Acid Lullaby (3 page)

‘I am Simon Crouch,’ he announced to the empty room. ‘I am falling apart.’

He reached up and pulled down the Dictaphone. The LCD display was flashing ‘STDBY’. He pressed play.

‘… am Simon Crouch. I am falling apart.’

It sounded worse when it was repeated back at him.

At 6p.m. Max Fallon took the lift to the basement of Fogle & Moore Investments and walked into the company gym. He changed quickly into his new Hilfiger gym clothes and crossed into the workout area. He paused briefly to watch an aerobics class as he stretched his hamstrings. He marvelled for a second at the line of sweaty secretaries wearing knickers outside their tights: jigging to the left and reaching to the right.

Fantastic.

It put him in the mood.

The gym was always busy in the early evening and most of the machines were busy. Max found himself a treadmill and started his usual programme. He began to jog and found his eyes wandering across the view through the full length windows: across the redundant dock that was now only a giant water feature, past the ancient cranes that stood forlornly like skeletons in a museum, towards the hulking concrete minimalism of Cabot Square.

The sun threw rosy washes of evening light over docklands. It reminded him for a brief moment of his childhood in India. Of the lonely nights spent hammering a football against the wall of the Foreign Office residential compound or of reading books while his father attended embassy functions. The sun had seemed so close then that it had frightened him. He had imagined the earth being sucked into its giant yellow mouth. He smiled.

Kids’
stuff.

He knew he couldn’t touch the English sun. Although – he mused – he could probably buy it.

Twenty minutes later Max was in the shower and he took time over himself. He was especially thorough in the places where he hoped Liz Koplinsky’s attention might linger in a few hours’ time. He still jutted and rippled in the right places. His skin had still retained the olive sheen that his tropical childhood had earned. Viagra would not be necessary. Danny Planck was a cheeky bastard.

He spent some time in front of the mirror. He shaved for the third time that day, thrilling at the smoothness of his skin. When he brushed his face against Liz’s Koplinsky’s inner thigh later there would be no friction. She would think she was writhing on the tongue of a ghost, or a God. He applied Clinique skin balm. He didn’t want Liz fixating on any unpleasant dry flakes of skin during dinner. Finally he applied a sliver of styling mousse to hold his brown hair back from his face and accentuate the brutal jawline that he knew was his finest feature.

Fragrant and empowered, Max Fallon returned briefly to his office on the bond trading floor to stow his gym bag. A baggy-eyed blonde night secretary shouted across the floor that his cab had arrived. Fallon gave her a quick ‘thumbs-up’ and grabbed a book from his desk to enliven the cab ride to the West End. It would take his mind off Liz until he met her at 7.30. It was a dog-eared copy of a book called
Gods
and
Myths.

The Palais was an old favourite: a bright and airy Anglo-French restaurant that overlooked Covent Garden. It was much loved by the West End media mob: advertising executives and TV producers. Its small entrance lobby opened out spectacularly onto a huge glass-domed atrium.

‘Cool place,’ said Liz Koplinsky, handing her coat to a waitress.

‘Best in town,’ Fallon replied. He couldn’t take his eyes off Liz’s bare shoulders. Her black strapless dress was working a spell on him. Liz’s skin appeared totally smooth – no rogue moles or blemishes. He wanted to bite her, feel her melt on his tongue like white chocolate, slide over her perfectly smooth body. They were led to their table immediately. Fallon noticed
that Liz liked to brush her hand against the leaves of pot plants and the petals of cut flowers as she walked past. She was a sensual girl. He liked that.

‘So does this count as fraternizing?’ Liz asked as she settled in her chair and a waiter placed a napkin on her lap.

‘Socializing,’ said Max with a smirk.

‘What’s the difference?’

‘You’ve still got your clothes on.’

Liz’s face softened slightly as she repressed a smile. ‘Oh that! It’s a New York thing. We don’t eat out naked.’

Max switched the subject. He didn’t want to labour the point. ‘So how did the little girl from the ghetto become a big shot bond trader?’

Liz feigned annoyance. ‘Hey, buddy! I didn’t come from any ghetto.’

‘Queens?’

‘It’s a very respectable neighbourhood. My father worked at the airport.’

‘Carrying baggage?’

‘He’s an engineer, smart-ass. And he didn’t care too much for limeys, either.’

‘Limeys!’ Max laughed at the tired expression. ‘Is this nineteen forty-two?’

Liz bridled slightly. ‘Well, don’t you have a nickname for us?’

‘Yeah,’ Max paused for effect. ‘Fuckwits.’

‘Asshole.’

‘I’m kidding. New York’s okay,’ Fallon said. ‘The people are friendlier than Londoners, that’s for sure. Central Park beats the shit out of any of London’s parks.’

‘Central Park is Valhalla if you’re a jogger,’ Liz conceded. ‘I prefer Hampstead Heath, though. I go up there on Sunday mornings. Kids fly their kites on the top of Parliament Hill. Beautiful.’

‘Whatever rings your bell,’ Fallon sniffed.

‘So do you live near here? In the centre of town.’

Max shook his head. ‘I’ve got a place in Chelsea. I’m buying a gaff out in the countryside.’

‘Sweet. An olde English cottage?’

‘Something like that. I’ve got this dream of renovating an old manor house. You know, doing the English country gentleman thing. Bring up kids in the countryside. I wouldn’t bring up my dinner in London now.’ He looked at her, half-embarassed. ‘It’s silly, really.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Liz. ‘Where have you been looking?’

‘How good’s your geography?’

‘Try me.’

‘East Cambridgeshire.’

‘You got me.’

‘I’m from Cambridge originally. My father still lives up there. There’s some great old places on the Suffolk border.’

‘That’s a long drive.’

‘Not in a Porsche.’

‘In this country any drive’s a long drive. I thought you had a jeep.’

‘I’ve got a Land Cruiser and a Porsche 911.’ He noticed her necklace. ‘Why are you wearing that Egyptian thing?’

‘It’s an ankh.’ She held it up for him to look at. Inevitably, his eyes wandered down.

‘I know what it is. Why are you wearing it?’

‘It’s a life symbol.’

‘Sweet.

‘What about you? What’s with the book?’

Max looked down at
Gods
and
Myths.
He smiled. Liz noticed he had very white teeth. ‘That’s an old friend.’

‘How come?’

‘I lived in India when I was a kid. My father worked at the British Embassy in Delhi. I used to get so bored on my own. Sometimes I stole books from the library at the English School. This was one of the best ones: Hindu myths, gods and demons and shit. I love all that stuff. It’s silly but when I was eight my mum entered me in some school fancy-dress competition as a Hindu god. I’ve always had a passing interest since then.’

‘Why were you on your own?’

Fallon’s expression clouded briefly. ‘My mum died soon after we moved there. There was a car accident.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault,’ Fallon replied crisply. ‘Unless you were driving a motorbike through the northern suburbs of Delhi in November 1971.’

‘Did you win?’ Liz ignored his weak attempt at humour.

‘Win what?’

‘The fancy-dress competition.’

‘Of course.’

Liz held up the old book in her hands and flicked through. She winced at some of the pictures. ‘Man. This would give me nightmares.’

‘Assuming you get to sleep tonight.’

She ignored the flirtation. ‘So you’re a closet intellectual?’

‘Hardly.’

‘What did you read at College?’

‘Philosophy.’

‘No shit?’

‘Yes shit. You say “shit” too much, by the way.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘Actually, I read Philosophy for two years then I changed to Theology.’

‘Why, for Christ’s sake?’

‘That’s a bad joke if you meant it. To be honest, I found philosophy boring. Theology was more to do with belief systems and religious mythology: much juicier.’

‘I’d never have guessed you were into all that stuff.’

‘I’m full of surprises. There’s a mythology exhibition at The British Museum this week as it happens. I’m going on Saturday. You should come.’ Max waved at the wine waiter who pulled a notebook from his pocket and drifted over.

‘I got better things to do on a Saturday than hang out in some stinking museum, bud.’

‘Stinking?’

‘Good evening,’ the waiter smiled at them.

‘Champagne,’ Max said without looking at him. ‘Not the house muck. Something decent.’

‘Of course, Monsieur.’

‘And you can ditch the accent. I’m not a tourist.’

The waiter froze, bit his tongue and walked away. Liz was horrified.

‘Max, you are so rude.’

‘He’s about as French as my nuts.’ Max studied her closely for a second, his eyes moving over her. ‘I’ve got a question for you now.’

‘Shoot.’

‘What’s this I hear about you shagging some monkey from Settlements? Slouch or Couch or something.’

‘Crouch. That’s nothing. Just a kink I gotta iron out.’ Liz felt a sudden sting of guilt. She tried to dab the wound away.

‘Someone like you doesn’t need any dead wood.’

‘He’s a nice guy but it’s never going to work out. He’s kind of possessive.’

‘Ditch the bitch, I say. There are winners and losers. Blokes like that live in a cheap, spivvy little world. Cheap beer. Cheap clothes. A suffocating mortgage. Motorway nightclubs. Match of the Day. You don’t want that. Don’t demean yourself.’

Liz shook her head slowly. ‘You’re just an incurable romantic, aren’t you?’

Two champagne glasses appeared before them on the table. Max tasted the wine, gold and sparkling.

‘Spot on!’ He gestured at the waiter to continue pouring. ‘Seriously bloody spot on.’

The bubbles nibbled at his tongue. He felt empowered. Liz sipped her champagne and he noticed the soft smear of lipstick she left on the lip of the glass. It was going to be a long and fruitful evening.

The following morning Simon Crouch got into work early. He was at his desk at 7a.m. He hoped to have a chat with Liz before the market opened and she immersed herself in trades, emails and excuses. He walked across the lift lobby from
Settlements onto the hallowed ground of the trading floor. Most of the traders and bond salesmen were already at their desks. Some glugged coffee from expensive cardboard containers, others enjoyed the tits on page three and a few stared intently at their trading screens hunting out the titbit of information that might give them an edge.

Eventually he arrived at the eurodollar trading desk in the centre of the floor. It was distinctive for three reasons: first, it had a line of US flags stretching across the tops of the computer monitors as if they denoted forces on a battlefield diorama. Secondly, a large rubber Yoda dangled above the desk in a noose. The toy had a piece of cardboard sellotaped across its belly that said: ‘May the Bourse be with you.’ Thirdly, Danny Planck, head of trading, was already booming instructions at his beleaguered foot soldiers.

‘The word today is Gas, boys and girls. We are expecting a billion spondoolies to hit the market from Arizona Natural Resources. Now as you know, this is a skittish market. It’s jumping about like a kangaroo in a carwash. The extra supply won’t help.’

Planck picked up the baseball bat he kept by his desk and waved it around for emphasis. Crouch hung back. He had seen Planck smash up computer screens with his bat.

‘Look for simple switches into quality credits. Don’t bugger around. Use my tip list. Dangle your balls in the fire at your own peril.’ Planck looked around and picked up the bacon roll from his desk. ‘Now which one of you piss ants has taken my ketchup?’

Planck spotted Crouch hovering nervously at his elbow.

‘What do you want, Crouchie? My trading sheets messed up again?’

‘Is Liz around?’ Crouch found his Essex accent grew more pronounced on the trading floor, like a boxer using his jab. ‘I need to check a couple of trades.’

‘Course you do!’ Planck winked at him. ‘Nice shoes by the way. Oi Adrian! Clock Crouchie’s didgeries.’

A curly-haired trader looked up briefly from his glowing Bloomberg Screen and winced.

‘Plastic fantastic,’ he said with a yawn.

Planck grinned hideously. ‘Yeah! Disposable shoes. They are shocking, Crouchie. A man’s shoes say a lot. You’re squeaking like a fucking hamster.’

‘Is Liz around?’ Crouch was used to taking flak from the Gucci-shod traders but today it burned inside him, like he’d drunk a pint of wasps.

‘She’s gonna be late,’ Adrian said flatly. ‘She was on the lash last night.’

‘Thanks.’ Crouch walked away, the bile rising inside him. Liz had been out on the piss half the night.
So
much
for
being
exhausted.
He ignored Danny Planck’s derisive shouts from behind him.

‘Eak-eak-eak-eak!’

As he left the floor and crossed back across the lobby that separated Settlements from Trading, he walked right into Liz Koplinsky. She was emerging from a lift clutching a huge Starbuck’s Coffee. She had shower-wet hair scraped back over her head. It made her eyes shine brighter, despite the bags beneath them.

‘Hey you,’ she said wearily; an emotion flickered across her face. Crouch tried to decipher it: panic turned into guilt?

‘I called you last night.’

‘I heard the phone. I was tired. I had an early night.’

The lies were becoming more obvious. Her eyes darting sideways as she spoke. He would remember that.

‘When can I see you?’ he asked simply.

She felt a rush of pity. The simple imploring tone of his question upset her.

‘Listen, I’ll call you later. Big day on the desk today.’ She dragged her eyes from the floor with an effort. ‘I gotta go.’