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Tuesday morning. Two days before the seminar. We drive down the mountain to the office or ‘descend into the underworld’, as Derek calls his daily commute. Against my better judgement I’m wearing the cowry shell after Wanda followed her note with a text and the boys looked so expectant I couldn’t disappoint them. And this morning the singing is subdued. That makes two of us.
I throw myself into the seminar. At least with Goals for Gold I can focus on fame and fortune for a while. Less flim-flam than phantoms.
Derek hovers in his office and refuses to leave even for food. “In case Nightingale turns up and gets nasty.” He insists on a pizza delivery for lunch.
By five o’clock I’m ready for Katsuya and Sloane with a whole day to spare. Even the seal activities feel perfect. Tomorrow I’ll just need to pack my seminar case. After a day of intensity I can almost relax.
Except for my final meeting with Guy.
***
He greets me with an enormous hug, as if our relationship has morphed into something personal. My response is muted. This is strictly business.
“I need an early night, Guy. Goals for Gold is perfect and I’ve done some great work on the seal seminar. Several activities are ready for trialling. Do you want to preview them?”
“Nope. I trust you to do that. Now it’s on the launch pad the rest’s up to you.” He winks. “Doing what you’re good at.”
“Thank you. So why are we here?”
He takes my arm and leads me to the sofa. “Tactics.”
He goes to the whiteboard and picks up a marker. “OK. Let’s brainstorm a list of qualities Sloane’s looking for, then take each one and put down how you’ll demonstrate it.” He thinks for a minute. “Attractive.” He writes it down. “Original...quirky...”
He expects me to help but these already sound like someone else.
“...dynamic...successful. Rich...”
“Rich?” That wakes me up. “Does Sloane expect me to be rich?”
“What else? The audience trusts you to know your stuff. That’s why they’re there. To get a cut of the Midas Touch.”
“But I’m broke.” One seminar doesn’t change that.
“We’re brainstorming, babe. Keep going, discuss it later.” He turns back and starts again. “Confident, mature...witty, wise...”
I haven’t suggested a single word.
“Sexy...”
“I don’t believe it.”
He stops. “Sex sells, Selkie.”
Like the tongue-twister: by the sea shore?
“You’re selling yourself to your audience so you gotta be sexy. Keep brainstorming.”
“Wait a minute, Guy. Most of the male gurus aren’t sexy. I’ve seen them.”
“They don’t have to be. But for a woman it’s different rules. Sex appeal is mandatory. Old boilers can’t be success gurus.” He winks again. “Don’t worry. You’ve either got it or you haven’t...and you’ve got it. Now stop interrupting.”
He continues with the list but I’m feeling uncomfortable. Of course I want to be sexy. Guy might think I’ve got it but I haven’t forgotten I’m Andrew’s ‘desiccated spinster’. Then I remember there’s only one opinion that counts – Lester Sloane’s.
“OK.” He’s got to the end of the list. Twenty qualities I’m supposed to emulate. “Take each word, write down how you’ll demonstrate it, identify any loopholes.” He points to the first one. “Attractive – no problem. Just tame that hair and you’ll knock him dead.”
“Not too dead, I hope. Let’s keep him breathing till he signs a contract. But wearing what?”
He shrugs. “What you’re wearing tonight.”
“A red power suit? Fine, it’s all I’ve got, but what happened to sexy?”
“We’ll get to sexy in a minute. And the suit’s perfect.” He rushes on. “Original, quirky – the seal seminar’s got them covered.”
He works his way through the list, leaving ‘rich’ and ‘sexy’ till last.
“These two work together.” He looks at my hemline. “Take that skirt up an inch or three. Distract Sloane from your bank balance.”
“That’s not funny, Guy.”
His face turns serious. “It wasn’t meant to be.”
“What are you implying?”
“Sloane’s a man, you’re a woman. A very attractive woman. You’ve got it, exploit it.”
“I still don’t know what you mean.”
“Put it this way: if you gotta choose between sexy and rich...choose sexy. Rich comes after.”
“After what?”
“After you play him like a violin. Have I gotta spell it out?”
When I ask the next question my voice is shaking. “Is Sloane interested in my seminar...in my skills as a presenter?”
“Sure he is. But he’s gotta be interested in you first. He likes what he sees, he invites you to the bar. One thing leads to another.”
I’m appalled at my naivety. The brainstorming’s just a snow job, it’s been the casting couch all along.
“Where are you going?” Guy says when I stand up. “I haven’t finished with you yet.”
“I’ve heard enough.”
His face hardens. The easy-go-lucky Texan has gone. “You need to be more ruthless, babe. Focus on what you want, on who you wanna be. It makes compromising your integrity...effortless.”
But I’m walking. It’s a pleasure to slam the door.
Guy Morrison, prize jerk. And I never saw it coming. Tainting everything I’ve worked so hard for. Is Lester Sloane just another mirage?
***
It’s one of those romantic evenings with a light breeze. The look-at-me crowd are out and about, jostling and laughing, catching up with each other, carefree and intent on fun. Anger and tears separate me. People stop to stare and their curiosity makes me run. When I stop, I’m outside my office, and by the time I’ve climbed the stairs, unlocked my door and flopped into my chair, I can think.
Did Guy predict my reaction? Probably, judging by the way he sidled up to the truth. He didn’t want to tell me too soon, but he’ll be betting there’s still time for the ten million dollars to transform my ethics to mush.
Even after I checked Sloane out on Google and saw how attractive he is, it never entered my head to sleep with him. Now the old joke comes back: if I agree to sleep with him for ten million dollars, then he can change his offer to ten dollars. Because once we’ve established what I am we’re just haggling over the price.
Maybe I’ll sleep with him for nothing, for my own selfish pleasure. Rub Guy’s face right in it. It’s not going to happen but the thought amuses me. A scintilla of power coming from somewhere.
I ask myself if Guy’s ‘tactics’ are his idea alone. I open my inbox and reread Sloane’s email, still unanswered. You’ve either got it or you haven’t. The same words I’ve just heard Guy use. Is spark just Sloane-speak for the casting couch? Then there’s his invitation for a drink afterwards. Perfect for a little seduction. ‘One thing leads to another.’ So much for my tiny hope that Guy is acting alone.
Sloane is already booked to attend the seminar, and Guy’s too ruthless to cancel him even though I’ve made my attitude crystal clear. If I call the whole thing off just to avoid him, I’ll have to return Katsuya’s fee and my reputation will be in shreds before I’ve even begun. If I go ahead and Sloane’s at the back of the room, the distraction will be extreme. He’ll be testing my ability to stay professional. Big time.
Then it hits me.
I’m not stuck with Guy or Sloane. I can give them both the flick.
I write to Guy first, terminating our agreement as of tonight. In line with the terms, I’ll have to pay him his percentage for another five years to cover any profit I make from his advice – as if – but at least the five years start winding down today. I send it as an email, then print it and put it in an envelope. That’s one less monkey on my shoulder. The metaphor almost amuses me.
Now for Sloane. This one will be harder. Polite but unequivocal.
Dear Mr Sloane
Thank you for your email and your interest in my potential ‘spark’. But we’re never going to find out if I’ve got it or I haven’t because I’ve decided not to go ahead with your assessment on Thursday. Please cancel your plans to attend my seminar. I apologise for any inconvenience this late change may cause you. I’ve only just decided on this course of action.
I’ve also terminated my agreement with Guy Morrison so he no longer represents me.
Regards
Selkie Moon
I stare at it for a while, and decide to remove the words we’re never going to find out if I’ve got it or I haven’t, because... They make me sound petulant – which I am – and why should I care what Sloane thinks since I’m never going to need to impress him, but I remove them anyway. They give him an inkling into my state of mind and it’s none of his business. Let him wonder why I’ve terminated him, along with Guy. Put a tiny crinkle in his confidence. As if that matters either.
After I’ve taken the phrase out, I change Regards to Yours sincerely. More truthful. I check my spelling and hit send.
Then I fall apart.
With an arrogant click of my mouse I’ve done it. Thrown away everything I’ve worked so hard for. The chance to finally shake off Andrew’s judgement and be someone.
Not because I’m not clever. Not because I’m not tough. Not because I can’t cut it on the international stage. But because I’m too honourable, too precious, too bloody high-and-mighty...to do whatever it takes.
Derek calls. He thought he was picking me up at Guy’s and I tell him where I am. He can hear the desolation in my voice.
“Has Nightingale been there? You shouldn’t be alone in an empty building, Selkie.”
He arrives and bundles me, sobbing and inconsolable, into his office and his armchair. Then he’s rigging up an oil burner and filling the tiny room with fumes.
“Bloody hell, DD. I’m way beyond the powers of essential oils. Haven’t you got any bourbon in that filing cabinet?”
“That bad, huh?”
But before Dr Derek will open his medicine chest he insists on a consultation and I’m too far gone to protest. I blubber the story out backwards, trying to unravel why I’ve plunged into the pit.
Derek summarises. “It turns out to be a high-stakes whoring job. So you tell Morrison to piss off. Then you tell Sloane to piss off. Then you shatter into a zillion pieces.”
Just like the shredded poster. I nod.
“But you’ve put your dignity ahead of fame and fortune, Selkie. This is a victory for honour.”
“A victory? So how come I feel like shit? Like I’ve blown everything that’s important to me?”
“You’ve been under a lot of psychological pressure. Guy’s betrayal is the last straw.”
“That’s not it.”
“Come on then, pony up. Tell me what’s going around in your head.”
Through streams of tears I go over old ground. How Guy’s betrayed me and what a fool I am not to have seen it coming. Then I start talking about Sloane and his email and having spark and being myself and the answer comes out in a rush. “Sloane might have liked me and I’d be on my way to the big time.”
Now I’m howling and Derek has to raise his voice. “Worth screwing for, is that it?” His words echo through the empty building. “Making millions would be worth it after all?”
“No,” I yell back. “That’s not it.” I’m shaking my head, trying to think straight. “It’s not the money. I don’t care about the money. Only Guy cares about the money. That’s all he talked about. Landing Sloane and the ten fucking million.”
“Of which he gets thirty per cent. So his agenda’s a no-brainer. But if it’s not the money, what is it? What else is there?”
That’s when a light goes on and we say it together. “The fucking fame!”
It’s a revelation. The awful truth. And I’m blubbering again.
“You wouldn’t sleep with Sloane for the money,” Derek whispers. “But you’d sleep with him for the chance to be a star, is that it?”
It’s a tough question that only Derek can ask.
“Yes.”
He makes Irish coffees. Double shots. He knows what to do in a crisis – get drunk with a friend. We’ve done it before but the crises were usually his. Nigel’s arrival has changed all that so now it’s my turn. But we know the routine by heart. He bustles with the kettle and the glasses while I wallow in self-pity in the armchair.
“What did you call it?” I sniffle. “Martyrdom for a principle? Joan of Arc in a muu-muu?” Is this how I’m going to die? It feels like it.
“A victory for honour.”
“That’s it. The pyrrhic victory of a nobody. A serial nobody.”
He’s got his back to me, pouring boiling water into the coffee plunger. “It wouldn’t work, you know. Sleeping with Sloane for the fame.”
“Why not? I’ve seen him. He’s not bad. Under fifty. He’s probably still good in the sack.” My tears have dried but my heart is stone. “Good enough.”
“That’s not what I mean. It’s not just about making it, is it? It’s also about earning it. And if you screw for it, you’re never sure why you made it, if you’re good enough. For the rest of your career, every time you step onto that stage you wonder: am I a good presenter, or just a good lay?”
“Maybe being a good lay would be enough.” Better than a desiccated spinster. “Or all the applause would drown out my doubts.”
“You’ve got it bad, Selkie. Spinning yourself a web of bullshit.”
“Shut up and finish the coffees, will you? I’m in serious danger of dying of thirst.”
***
It’s a short walk to Derek’s car and I lean on him all the way. Luckily I’m not going home, because the thought of being alone terrifies me. In my depleted state, whole hordes of entities might party in my aura. Then who would I be?
It’s way past rush hour and an easy drive into the hills. Then I’m sinking into another armchair – deeper and softer than the one in his office – while Derek whips up some pasta.
“Food and lots of it,” he prescribes.
He must do a regular supermarket run if he’s got fresh fettuccine and ham and mushrooms and spring onions and pine nuts and sour cream in his fridge. It makes my head spin just imagining it. A fridge full of fresh food. My fridge – empty of everything but Wanda’s strange ingredients – demands nothing of me. But a relationship has domesticated Derek.
We eat at the kitchen table. He doesn’t seem worried about my alcohol level and opens a bottle of red. Roll on oblivion. The pasta is perfect and I find I’m as hungry as ever.
It’s the full belly that does it.
Clears my head.
Makes me decide to ring Sloane.