft starts to lose altitude. There are gasps and shrieks every time they hit turbulence. Mark’s eyes are squeezed shut as the pilots adjust the plane’s position. Thunder cracks, and flashes of lightning
illuminate
the dark afternoon sky, further frightening the passengers.
The aircraft begins its final swift descent and lands with three huge bumps on the rain-lashed runway at Schiphol airport.
‘Hurrrgh, hurrrgh,’ Mark groans.
‘We’ve landed for Christ’s sake,’ the man next to him says.
‘Thank god. Thank god.’
The captain apologises for the turbulent end to the journey and the heavy landing. He explains that they’d encountered a flash storm and thanks everyone for remaining calm in challenging flying conditions. A spontaneous round of applause brakes out. Mark tentatively looks out of the window and cranes his neck to see the tarmac.
The seatbelt sign is turned off and there is a flurry of activity as the passengers retrieve their belongings. He takes a moment to gather himself.
‘Are you feeling better now?’ the blonde stewardess asks as he passes her at the exit.
‘Yes, thanks.’ He stops as if to say something else, but then walks on.
‘What’s your reason for coming to Holland?’ asks the moustachioed immigration officer.
‘Business,’ Mark says, snatching back his passport.
He walks into the arrivals hall and scans the crowd of taxi drivers and people waiting for friends and relatives who mainly try to avoid eye contact with him. He searches for his name on the drivers’ boards. There is a ‘Mr Davis’, a ‘Sarah Holt’, a ‘Peter Merton- DVGV Ltd’, a ‘
Sanderson
’, but no ‘Mark Hunter’ or ‘MenDax’.
He walks confidently back towards the arrivals gate against the flow of passengers calling out, ‘Mark Hunter, Mark Hunter, Mark Hunter? Mark Hunter. Mark Hunter? Mark Hunter, Mark Hunter. MARK HUNTER! MARK HUNTER!!’
A man wearing a chauffeur’s hat appears at the end of the line
holding
a square of white card with ‘Mike Huntley’ printed on it. Mark rushes up to him.
‘Almost mate. Mark Hunter. Which way’s the car?’
The driver looks confused. ‘Noo, noo. Mike Huntley,’ he says in a heavy Dutch accent.
‘Never mind the pronunciation mate, let’s get moving. Henk’s expecting me.’
Someone taps Mark on the shoulder.
‘What are you up to?’ It’s the man from the flight. ‘What’s going on, Wim?’ he asks the driver.
‘I don’t know who this is,’ the driver replies.
‘Let’s go.’ He turns to Mark. ‘There’s a cab rank outside if you need to get somewhere. Now,
oprotten
.’
Mike Huntley and his driver chuckle and head off to the short stay car park.
Mark stands at the gate until he is the only person left. He tries to call the office on his BlackBerry but the battery has died. ‘Shit,’ he hisses.
He follows the signs to the information desk and pushes in front of two women in burkas.
‘You need to make an announcement,’ he says to the dumpy Dutch woman working there. ‘Do you speak English?’
‘Yes, I do. Can I help you?’ She is wearing orange mascara.
‘Driver to meet Mark Hunter, from London. Make an
announcement
. I’m late.’
She repeats Mark’s words back to him and holds down the button on the silver microphone on the desk. The airport’s public address system bongs:
‘Could Mark Hunter from London please report to the information desk opposite Café Rembrandt on the ground floor. Your driver is
waiting
for you.’
‘No, no, I’m
Mark Hunter,
’ Mark says, exasperated. ‘I’ve got a very important meeting in Amsterdam and I need a driver.’