Dumped, Actually(51)
My boss taps the bottom of her chin thoughtfully for a moment, regarding me closely. ‘Alright, then, Ollie. Go spend the day with Benedict. I don’t think it’s a good idea . . . for many reasons, but you seem quite determined.’
I thrust out my chin. ‘I am.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Well, all I’d ask is that you keep your guard up, and remember what kind of man you’re dealing with.’
‘I will.’
A strange sense of satisfaction washes over me. I’ve just had a disagreement with Erica Hilton . . . and have come out on top. This never happens. Not the coming out on top bit – I mean having a disagreement. With anyone. Ever.
‘Can you play golf?’ Erica asks, very doubtfully.
‘I came fourth in a pitch and putt once,’ I tell her confidently.
Her eyes narrow and she reaches into a desk drawer. She pulls out a small box of pills and throws it at me. I catch it and look at its contents. ‘CalmFast,’ I read, ‘for when you need a relief from highly stressful situations.’
I give Erica a flat look.
I think she’s going a bit overboard here. It’s only a round of golf with the man. I’m not scaling the north face of the Eiger, or engaging in a wrestling match with him. I know he’s a bad person, but I’m pretty sure I can handle a few hours in his company. Hell . . . maybe I can get to the bottom of why he hates Actual Life so much, while I’m at it. That’d be a scoop, wouldn’t it?
No. This is going to go fine, I’m sure. And even if it doesn’t, it’ll make a good story whatever happens, and that’s the main thing!
I intend to approach this whole thing with a new-found sense of confidence and purpose. I figure it makes a nice change from nervous and flailing.
Sheldon Brook is every bit as awful as you’ve imagined from my previous descriptions. The clubhouse looks like Wayne Manor, without the benefit of an incumbent superhero to give it a valid reason to exist.
The second I pull up in the taxi laid on by Benedict’s secretary, I am regarded with suspicion and dislike by all of the fat, rich, white men. I am far too young and poorly dressed to be here. These men probably think Adidas is a place in Africa.
Having announced my presence to the bored-looking male receptionist in the club’s foyer, I am then forced to stand around like a spare you-know-what at a wedding for ten minutes, while Benedict wraps up some kind of impromptu business meeting in a room somewhere in Sheldon Brook’s recesses.
This gives the old men a really good chance to examine me for my many imperfections as they come and go between golf course and clubhouse. I now know what it’s like to be an animal at the zoo. One of the crap ones. Maybe a pig of some description. Probably from Africa.
Whatever sense of self-confidence I may have temporarily experienced in the office with Erica has evaporated under their judgemental glare. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe I should have just gone and done some meditation.
No, Oliver! This is what you were expecting! Now just gird whatever loins you may have hidden about your person and get through this!
‘Ah! There you are, Oliver!’ Benedict Montifore says in that rich, expensive baritone as he emerges into the foyer from a dimly lit bar area, where many of his fellow Sheldon Brookers are enjoying some lunchtime brandy and casual racism.
He’s wearing golf clothes, and therefore looks like a plonker. It’s impossible for anyone to look like anything other than a plonker in golf clothes. Feel free to line up Chris Hemsworth, Bradley Cooper, Idris Elba and Ryan Gosling, and put them all in golf clothes. They will all look like plonkers of the highest order.
I have a great deal of love and respect for my dad, but the one he time he tried to play golf he had to dress appropriately for it, and he looked like a plonker as well.
‘Hello, Mr Montifore,’ I reply as my boss-plonker approaches me – a man I have absolutely zero respect for.
‘Please. Call me Benedict!’
Do I have to?
‘Okay, Benedict. Feel free to call me Ollie, if you like.’
‘Thank you, Oliver. I may do at some point.’
. . . if I’ve been a very good boy, no doubt. What is it with these exclusive rich people and their desire to treat everyone else like a pet dog? If this goes on for much longer, I might as well change my name to Ollie the Collie.
‘Ready for some fun on the links?’ Benedict asks.
‘Yes!’ I reply, trying to fake some enthusiasm. What are the links? Or does he mean lynx? Are we going to ride a feral cat at some point?
Benedict slaps me on the back. ‘Excellent. Let’s get you some clubs, and we’ll be on our way.’
Benedict leads me back out of the enormous clubhouse, and around to an equally prestigious building to the side of it. This one looks brand new and modern, in stark contrast to the clubhouse. A long and low structure made out of black aluminium and glass, it appears to house the golfing equipment of all the men sat a few feet away, drinking Hennessey cognac and complaining about how many brown people there are at their private hospital nowadays.
‘You can use one of my sets of Callaways, I think,’ Benedict informs me, before barking orders at a young Asian man in a white uniform, who runs off to get our equipment for the day.
A few minutes later he returns with two sets of golf clubs, both of which look more expensive than my last three cars combined.