Dumped, Actually(53)

This time I swing the ridiculous club a bit slower and with more control – and what would you know, I actually hit the golf ball!

Okay, it doesn’t fly anywhere near as far as Benedict’s did, but neither does it just dribble off into one of the nearby bushes. The shot is relatively straight, relatively high and relatively hard. Einstein would be proud of me.

I watch as the ball hits the fairway about two hundred yards away, and comes to a stop in the middle of the lush, green grass.

When I look back at Benedict, I am pleased to see he looks like he’s chewing on a wasp. Hung is wide-eyed with amazement. As well he might be.

I bend over and pick up my tee. ‘Shall we?’ I say to them both, walking back to sit in the golf cart.

The confidence I had back in Erica’s office swells in my chest again. This might not be so bad, after all. I’m not going to beat Benedict, but at least I’m not going to make a complete fool out of myself, with any luck!


I tell you what, though, I’m doing more than not making a fool of myself. Nine holes in, and I’m actually starting to get good at this silly game. That pitch-and-putt fourth place is starting to make a whole lot more sense now.

I’ve only bogeyed four holes, hit par on a further four and have just sunk my putt on the second par 3 of the course to get a birdie!

I’m only two shots behind Benedict!

And can you hear him grumble? Oh my, yes. Yes, you can.

Look how his brow furrows. Take joy in the tense set of his shoulders. Rejoice in the near constant look of combined frustration and befuddlement on his face. I’m sure he brought me out here to lord it over me all afternoon, but no lording has been done. There’s been less lording done here than at an atheist’s convention.

He’s on the back foot. He’s shaken and stirred. He’s out of sorts.

Wonderful.

‘Nicely done,’ he tells me as we walk back to the golf cart. He’s trudging. I have a spring in my step.

‘Thanks, Benedict. That putt from eight feet was quite good, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ he replies, begrudgingly, ramming his putter back in the bag. He then pulls out a packet of cigars. ‘Time for a break, I think.’

I smile inwardly. He wants to mess up my rhythm. It’s an obvious tactic.

Benedict pulls out a cigar, and then offers the packet to me. I shake my head, but thank him for the offer. He shrugs his shoulders and snaps his fingers. Hung moves to his side with a lighter. I cringe and feel a bit nauseous.

‘So, let’s talk Actual Life,’ Benedict says, blowing out a wreath of smoke. ‘You’ve done very well, Oliver . . . Ollie. The website owes all of its recent success to you. Well done.’

‘Er . . . thank you, sir.’ I don’t know what to do with these compliments from this man. It’s rather like being confronted by an enormous and dangerous grizzly bear, who pats you on the head and offers you some chocolate.

‘No doubt about it, you’re a man on the rise.’

‘Am I?’

‘Yes, indeed. I’ve been keeping my eye on you.’

This announcement makes my skin crawl, and my sense of self-worth sky-rocket. It’s a weird combination.

‘That’s why I asked you to come out here today,’ Benedict continues. ‘To discuss your future with ForeTech.’

‘My future?’

‘Indeed! And what a future it could be, Ollie! I have many projects on the go, and many fingers in many pies.’ He smiles at me . . . shark-like. Or should that be spider-like, given how many fingers he appears to have. ‘I’ve just put a rather sizeable investment into Condé Nast, actually. You know who they are, don’t you?’

Of course I do. No self-respecting journalist doesn’t. That company owns a vast array of some of the world’s most successful magazines – a lot of which I’d kill to work for.

‘Yes, Benedict, I know who they are,’ I say, a bit dumbly. My brain is trying to leap forward a few seconds in this conversation, scarcely able to believe where it might be going.

‘Excellent. Well . . . that gives me a lot of sway with them, as you might imagine. So much so that I’m sure I could put in a good word for somebody like you. Maybe at Wired magazine . . . or GQ?’

He leaves this hanging in the air, as heavy as his cigar smoke.

Bloody hell. Writing for something like GQ would be a dream. It’s why I got into this business in the first place.

‘Um. Wow. I don’t know what to say.’

‘Oh, don’t worry. I’m just spitballing here,’ Benedict replies, voice dripping honey, ‘but I’m sure you’d slot in quite well somewhere like that . . . a man with your talents.’

‘Thank you.’ I couldn’t be more buttered up right now if I crashed into a truck of Kerrygold.

‘And for me to have a word in the ear of the right person, Ollie, all I’d need from you in return is a small favour.’

Ah.

‘A small favour?’

‘Yes.’

‘What kind of small favour?’

Benedict takes another drag on the cigar, inspecting me. ‘I won’t beat around the bush, Ollie. I want Actual Life gone from my portfolio of companies. It was a mistake to buy it in the first place, and I want nothing more to do with it. Sadly, the way ForeTech is set up, I need the approval of a majority of our board of directors to liquidate it, and I can’t get that at the moment – all thanks to your . . . considerable efforts.’