William Boyd - Ordinary Thunderstorms

Ingram closed the magazine. He should feel proud, he supposed — this drug had been developed by his company, his team (with help from Rilke Pharmaceuticals, of course) and its success would rebound hugely in his and Calenture-Deutz’s favour…He flicked back to the ad — interesting, no Rilke logo, just Calenture-Deutz’s. In the proof he’d been shown by Rilke that day the inference was that this was a fight being led by Rilke Pharma. Perhaps Alfredo was shrewdly hedging his bets, waiting for the submissions to go through, get the rubber stamp before he re-directed the limelight.

Ingram sighed audibly — he was always sighing in Lachlan’s waiting room, he realised, but this time he was alone. He should feel proud, yes, dammit — years of work and toil, millions of pounds of investment and the drug was perhaps only a few weeks, some months or so, away from licensing. Good would be done in the world, suffering would be eased, mankind’s lot would be more bearable, this vale of tears less burdensome — and yet he felt unhappy, morose, powerless, even angry. How had he allowed this to happen? How come Burton Keegan and Alfredo Rilke were calling all the shots?…He knew immediately the simple, brutal answer to his outraged question — money. Maybe that was what was affecting his mood. Guilt. They had given him so much money that he had allowed himself to be neutered. That’s what he was: a eunuch. A eunuch chairman, a testicularly challenged CEO—

“You’ll have had your tea, Ingram,” Dr Lachlan McTurk said in the quavering voice of a Scottish miser, beckoning him with one finger into his consulting room.

Ingram showed him the pages in the magazine. “Have you seen this?” he asked.

“Not until now — but half a dozen of my patients have already asked me for your wonder drug. There have been articles in the press hailing it. Congratulations — it looks like being a monster.”

“Thank you. Yes, I suppose…” Ingram waited for the warm glow of pride, that little kick of self-esteem, but it resolutely would not come. He felt flat, depressed.

“And I suppose you’re going to make truly disgusting amounts of money,” Lachlan said, rummaging among his notes.

“Possibly,” Ingram said. “But the question is: will I live to display it?”

“Display your money?”

“I meant to say ‘enjoy’…” Ingram said, frowning.

“Enjoy it and display it — conspicuous consumption.” Lachlan laughed, genuinely, a surprisingly girlish giggle from such a large man. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Cholesterol’s a bit high — join the club. Gamma-GT’s at the top end of the range — cut down a tad on the booze. You’re not overweight for a man of your age. Nothing showed up in the tests. Clean bill of health in my book.”

“I still get these frantic itches. This blood-spotting on my pillow. Very unsettling, you know,” Ingram said, more plaintively than he meant. He didn’t feel a stoic today. “Also, I keep making these slips with words. I think I’m saying one word but I’m actually using another.”

“Ah. Catachresis.”

“Is that what I have?”

“No, no,” Lachlan said, quickly. “That’s just the linguistic term for the phenomenon: a paradoxical use of words, you know, in error. A kind of innocent mixed-metaphor effect. ‘Display’ for ‘enjoy’ is rather good, in fact.”

“But sometimes I’ve meant to say ‘conversation’ and have said ‘temperature’. There is no logic.”

“Everything’s connected, particularly between words. Perhaps you were unconsciously recalling a particularly ‘hot’ conversation.”

“If everything’s connected, do you think this ‘catachresis’ is connected with the blood-spotting and the itches?”

Lachlan looked at him closely, almost suspiciously. “What I could do, of course, is give you a very powerful anti-depressant. You’ll be walking on air.”

“No thanks.” Pull yourself together, man, Ingram told himself. “I’m relieved. Thank you, Lachlan. Very grateful.”

“Let me know when your wonder drug’s about to hit the market. I’ll buy some shares.”

♦

Ingram tugged on his socks, aware that his low mood had returned, if in fact it had ever left him. Maybe he should have taken Lachlan up on his offer of some happy pills — a little bit of chemical euphoria might be what he needed. He stood up and slipped his feet into his loafers and reached for his tie. Even this session with Phyllis hadn’t really cheered him up. She came into the room now, wearing a long silk dressing gown, red with snarling, scaly golden dragons. She had a clinking glass in each hand.

“Large vodka and tonic, squire,” she said, handing his over. “Cheers, Jack.” She blew him a kiss. “No extra charge.”

They touched the rims of their glasses and Ingram took two large gulps, enjoying the hit and the clear dry taste of the vodka.

“Phyllis,” he said, feigning spontaneity, “I was just thinking: would you ever contemplate — I mean, do you think we might be able to arrange a little holiday together?” He started putting on his tie. “Short break. Four or five days. Somewhere far away, sunny.”

“I have done holidays with some of my gents, yeah. Nice change of scene for us all.”

She sat down on the bed and allowed her dressing gown to fall open so he could see her left breast.

“Where are we thinking about, love?” she asked.

“Morocco, I thought, there’s a super hotel—”

“Nah — don’t do the Med.”

“Florida? The Caribbean? South Africa?”

“More interesting.”

“I’d already be at the villa—”

“Hotel. Not villa holidays, darling. No room service.”

“Yes, hotel. And you fly in separately—”

“Business class,” she pulled the lapels of her dressing gown together.

“Goes without saying. We spend three or four blissful days together. You fly out.”

“I don’t think so, Jack. I lose money on these holidays. And it’s never really that enjoyable for me, to tell the truth. Thanks, but no thanks.”

“We could go radio if you prefer — I mean east: Sri Lanka, Thailand.”

“No. Best forget it.”

She stood and came over to him, frowning, pretending to show concern, rubbing his cheek with her knuckles.

“What’s brought this on, Jack-me-lad? Thought you wasn’t quite your old perky self.”

Ingram made up some story about pressure of work — he had told her once he was a pharmacist, he remembered. He said he was going to sell the shop — that was it, sell the business, he improvised — treat himself to a holiday.

“You built it up — you deserve the rewards,” she said. “You save your money. You earned it. You couldn’t really afford me on one of these trips. Wouldn’t like to take it off you.”

“Fine, no problem. You’re probably right.”

On the Tube train back to Victoria, Ingram felt his spirits lifting somewhat, even though Phyllis had quashed his plans. The idea had come to him a few days ago, and he wondered exactly why. Maybe it was just the simple need for change — a temporary change in his life with a new, very short-term, complication-free partner (he knew Meredith would suspect nothing — he was always flying off abroad to conferences and meetings). Bit of sea and sun, good food, good wine, vigorous uncomplicated sex on demand…Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea — there were other ‘Phyllises’ out there in the world…

He looked about him, at his fellow passengers: shabby, slumped, expressionless, glum Londoners, a few reading, many plugged into their headphones, one pretty blonde girl seemed to be watching a miniature TV — was that possible? — and he sensed his mood lightening further as he projected forward to potential holidays with other Phyllises, wondering at the same time how much more money Zembla-4 was going to make for him. “The eunuch billionaire”—he could live with that. Perhaps his new Phyllis could fly in on a private jet after the Zembla-4 launch — personally, he wouldn’t be setting foot on a commercial airline again for the rest of his life. He thought about that little trick she’d done with her scarlet dragon robe, letting it fall open like that. She knew what buttons to push, knew how to excite him. That would be the problem with someone new — it just wouldn’t be the same.