Hari Kunzru - Transmission

Gift.It had to be impressive. Impressive was the only way. Subconsciously Guy tended to think of Gabriella as less a partner than a situation to be managed. Often when he was with her he felt like a pilot steering a ship through a narrow channel, or a policeman facing an angry sports crowd. Though he found her emotions opaque, he had gradually turned that into a virtue, imagining her privately as ‘elemental’ or ‘inscrutable’, words with an erotic ring. He once tried to explain this to her, drunkenly kissing her and telling her she was ‘kind of Japanese’. Instead of confirming it, she gave him one of her looks. Management tools which worked on Gabriella were hard to come by. Pleading, for example, was not wise. Temporarily lacking imagination (though surging with confidence), he reverted to his default setting, which was to throw money at the problem. Money, he reasoned, was something she understood. If she was thinking of breaking up with him, perhaps a display of economic confidence stood a chance of changing her mind.

He paced up and down thinking of the possibilities, and when he found he was concentrating on the pacing rather than the thinking, went to the computer for inspiration and typed ‘expensive gift’ into a search engine. After a period examining Dom Pérignon presentation baskets, mother-of-pearl inlaid humidors, monogrammed desk sets and space vacation packages, he pushed the mouse away in disgust. None of it seemed appropriate. One company would deliver a top-of-the-range jet ski to her door. Interesting. But wrong. He returned to the kitchen, did another line, drank some mineral water, switched on MTV.

There it was. Bling bling. Shaking it in his face.

And so to Bond Street. More taxis. Sometimes, he mused, life was just a string of taxis. Hop out of one and into another, like a sequence from a Beatles movie. Maybe if there were four Guys, all identical, getting into a taxi one after the other, it would look cool, visually. As he paid the driver, he wondered whether he should make a note of this idea. He was feeling creative today. It would be a shame to lose anything.

Bond Street sounded like the coming of autumn, the susurrus of shopping bags filling the air as expensively remodelled matrons made their way between boutiques with terrifying speed and efficiency, like customs dogs searching a cargo hold. Guy spotted a young couple hesitating outside one retail bunker, intimidated by its whiteness, the three pairs of shoes on display in the window. They took a step forward, then bustled away as if signalling to the world that they had never really been tempted to go inside.

At the entrance to the jeweller’s stood a uniformed doorman wearing an earpiece. Guy focused (it was important to retain focus) and dived past him into the theatrical gloom of the shop. Narrow spotlights illuminated glass-covered trays of gems, leaving their human attendants veiled in mystic darkness.

‘Impressive,’ he affirmed, from between clenched teeth.

The staff seemed taken aback by the forcefulness of his purchasing style. A young assistant in a cheongsam showed him some loose stones. He kept repeating impressive to her, until she vanished and the manager took over. Together they looked at diamond necklaces and bracelets and studs. There was a great deal of technical detail to do with weights and settings. Guy tried to get the manager to dispense with this. Couldn’t the man see he was pressed for time?

The manager obviously conceptualized his role as a cross between door picker and guardian of a very exclusive religious shrine. This , he intoned in a High Church voice, is a very important decision. Guy raised his eyes to the ceiling. Too right it was important. The bitch was going to leave him if it didn’t work. Impressive, he reminded him, exasperated. Really impressive. Dripping disapproval, the manager shot his cuffs, suggesting that perhaps Guy would like to give the matter some thought. It was, after all, a major purchase. With poorly concealed impatience, Guy explained that no one had a clearer idea of what was at stake than him.

It was like wading through treacle, but eventually he left with what he wanted, a ruinously expensive collar that maxed out his credit card and nestled in a tiny leather case in his jacket pocket. The manager appeared reluctant to let the item go. Guy almost had to snatch it out of his hands.

Office.He entered the Tomorrow * building feeling deflated. The battle for the collar had drained him, and he was apprehensive that fresh troubles might be waiting at work. People would want to know about Dubai. There was a risk of negatively impacting morale. Putting on his best CEO face (breezy, competent), he accelerated purposefully as he walked into reception, greeting the girl at front desk with a big smile.

‘Hi, Nicky. Holding the fort OK?’

‘Charlotte.’

‘Are you new?’

‘No. You have messages.’

‘Later.’ He held up a hand and turned towards the stairs. Unfortunately he had been spotted. People were already converging on him with documents and questioning expressions. For all his study of management theory, Guy had never quite got the hang of delegation. Since Tomorrow * was supposed (according to its mission statement) to be a ‘seamless extension of his personal creativity’, he felt justified in taking an intuitive approach to the day-to-day running of the company. His staff were used to meetings where goals were suddenly redefined, new work magically created, and old work made irrelevant. As a result, they tended to check with him at least twice before embarking on anything time-consuming. He had not been in touch since he left for the Gulf. There was a backlog.

Brushing off the questioners, he locked himself in his creative space and did some more coke. His life-work balance restored, he called in Kika and told her to organize a Village Council meeting for later in the afternoon. The whole office. Attendance mandatory.

‘Does that mean you’ve got some good news?’ Kika asked.

‘Have you done something to your hair?’

‘Jesus, Guy The pitch. Did we get the work?’

‘It wasn’t right for us. They weren’t ready for what we were offering. You’ve done a kind of — what have you done to it?’

‘Oh, hell.’ She looked crestfallen.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said brightly, ‘it’s under control.’ He took the collar out of his pocket. ‘Could you get this couriered to Gabriella? She’s in Scotland. I’ll forward you a mail with the address.’

Kika looked at the name of the firm engraved on the box.

‘Just this?’

‘Yes. And it has to get there ASAP. By tonight if at all possible. Assuming their service isn’t fucked, like everything else.’

‘I mean — don’t you want to put a note in with it?’

‘Oh,’ he sniffed uncertainly. A note. Right. A note.’

What to say to Gaby? Please don’t leave me. I have medium-term plans for us up to and including marriage and babies? He wasn’t even certain that was what was on her mind, but, having spent several hours on the plane turning over the details of their phone conversation, there seemed to be no other possibility. That phrase. We need to talk. No one used it in any other context. She would have to choose now, when he had so much else on. The PEBA pitch was tomorrow morning. He had to fly to Brussels tonight. There was simply no time to do relationships right now.

It was an eloquent necklace. It was intended to speak for itself. But Kika was right — there should also be words. He took a compliments slip from a drawer and wrote in large marker-pen letters: