James Pt 02 2

James - Part 2

"James!"

My sister's voice rises to a shrill loud tone through the open doors to my balcony. "Are you even listening to me?"

I sigh as I close my eyes and tilt my head from side to side, hearing my neck crack as I lean my arms on top of the balustrade. Opening my eyes, I mentally return to counting the yachts criss-crossing the harbour in the warm evening. Twilight racing in one of the most beautiful settings in the world.

Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen...

"You can be so fucking rude sometimes." My sister's hand curls around my upper arm as she resorts to manhandling me to retain my attention.

I slowly turn my head and look down at her small hand. She may be diminutive, but my little sister has always been a force to be reckoned with. Those who mistake her stature for meekness are quickly corrected. I am her biggest champion in our, frankly, misogynistic company, and dare I say it, she is better suited to the corporate BS than I am. I knew it, and our father knew it.

"This deal is huge; it could make your department, and you know, after that last one, heaven knows why you didn't close it, all you have to do is spend a few weeks in Europe getting it all into place, and the benefits to the company will be astronomical. I mean, you have to see that, if you just finish the negotiations the way Daddy says this time..." She trails off with a sigh as she releases my arm.

Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three...

I maintain my stoic silence, knowing she isn't done yet. We haven't even touched on my male privilege.

"If I was given this project, I would jump at it. I mean, look at all the opportunities you've had, James: school, the company; your path is so much more simple. It's a man's world, you know. I get that we are definitely lucky to have Daddy and the company to help us. I like to think I would be at the same place in this stupid boys club anyway, but can't you see it? All the partying, messing around, girls, and don't even get me started on the wannabe rock star thing."

twenty-four, twenty-five....

And there it is. She is so predictable in her rapid diatribe. Next will be the '

why don't you settle down?

part.' It's like she thinks she is taking Mum's place in saying these things, except Mum wouldn't have said them. Mum was a dreamer; at least that's how Dad always described her, but I loved her dreams and miss them to this very day.

My bedroom in our childhood home had a window that opened out onto a flat roof above the dining room on the floor below. We had this thing where, when she came in to say goodnight, sometimes she would pick up a blanket and go to the window and open it. I can see her now beckoning to me--her blue eyes so bright even at night, her wild, long sandy blonde hair--she was flawlessly pretty and just so steadfast. She truly believed in all her fantastical ideas and dreams for the future, and those happy times listening to her weave stories as we lay together on that rooftop is a core childhood memory.

Mum whispered into the night sky as we watched the stars, about a stage that she would see me on, about music being part of my soul, about the goodness she saw in me touching others, and other wild bohemian imaginings. I think, for me at least, in those formative years she knew she had to provide some sort of antidote to what was inevitable; in that offbeat way of hers, she weaved a tale of some sort of alternative future. Just in those moments, it was nice escapism while it lasted.

Emily was so young when she died, she was more accustomed to her absence and our father's indifference. She is so like him, in a beautiful pint-sized package. She just needed the rest of the middle-aged white guys to figure it out: the daughter is the one with the cutthroat demeanour to take our father's company to the next level; she is the one to take these guys by the balls and squeeze until she closes the deal, no matter what the cost.

She turns and leans in to me, resting her head on my shoulder in a rare show of affection as she sighs.

"How many?" She asks, knowing my habit of distracting myself with counting and rhythms well enough.

"Twenty-eight," I admit, "but I was listening to every word you said."

"Just go to Europe, James, and it will get him off your case," she softens her tone.

"With zero regard for my life and the things I have going on here, like he just thinks I can just pack up and leave, I have things on you, you know. And to be blunt, I just don't want to go." I shoot back, taking my turn to release frustration.

"Like what, James?" She lifts her head as she challenges me; this is the part she enjoys when shots are returned. "Tell me, James." She stands straighter, placing one hand on her hip. "What dive did you go and bash a few drums in last night?" Her head flicks to the discarded drumsticks on the coffee table inside my apartment.

"Do you have any idea what it would look like if any of our clients saw you? I mean, not that they would visit any of the establishments you seem to gravitate towards. It's disgusting for someone in your position to be partying and messing around with bands."

Her voice drops to a cool, calm tone. Eerily similar to the one our father employed just before he tore you a new one.

"Top of your class at the best law school and partner in a global company, yet you seem to live in some sort of playboy apartment whilst hanging out with a bunch of degenerates. Why don't you settle down? I mean, that girl you are seeing, were seeing, who the hell knows, the interior designer. Whatever."

She wrinkles her nose.

"She seems decent, a little bit dim but decent; just be like normal people, move in together, get a dog, what-the-fuck-ever." She throws her hands up in frustration. "Take her with you if that will get you on the fucking plane."

"He sent you here to persuade me, didn't he?" I turn my head, and anger flashes in my eyes. He always got her to do his dirty work when all else failed with me.

She dramatically flops into one of the chairs on my balcony and pushes her fingers back into her short, bobbed hair as she nods.

"Come on, James; he told me I have to get you to go, and he thinks it will do you good." She drops her tone, "and that I will get to cover the Archer deal while you are away."

I throw my head back and laugh--a deep belly laugh that diffuses the tension. "Damn it, Emily, why didn't you just lead with that?"

She pouts and fiddles uncharacteristically with the hem of her shirt, "because I didn't want you to just go because of that."

Suddenly, she is back to being my little sister, and I am fighting the urge to go over and ruffle her hair. The revelation that she will have the opportunity to take over my largest client and case is massive for her--a real sink or swim moment to prove herself to the rest of the company. I can feel how badly she wants it radiating off her. I can suck up London for a couple of weeks to give her this moment.

"Of course I will go," I smile at her, the choice so simple now, "but I'm not taking Mia."

I have been seeing Mia on and off for a number of months, like all the ones before; she was impressed with the job, the name, the car, and the apartment. She was a pleasant distraction; it was mutual; she liked the places I took her; she liked the status. Did she like me as a person? I didn't really know, and even worse, I probably didn't care. Sometimes I liked having someone to wake up with; sometimes I didn't. I didn't know what I wanted, to be honest, but I knew the sad reality was that I wouldn't miss her while I was away. Perhaps my dad and sister were right; if I could just see past my resentment, perhaps I did need a break from my routine here.

My sister's joy at the opportunity my departure would present to her and subsequent elevation in the company unfortunately did little to prop up the dark mood I descended into over the following days as I prepared for my trip. I cancelled a few gigs and activities I had planned with the band and my climbing buddies. I told Mia that we should see other people; she took it pretty well and definitely didn't leave the members club we were in that night inconsolable. She had been pretty matter of fact about the whole thing; me being out of town would impact her social calendar and access to exclusive haunts, so she soon left me in the booth we had been sitting in to circulate. We didn't even bother saying goodbye to each other.

My father was also pleased that I had come around to the right decision and gave very precise instructions on how closing the European deal was to go down: I had to present a forceful position, I was representing him and the company, and we had to demonstrate our strength.

I chucked back the champagne served in the first-class cabin of my flight in rapid succession, trying to wash over the weight of being my father's son and the expectation of the company on my shoulders. More than anything, I tried to tap into the indifference I would need to convey in this deal, which I knew would have grave ramifications for the other side but was massively beneficial for our company. It is all an unspoken test. Prove to him and to the other partners in his law firm, prove why the privileged son should have a seat at the table.

As I stared out of the small window next to my seat into the inky black sky, I could almost feel the ocean breeze from when I used to lay staring into the same darkness with my mum on that roof outside my bedroom.

'I see your path.'

She had whispered with a smile on her lips.

'In the stars, Mama?'

I had asked enthralled by her endless tales of mystical worlds.

'No, James, in here.'

And she rolled onto her side and placed her hand over my heart,

'and I will be in there too; I promise you will always find me in here.'

'Oh, Mama,'

I had said.

'I always find you; you can never hide from me.'

I always had, every game of hide and seek; it never took me long, and I knew where my Mum loved to be in our home.

I shake my head, stupid Champagne; it always does crazy things to my mind. Dad was right; Mum was a dreamer.

The plane routed down the path of the river Thames as it made its descent into London. My arrival morning provided a beautiful, crisp, and clear autumn day that showed the city off to its best advantage. Sunlight glistened on the various recognisable landmarks, and even in my dark mood, I acknowledged the impressive draw of the large city. Perhaps they were all right; maybe it was time for change, to step up, and finally cast off the childish habits I have been holding onto and accept my true responsibility in the company.

The town car driver was thankfully quiet as he quickly transported me from Heathrow and pulled up at an exclusive apartment block on the banks of the Thames, where the concierge let me into the modern, spacious apartment. I am drawn to the floor to ceiling glass and water views beyond as I hear him drop the keys on the kitchen island, followed by the soft click of the door as he left. Opening the glass doors, I step out onto the balcony and watch the same sun that had risen as I landed not hours earlier, weakly warming the water below. I swivel my head, my eyes searching for something to count. No yachts here, just motor vessels and a barge navigating upstream.

One, two, three, four...

I inhale deeply; even the air is different. I turn in frustration, closing the door behind me.

I fucking hate this place already

.

Like a petulant child, I stalk into the bedroom and kick off my shoes. I only glance at the crisp white sheets on the bed before I flop down onto it, my head smacking into soft pillows. I close my eyes and quickly fall into a deep sleep.

***

"We had you scheduled for an introduction yesterday." The receptionist turns and looks at me over her shoulder as I follow her down the hallway, her high heels clicking on the tiled floor as she carries an armful of files, presumably that she had prepared for me if the post-it note bearing my name on top of them is any indication.

Not a great start. I basically slept through yesterday, ignorant of the schedule planned for me. Once I finally woke up, still sprawled across the bed dressed in my travel clothes, the first order of business was to shower and find food. I was starving. A short walk from my apartment provided a takeaway shop, though after arriving home with my chicken noodles, my grump was exacerbated when I realised that I had nothing to drink and that the tap water was hard and left a metallic taste in my mouth.

After flicking through TV channels and accents that made no sense, I tossed and turned through a stupid night's sleep due to my excessive daytime slumber. I left my apartment this morning and discovered that my suit jacket was woefully insufficient for the climate and that I would need to go shopping for a coat, and I hate shopping. I actually miss Irene, whom I would definitely have dispatched on the shopping errand had I been at home. I resolve to be nicer to her on my return.

The morning sucked already; I was tired, hungry, and still a little chilly, and now I had to go and make polite small talk with a bunch of strangers.

"Something came up." I mutter grouchily as she stops and opens a door to an office.

"Not a worry," she says, depositing the files on the desk. "This room has been vacated for you," she says, smiling a little nervously. "I hope it's OK, Mr. Brennan." She looks up, a little hesitant, as she straightens the files on the corner of the desk. I must seem like an arrogant ass. I attempt to soften my features with a smile.

"Call me James." I state, watching her bustle around the rest of the room. "Mr. Brennan is my father, and the office is more than fine." I pause, raising my eyebrows expectantly at her.

"Sorry, I'm Michaela." She stands and gives a weird little bob curtsy thing, which was the first thing to mildly amuse me since I arrived. "Myself and Mr. Graves, PA, will be looking after you while you are here."

"Two people to organise me; lucky me." I flash a grin, willing the woman to relax.

"Oh, I'm just to handle calls, filing, or anything else you might need, really. Sarah will take care of all the legal stuff; you know, she's trained in that. I'm just the receptionist." She flusters.

"The most important person in the building. I bet you know everything that is going on." I grin again, and she blushes.

"And Mr. Graves won't mind sharing his PA?" I add.

She hesitates long enough for me to know that he did before shaking her head emphatically.

"No, no, of course not." She exhales deeply before continuing, "So you have the partners meeting at 10; they have it weekly, but this time we can wrap it in with your introduction. It's in the boardroom down the hall to your left. Is there anything else I can get you?" She talks rapidly as she edges towards the glass door.

"Yes." I state, and she stops in her tracks. "Can you point me in the direction of a decent coffee and a breakfast roll? I have no food in my apartment and am starving."

Her shoulders visibly relax. "I can sort that for you," she smiles brightly. As she eagerly takes note of my breakfast request, followed up smoothly by taking my hint for a food delivery of essentials to be delivered to my apartment, I am struck by the office dynamic, one that I had grown up with and fallen into so easily back home, yet presented to me so starkly in a new office away from everything familiar. I feel a twinge of discomfort around the roles of those in the glass offices and those who run around tending to their whims. No wonder Irene hates me.

It really was all just the same. Even on opposite sides of the world, I sat in the partners meeting at 10, a stuffy boardroom full of dark, heavy, overbearing furniture, surrounded by a group of likely overpaid lawyers with faces that melted into those that I sat in a similar weekly meeting with at home. I really need to get my head out of my ass and stop thinking like this if I am going to make this trip a success. I have to make them think I am on their side, even though I know I will pull the rug out from under them.

As the expectant faces make their introductions and talk through the business to be done, I resolve to work hard so that I can close the deal and get the hell out of this place. I can already see the monotony of the work--this office, these people--stretching out in front of me. I have to get back home to where I could at least feel like me for the odd moment, usually in one of those degenerate bars my sister loves so much.

***

Multiple times I had to remind myself to close my mouth, as these three engaging and sexy women spent the rest of the time available in the pub talking to me and a couple of the guys from the band who were drawn to the table I had joined Ana at. Turns out they are old friends spending a weekend away in the 'big smoke' as they call it, staying in a holiday rental close to the pub. They just happened to see the crude poster advertising the band in the pub window when they walked by that afternoon and thought they would come and check it out. All rather serendipitous, if you ask my giddy mind.

I don't feel like I have ever met such independent, self-assured women who were as comfortable and happy in each other's company as they were getting to know me and the other band members. They definitely are not groupies, nor is this a social climbing exercise that I have perhaps become too used to at home. These women are vibrant, intelligent, and interested in people and human interactions, which is incredibly refreshing. I can't tear my eyes away from Ana, though; even when others are talking, she is just radiant, and the prickle covering my scalp is a near-permanent fixture as she glosses over her life and work, pulling the conversation in a thousand different directions, like she is inside my head. I am mesmerised.

She didn't know, or didn't care, I guess, who my father was or what I do for a living, and let's face it, she had already succinctly worked that part of me out anyway. She asked me things as if she intuitively knew what I enjoyed talking about; she took an interest in me as a person. I honestly struggle as I sit fidgeting on my stool, the beer in front of me pretty much forgotten, through our entire interaction. At home, it is so easy for me; everyone knows who I am, where I am from, or at least where my father is from. Conversations are somewhat predictable, but I have long accepted that it's what they want to talk about. I can probably reel off my answers to their questions in my sleep. On this night, though, it is like Ana reaches inside and finds a little part of me that I thought was left back at home--the me that not many people get to see but is anchored to some memory, some idea, of who I am that is left there. It is the most honest and open conversation I've had with a girl in... I can't even think how long.

I soon find out that my lazy flirtations and well-used lines have zero impact on her; she brushes them aside as if she somehow saw them coming. There would be no charming this woman into bed. That isn't what it is about anyway, this evening, this conversation. Don't get me wrong, I really want to; in fact, I would go so far as to say that I yearn to touch, caress, kiss--anything she would allow me to experience with this woman. I know she will make me work for it, and for the first time in years, I am excited by the challenge, but this was so much more than a shallow precursor to a hookup.

The last bell rings, and the bar staff clear the empty glasses around us and stack stools on tables. The manager thanks the remaining band members and myself again for the set, and my band mates say their goodbyes and exit the bar, giving me a knowing wink whilst making crude jokes about being gentle with the 'foreigner.'