Warhol's Prophecy

17

ROB GIBSON SAT at the end of the bed, flicking channels. Jabbing the remote control towards the TV as if it was a weapon.

News, soaps, some American chat show.

The same old shit.

He located MTV and left it on: at least the music was fairly decent. Well, until some trendy moron announced that they’d be looking through the Dance Chart. Rob groaned and switched the set off.

It had been a long day. However, it had been profitable, which was all that mattered. He’d ring Frank Burn-side first thing in the morning to tell him the good news: that he’d secured contracts with three major firms in the North. Rob was meeting two other reps for dinner that night, to discuss more plans for BG Trucks. They were supposed to meet him downstairs in the bar of the Piccadilly at 8.30.

He checked his watch.

Christ, it was already 7.30 now.

He might just have time for a quick bath and a few minutes to himself before the day’s business spilled over into the evening’s arrangements.

While the bath was running, he selected another suit from the wardrobe, and laid it out on the bed beside a fresh shirt and tie.

Rob switched on the radio and was relieved to find some listenable music there. He began to relax a little, wandering into the bathroom every now and then to check on the bath level.

The trade fair had proved even more of a success than he’d hoped. He was looking forward to telling Frank Burnside about the successful deals. Hopefully he’d have another in the bag after this meeting tonight.

Like most business deals, it required a certain amount of practised bullshit. Rob had to pretend to care about his would-be client’s private interests, about their families, about where they were going for their holidays.

The usual bollocks.

But he was gifted in the art of duplicity. More so than his partner.

Rob smiled.

Frank Burnside had a habit of looking bored after about ten minutes, whereas Rob himself could maintain an aura of feigned enthusiasm for as long as it took to close the deal.

He wasn’t looking forward to the forthcoming session. Both his potential clients had mentioned that they liked a drink – Rob’s interpretation being that they intended staying in the bar all night getting pissed, and running it up on his room bill. That didn’t bother him too much, but he wasn’t a great drinker himself, and didn’t relish the idea of getting smashed when he had another heavy day ahead of him tomorrow.

Still, he mused, needs must when there’s a fucking great contract at the end of it. So he’d smile, he’d laugh in all the right places, he’d even pretend he gave a shit when one of the clients announced that he was a Manchester United supporter. When normally his inclination would be to spit in the bastard’s beer.

Such was business.

He checked the bath again and began to undress.

The knock on the bedroom door startled him.

‘Shit,’ he murmured.

He’d obviously forgotten to put out the DO NOT DISTURB sign. The maid was about to come in and draw his curtains, turn down his bed, and do whatever else she had to do.

He wrapped a towel around his hips and opened the door.

Sandra Bennett smiled in at him.