Claire Moss - Then You Were Gone

‘I can’t do it, Jazz,’ Mack was saying for at least the fourth time. ‘I just can’t. I could be looking at thirty-five more years of this shit. Well, I won’t because it’ll kill me long before that. I’ll drink myself into an early grave or deliberately crash my car into the central reservation or something. But I’ve got to get out. And I mean soon.’

‘Hmm, bit melodramatic, maybe? Even for you? Even for 11.47 p.m. on New Year’s Eve?’ Jazzy loved Mack like a brother (actually he preferred him to his actual brothers) but, Jesus, sometimes.

‘Mate, I’m never melodramatic. My life’s just very, very interesting.’

‘Yes, you’re right. You’re the most interesting anti-static flooring salesman I think I’ve ever met.’

‘Ha fucking ha. Do you know what, though?’ Mack took a too-large gulp of champagne and winced as he tried to swallow it in one and the bubbles went up his nose. ‘I go to these godawful “networking” things they make me do, and I eat the rancid food and I act like I give a shit, and I come away thinking, yes, I am the most interesting person in this room, and I don’t care if that makes me sound like a dick, because I am a dick, and anyway it’s true.’

‘I’m sure it is.’

‘No, honestly. Do you know, I was at one the other week in fucking, I don’t know, Kendal or somewhere in the arse end of nowhere, and it was a BREAKFAST one, which are just the WORST because you either have to stay overnight in the sub-Crossroads shithole that’s hosting it or you have to get up at five a.m. and drive there, and either way you feel like Alan Partridge, and the only way not to feel like Alan Partridge is not to talk to anyone, but you’re not allowed to do that because talking to people is the only reason you’re there in the first place.’

‘Plus, you never stop talking, even at seven in the morning.’ Jazzy was only half-listening, looking round the kitchen to make sure Petra wasn’t going to be within kissing distance of any of Mack’s handsome hipster beardos when Big Ben struck midnight.

‘That as well. But anyway, we’d all finished our flabby bacon and rock-hard eggs and we were taking it in turns to do our spiel, and the last guy up was some poor downtrodden bastard from a plastics company in Barrow in Furness, and when he’d finished talking he whipped his business card out and – ta fucking dah – the guy’s business card is made. Of. PLASTIC. Here, I’ve still got it. Check that out.’

It was a small one, the size of a credit card with the same rounded edges. Neil Stannah , it said, Head of Sales and Business Development, Northern Region . ‘Hmm, yeah. Wow. That’s… that’s quite something.’ Jazzy handed Mack the card back and stood up, the better to survey the crowded room.

‘Isn’t it just? But that’s not the worst bit. That’s nowhere NEAR the worst bit. After he whipped it out, everyone else round the table started pissing themselves laughing.’ Mack himself let out a humourless bark of laughter and shook his head. ‘And not at what a loser this guy was. They genuinely thought it was funny, like, “Hey, this guy works for a plastics company and even his business card is made of plastic! Can you believe this shit? Are we having fun here or what ?” I genuinely thought I might pass out, or puke up my hash browns. I saw it then, forty years of this, up and down the M6, in and out of Premier Lodges, talking the talk and eating the swill and it was like someone had flicked a switch in my head. I’ve got to get out, Jazz. I’m drowning.’

They had had conversations along these lines many times before, even prior to the plastic business card incident, but this time there was something different. The panic in Mack’s eyes was real, there was genuine desperation in his tone. ‘I’m quitting,’ he said. It was something he had said before, and Jazzy half-ignored him. He was drunk, he was tired, it was three minutes to midnight and he had misplaced his fiancée. Plus Jazzy had his own work problems on his mind. The small, private investment bank he had been a software developer for since he returned from Japan, had put him and the whole of the IT department on notice of redundancy three weeks before Christmas. He did not particularly want to listen to someone threatening to put themselves out of work through choice.

‘No, really,’ Mack went on. ‘I really am this time. I’ve spoken to Keith about it.’

Jazzy had instantly become alert. This was something he had always worried about, that Mack would somehow allow himself to fall into Keith’s hands. Jazzy did not know anything for definite about Keith, did not even know that how he made his money was illegal, but he could not believe that anyone could become as wealthy as Keith purely from selling second hand cars and cheap imported electrical goods. And he knew that becoming part of Keith’s world was emphatically not something that Mack wanted. He had hinted as much several times, had told Jazzy that the reason he had gone into sales was so that he could make enough money to never have to go asking his mum or Keith for anything (Jazzy had known that really Mack was only talking about Keith. Mack’s mother had no money to speak of, and nothing other than a bottle of aftershave at Christmas that Mack might need). It had seemed like a point of pride, but also of self-protection. ‘Keith?’ Jazzy said, unable to keep the shock or disapproval out of his tone.

‘Don’t worry,’ Mack shook his head, his words smooth and fluid after all the champagne. ‘It’s legit. He’s got a new arm to the business, he thinks I’d be ideal to head up the sales section. Well, I say head up, I think to be honest I’d be it.’

‘What is it then? This new “arm”?’ Jazzy hoped he sounded less suspicious than he felt.

Mack smiled. ‘Wedding dresses.’

‘Wedding dresses? Keith?’

Mack laughed. ‘I know. Sounds pretty unlikely, doesn’t it? But he’s got this contact over in Russia or somewhere – some guy he used to play golf with I think, who’s gone back to the motherland. Anyway, he makes these really high-end wedding dresses – they’d retail for a few grand here – and Keith can get them at a good price. He’s been flogging a few on eBay recently and they’ve gone pretty well, but he wants to start bringing them in wholesale, selling them on to retail places. That’s where I come in.’ He flashed a grin. ‘Now, go on, admit it. Am I not the perfect guy to do that job? These shops are all run by nice ladies of a certain age. I don’t think I’m flattering myself to suggest I do have a certain way with nice ladies of a certain age. I think I’ll be able to turn their heads in the direction of Keith’s bridal gown range pretty successfully.’

Jazzy had to laugh. ‘I suppose you’re right. I can’t think of a better person to do that job. Is that going to be the name of the company then? “Keith’s Bridal Gown Range”?’

Mack laughed too. ‘No. It’s not really called anything at the moment, but I think he’s going to call it “Anastasia”. Can’t really call it “Russian Brides”, can he? Might give off the wrong impression.’

Jazzy had tried gently to nudge Mack away from the idea of working for Keith. Although the wedding dress thing did not sound screamingly, actively illegal, it could surely not be entirely above board either. But Mack would not be moved. He gave his notice at the anti-static flooring company and, a few weeks into the new year, he became the regional sales rep, national sales rep, director of sales and deputy director of sales for Anastasia Ltd. ‘I’m desperate,’ he confessed to Jazzy on the only occasion when he had expressed anything approaching doubts. ‘I know it’s a cop out, taking a job from an old family friend.’ (That was how Mack always referred to his and Keith’s relationship if anyone asked.) ‘And I know Keith’s not exactly man of the year at the Inland Revenue or anything. But he’s promised me this is legit, and I believe him. Anyway, I’ve got to get out. And this ought to be a laugh. Come on, women’s clothing? I was born to do it.’ His laugh had been a little too hearty, Jazzy thought, his enthusiasm a little too full, and when Jazzy looked into his friend’s eyes, behind the chilly blue he could see absolutely nothing.