Peter Hamilton - Misspent Youth

“Ah.” James brightened suddenly. “Let’s give your memory another little test, shall we?” He started to beckon urgently across the living room.

Jeff watched with mild interest as an attractive young woman in a little black cocktail dress smiled at James and came over to them. She had the kind of slow walk that drew attention her way. When she reached them, Jeff noticed the dress wasn’t actually that small after all, it was just the cut that made it appear that way to his mind.

“This is Nicole,” James said. “Nicole, I’m sure you remember Dr. Baker.”

“Hi,” she said with a playful smile. “Nice to see you again, especially with you looking like this. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. I have to admit my memory hasn’t come through this in a perfect state. Did we know each other before?”

James patted Nicole’s bare shoulder. “My granddaughter. She used to come and swim in your pool in the holidays.”

“Oh right!” Jeff suddenly had the image of a ten-year-old kid in a Day-Glo pink swimsuit running around on the lawn, shrieking and giggling as she chased after a huge inflatable beach ball. That must have been twenty years ago, which put her in her early thirties. Looking at her closely, he suspected some genoprotein treatments. Her hair was a honey blonde and stylishly cut, while her skin was smooth and healthy, lightly tanned as opposed to her grandfather’s oven-roasted shade. “So what are you doing these days?”

“Helping the family business stay afloat.”

“Taking it over,” James muttered.

“Grandpa!” she chided with a mock anger. “Only the southern Europe sector. It’s still your company.”

“Not really.” He sighed. “I’m going in less and less. Dempsey doesn’t like the way I do things, says I’m too old fashioned. I depress office morale, and they’re frightened of getting sued. Bugger it, when I see something that needs doing, then I bloody well say so. It’s called management. But oh no, I’ve got to be more sensitive to their needs and working environment. Load of bollocks, that’s the attitude that got us into the shit-awful mess we’re in today. I say what I think, not what others want me to say.”

“That’s not why you’re going in less.” Nicole looked straight at Jeff. “Honestly, we just run a smaller office these days. Everyone works from home on a distributed network. Another five years and we won’t even have an office.”

“You’ve got to have an office,” James complained. “No matter how networked we get, the human contact is essential at the top level. Money is about trust; our clients have a right to meet us so they can see for themselves what kind of people we are.”

“Yes, Grandpa.”

“Oh, bloody hell. This dinosaur needs another drink.”

Jeff shook his head as James wandered off. “Can’t you just give him his golden watch and a pension?”

“James won’t retire,” she said. “The boredom would drive him crazy, then kill him. Besides, you’re a fine one to talk about pensions. If you don’t mind me asking, what exactly did your pension fund management company say about paying you? Are they suspending the payments until you look seventy again?”

“I’m not sure. They haven’t been in touch.”

“If they ever do make this rejuvenation lark cheap enough for the masses, pension stocks are going to take a mighty dive. We can’t afford to pay out for a hundred years. Funds are designed to last for twenty at the most.”

“Bankers in pain,” Alan said. “Now there’s a happy thought.”

“Uncle Alan, don’t be so cruel. We make the world go round.”

“That is one argument against rejuvenation,” Jeff said thoughtfully.

“What?” Nicole asked. “We can’t afford it?”

“No. If you double your life span, you double the number of years you have to work. Is it really worth it?”

“Let us know when you find out.” She took a sip from her flute. “Did you really forget me?”

“Be fair, I haven’t seen you for ages.”

“We could remedy that. I don’t normally tout for business among family friends; but maybe you should get a professional review of your finances now that your circumstances have changed so much.”

“Tell me more,” he said.

SUE AND HER FRIENDS Jane, Pamela, and Lynda had taken to calling themselves the Rutland nonworking mothers club. It started off as a laugh one evening round at Lynda’s house, when they were all drinking vodka and both of Lynda’s young kids had started crying upstairs.

“Oh, leave them to it,” Lynda had grumped. “They’ll cry themselves out eventually.” The nanny was out for the evening, and she was too sloshed to move from her huge reclining chair.

The name had stuck. And they introduced entry requirements.

Have you left your sick child in bed so you can go and have sex with your lover? If so, how high was the child’s temperature?

How much of your Eurosocial child allowance do you spend on sleazy silk underwear that you wear only for your lovers, not your husband?

Have you refused to let the nanny/au pair go out for the night, then left them alone in the house while you seduced their boyfriend?

Have you notched up a speeding fine in your husband’s car when you were on your way to see your lover in a hotel?

Sue had an impressively high score on most of them. She enjoyed the company of her fellow club members while she was staying at the manor. They all shared the same circumstances: young, attractive, married, wealthy, living out in the countryside, bored out of their skulls. Of course, most of her London friends, the set she mixed with while she was staying at the Knightsbridge flat, would have an even higher percentage. But that was metropolitan life for you.

After the welcome home party had begun, the four of them wound up lurking in the kitchen together. To their exotic tastes, the party was pretty dull, and the kitchen was where they could talk freely. It was also where they could eye up the waiters, all lads in their early twenties from the university in Peterborough. They didn’t care what they said in front of the hired staff; shocking them was part of the game.

“I could be named in the divorce papers,” Pamela told the others breathlessly as soon as they’d gathered.

“My God,” Lynda drawled. “Does Ken know?”

“No. It’s only a threat, so far. The bitch’s lawyer is just trying it on. Besides, if I don’t admit to it, and Johan doesn’t, there’s bugger all they can do about it.”

Annabelle followed one of the waiters in, hunting her fresh drink. Her eyes flicked over the four expensively dressed women, and she hesitated.

“Annabelle,” Sue called. “Don’t be frightened, darling, we don’t bite. Girls, this is Annabelle, my son’s girlfriend.”

A couple of halfhearted smiles were thrown Annabelle’s way.

“But Ken will know, even if they can’t stand up in court and say you’re the irreconcilable difference,” Jane said.

“So?” Pamela said. “It’s not like he behaves himself. Besides, we’ve got a prenup.”

“Ah, God’s little gift to decent women everywhere,” Lynda said; she raised her voice. “Annabelle, if you ever get hitched, darling, make sure you’ve got a prenup. Take the advice of those who know a thing or two about it.”

Annabelle gave them a forced smile. One of the waitresses took mercy on her and asked what she wanted.

“I saw you’d brought Patrick along this evening,” Jane said to Sue. She kept one eye on Annabelle. “Have you introduced him to Jeff yet?”

“No.” Sue knew she should stop her friend from being this much of a bitch in front of the girl, but she’d had vodka shots in her Veuve Clicquot. “I didn’t think it would be appropriate. Why rock the boat now?”