We All Fall Down (7 page)

‘Just to warn everyone; don't touch the outside of the French windows.' He turned to Jodie's friend, a man who looked ten years younger than the rest of them, almost as if he might be in his final year at school. His hair was thick and gelled into a hedgehog-like display; his face fresh and without any wrinkles.

‘Hugh, this is a friend of mine, John King.'

John sprang forward, seemingly unable to wait to shake hands. ‘Great to meet you, mate.' His demeanour was boyish, not unlike a puppy that can't wait to lick your face.

Hugh recoiled, replying with less enthusiasm, ‘Likewise.' He then added, ‘If you'll all excuse me, I'm just going to have a quick shower.'

For Hugh, the opening of several bottles of wine made the evening more bearable. Although Kate and Jodie knocked back their wine with enthusiasm, John drank no more than two glasses, and these were interspersed with several glasses of mineral water. At one point, when Jodie and Kate were reminiscing about their childhood, John turned to Hugh and asked him what he did ‘for a crust.'

‘I'm in advertising.'

‘Great business. Have so much respect for you guys. I try and write bits of copy myself, and it's so hard. So I know what you're up against.'

‘Oh yes, and what do you do?'

‘Real estate. Have my own small business.'

And Hugh felt an almost overwhelming urge to react as irrationally to the fact Jodie's man was an estate agent as others did to the fact he, Hugh Drysdale, was in advertising. He wanted to make ill-informed, sweeping statements, condemnations based on hearsay and prejudice, with blind, blanket broadsides that would blow John King and his business clear out of the water. It was an instinctive thing, a dislike based on few facts, but mainly around the feeling that property people were con merchants, and there was little anyone could do about it. They were rich to start with – everyone knew that! – and did virtually nothing to earn their money. They were obviously ripping everyone off.

‘You lot are on a good wicket money-wise from what I hear.'

John laughed. ‘Yes, I admit times are good right now. But it goes in cycles, like everything else, I guess. Who do you work for, Hugh?'

‘I work for an advertising agency. I'm in charge of the Bauer account.' He was guessing that might interest John. He imagined it would be the kind of car he aspired to (he was surely too young to own one already?), and therefore something they could talk about.

‘Fabulous cars. Love to buy one. I just need to sell a few more properties.' His grin was so boyish and self-deprecating – so
unreal
– it made Hugh suspicious.

They went on to discuss advertising, Hugh immediately becoming wary and ready to defend his business. It was often necessary. His profession was regarded as a pariah by many people, and he was frequently required to justify what he did to others, fending off attacks on his profession at various social gatherings. He was passionate about his job, and would argue that advertisers simply told people about the goods they had on offer, that they presented the consumer with a choice. There was no coercion involved. The information was presented in an attractive, possibly humorous, hopefully persuasive, way that showed the product in a favourable light, but it was no more than that. ‘But you tell lies' was often the response. ‘No, we don't. We're not allowed to tell lies. Commercials are taken off air if they're considered dishonest, or if they offend the public in any way.' If these people persisted with their accusations, he'd continue along the lines of: ‘We live in a capitalist society, and advertising is a small but essential cog that helps all the other cogs turn. If you don't believe in advertising, then you don't believe in capitalism.' And he'd put on his most charming, inviting smile, and that would generally be that. Sometimes, however, they came back at him with more esoteric arguments, and he'd be ready for those too. They could be about the ownership of goods being a replacement for the acquisition of wisdom; or about the happiness some people experience when they spend money resulting in the stifling of their ability to identify with the beauties of nature. And he'd point out that advertising couldn't be blamed for such things. ‘It's a choice people make of their own free will. You're surely not telling me that I and my colleagues are making your life decisions for you?' No one was likely to admit to this, and so finally they would be able to move on to other topics of conversation.

He wasn't, however, of the opinion that he should have to defend his profession against John King, who was surely down there near the bottom of the list of most despised professions – along with lawyers, used car salesmen, politicians and bankers.

‘Tell me, John,' leaning forward against the table, ‘why do estate agents still insist on underquoting properties? I know it's to draw in the crowds, but …'

‘We don't underquote, Hugh.'

‘That's not what I've heard.'

The estate agent looked taken aback by this unexpected antagonism. ‘Properties are going for above the quoted price because the market's so strong right now. Demand is pushing up prices. Hugh, it's hardly our fault if people are outbidding each other.'

Kate whispered to him in the kitchen, when they were serving up a new course and opening more wine, ‘She's convinced he's the one.' Hugh raised an eyebrow. Jodie wasn't his favourite person, but surely she could do better than that. Maybe John was rich? He'd brought some expensive enough wines with them, that was for sure. ‘She's very keen on him.' Left unsaid by Kate was, ‘So be nice to him.'

Hugh was finding the meal too much of an effort. He stared morosely across the table. Kate and Jodie were discussing some childhood friend of theirs who had left her husband for a Russian criminal. They were both laughing.
It's all right for them,
he thought,
they're having a good time
.
How come I get stuck with this baby-faced bricks and mortar salesman?

‘You know what I can never work out …' A little voice inside his head told him that what he was about to say was not advisable, but it was so immersed in alcohol he could barely hear it. And anyway, he wanted to prick that veneer (or could it possibly be real?) of bonhomie and positivism. ‘It's how …' He struggled to search for the words that would express the rest of the thought, but now, quite suddenly, he was unable to remember what that thought had been.

It turned out John was reading his thoughts. ‘How we make so much money? Is that your question, Hugh? We also make a lot of money for our clients, you know.' John King was leaning in towards him, hands clasped on the edge of the table, an annoying, meaningless smile on his face, like a naughty kid who knows it's irritating its elders.

How come he looks so damned innocent?
‘Exactly. That's my point.' He tapped the top of the table with his forefinger, like a conductor's baton on the podium, trying to summon his thoughts to order. The sound resonated in the empty concert hall that was his head. ‘You make so much money for yourselves, you just have to be ripping off your clients. You have to be. It's not possible to make that much money without ripping someone off.'

‘But it is, Hugh. We make a lot of money for our clients, so I don't think we can be – as you put it – ripping them off at the same time.' He was like one of those dogs that you kick, and it keeps on coming back for more, wagging its tail, whining plaintively, sidling up to you in a gross parody of devoted subservience.

‘You trot out all those meaningless phrases, “In need of some TLC –”' He was losing the thread of his argument, if he'd ever had one, and he was finding it hard to concentrate.

‘What's wrong with that?'

‘Because you mean … what you actually mean is that the place is falling apart. So why not say that – why not tell the truth?'

‘No one would turn up then and, if it was your house we were selling, you wouldn't be too happy about that.'

‘I'd be happy if you told the truth.'

‘Is that what you do in advertising?'

‘It is.'

‘You're unusual, in that case, mate. And, sorry, but I'm not sure that I believe you.'

He stared into his glass of wine, hoping to discover there the thread that would allow him to continue his argument. Jodie leant across and patted her partner's hand. ‘What are you two discussing so earnestly?'

‘I think Hugh's telling me I make too much money.'

How fucking condescending,
he thought,
treating me like I'm some kid who's stepped out of line.

Jodie said, ‘But you do, darling, and isn't that wonderful!'

Hugh saw that his wife was frowning at him, but he was in no mood to be silenced.

‘Oh I think it's wonderful what John does,' he said in an effusive, overly sincere voice. ‘I'm full of admiration for someone who's clever enough to make so much money by selling the great Australian dream.'

‘And jealous, too, by the sounds of it,' Kate chipped in.

‘Undoubtedly, darling. Who wouldn't be?' And he looked around the table with as big a smile as he could muster, but no one returned it, so it must have failed to impress.

‘I think we should go to bed, John. I don't know about you two, but we're both tired. It's been a hard week.' And Jodie turned to her man for corroboration. He nodded, and they rose from the table. Hugh was a little surprised by the abrupt departure of their guests, yet was still sufficiently sober to appreciate the importance of getting to bed and falling asleep without exchanging one word with his wife. Somehow, he managed to achieve this.

The next day, after a leisurely breakfast that, for Hugh, involved drinking lots of coffee and reading the weekend papers, it was decided they'd all go for a walk on the beach. Hugh claimed there was still some DIY to be done before the end of the weekend, so he was excused. It struck him that everyone seemed quite happy he wouldn't be joining them, although his son tried to persuade him to change his mind. ‘If you build a sandcastle for me, Timmy, I'll be able to see it from up at the house.' He listened to their voices and laughter become more distant, the sounds pulsing strong then faint, turned up and down by a gusting wind along the clifftop.

On their return, Hugh made an effort to be polite to Jodie and John, steered clear of mentioning either advertising or the real estate business, and even made everyone tea. Not long after, holding a tired Tim, he stood next to his wife and watched their guests drive off in John's new Mercedes-Benz SLK, a car that Hugh happened to regard as a Dinky Toy suitable only for women drivers.
Absolutely perfect for an estate agent,
he thought.

As they disappeared out of sight, he reached out to put an arm round Kate's shoulders. He was a little surprised when she responded by moving up against him. ‘They're very nice,' he lied, ‘but I'm still glad we have Sunday evening alone.'

‘You always like Sunday evenings alone. You're weird.' They went indoors.

‘I'll give Tim something to eat and put him to bed.' He was feeling generous.

Later he came downstairs, his son still shouting, ‘Night, night, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite.' He asked Kate if he could change channels. ‘Fine. I'm not looking at anything in particular. What do you want to watch?'

‘It's our new Bauer commercial. It's on for the first time – before the News. You can tell me what you think of it.'

The commercial showed a Bauer speeding along a straight road while the driver speaks to the camera about the revolutionary technology. Without a break in what he's saying, he opens the door and climbs out. Meanwhile, the background scenery continues to hurtle past, as do other cars. It appears that the Bauer is travelling at well over a hundred kilometers an hour, yet the driver's walking around it.

‘How did you do that? That's amazing.'

‘It's some technical wizardry that I can't even get my head around. It was Fiona's idea, and she found some New Zealand production house that could do it.'

‘It's impressive. You haven't told me about Fiona, by the way. Was she all right the other night?'

‘Not really.'

‘Why did Russell get rid of her?'

‘I think he felt threatened by her. She certainly didn't deserve to be fired. He can't cope with opinionated women, that's the problem.'

‘Was she a feminist?'

‘Not the burning bra type, if that's what you mean. Just intelligent.'

They picked at some leftovers for their dinner, and watched a DVD. She was lying on the sofa, her head resting on his lap. Half way through the film she said, ‘I've been thinking, we should go away over Easter – camping or something.'

He glanced down at her. ‘All right.'

‘I mean it.' She twisted round to look up at him.

‘So do I.'

‘You hardly sound enthusiastic.'

‘I am. Honestly, it's a great idea. The forecast's pretty good, I think.'

‘Just the three of us. Special time together.'

He warmed to the idea. ‘We'll head up the coast. There might be a problem booking a campsite this late in the day, but we can head inland if that's the case. It'll be fun. We'll drive wherever the fancy takes us.'

They stopped the DVD. They told themselves it was boring. Instead they made plans. They were like kids. They were so excited they wanted to see if Tim was still awake so they could tell him the good news. Hugh went upstairs to check, but he was fast asleep. He struggled against the temptation to wake him. Tim had only been camping once before, and he'd had a great time. Every night he'd lain on his airbed and prodded the canvas above his head, unable to go to sleep for hours because he was so excited sharing the same sleeping area with his parents.

They both went to bed that Sunday night looking forward to Good Friday. It was only four work days away.