This is mainly for those Twitter people who've been inquiring about my novel and occasionally chiming in whenever I've tweeted on my progress. Currently the novel stands at two chapters divided into roughly three-thousand words, so I'll put up the first chapter for you all to read. If the requests pile up enough, I'll post the second. And so forth.
This is the unedited copy, although I try not to make many mistakes to begin with.
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Accounting Can Be a B*tch Sometimes
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Smile, my mother always said. You could die at any moment, so you may as well go down grinning. I think it is a stupid thing to say. The reason I say this is because Willie Costello is someone my mother would be fond of.
I set my briefcase down and was shake Willie's hand.
"I'm Willie, Willie Costello," he says.
I wonder about the mole above his eyebrow. "Pleasure. Jack Fernandez. Head Accountant."
"I look forward to working with you, Jack."
"I do too."
I hate him. Oliver Boulton, my previous boss, ran this place as tight as possible with our few clients and slim budget. He lost his job to this upstart, this strange guy dressed in the white suit that you'd see at a rodeo somewhere. I rub the bruise on my elbow. I had seen Willie's contact card. Before this, he worked at Goldman Sachs.
He starts to walk down the hall and I follow, picking up my briefcase.
I feign a smile. "There's a vending machine in the lunch room if you need any refreshments. First one's on me."
A strange eerie feeling of vertigo occurs when you walk through this hall. Perhaps it is all the doorframes combining, creating a weird mirrored image. The windows looking over each cubicle do not help either, as you can see in at what everyone is doing. Typically, we give internss like Shellie these. One works as a storeroom too, the desk is piled with boxes of files.
"Thanks, but no thanks, Jack. Never been a fan of sugary beverages. What's first?"
"The Logan account. A45 in filing. We might have to advise her not to buy that boat she's after."
Willie Costello stops outside the door to his new office and faces me. "Why not?"
"Because she has to pay off the first three."
Willie puts his big ham-like hand on my shoulder. He smells of mouldy shrimp. "We'll do well, you and me, Jack. You know that? You'll be Jumpin' Financially Fiscal Jack."
I smile and try to shrug off his palm in the nicest possible way. "Thanks, Mr. Costello. I'm sure we will."
"Good." And with that, he turns his back on me and shuts the door, slamming it only a little. I am acquainted with a sign hanging on his door: 'I'm the boss! My wife said I could be.'
I turn to walk away, and Kristy Bain's shriek freezes me to the spot. "Jack!" She rushes up, the ginger hair bobbing around the sunspot speckled shoulders, and stretches her arms around me. "I thought you were sick today?"
I pat her shoulderbones. At least Kristy isn't taller than me. "Oh well, I managed." I say quickly as she breaks the asphyxiating hug. The wounds on my hips and arms burn, I can feel them reopening.
"That's good! That's so good!"
"Yes." I put my hands on my hips, careful to avoid the scars. "It is."
"There are five accounts we need collaboration on and a team meeting."
"I know."
"And a lunch welcome for our new boss."
"Yeah."
"And we have a birthday in our midst!"
"Totally."
"Great! You're on board!" Kristy pecks me on the cheek and disappears to accost the next co-worker. We've worked together for three years, three painful years. Every morning I am assaulted. Every afternoon I am complimented. Sometimes I wish someone would put her in a cage and hang her up somewhere. Then we'll see if she can piss everyone off. Chances are Kristy Bain would find a way.
I like my workplace. The space, that is: compact, minimalist, even Spartan. The couch in the waiting room sags more on the left side than the right. There are rarely people there. Most of our business is done either by phone or e-mail.
On my desk, there are five things. A computer, a pot with pens, a phone, an iPod and some post-it notes. I set my briefcase down on my desk and open it. Papers and papers and papers swell out of the inner padding, and I'm careful not to displace the paper stack. Scribbles of notes I've taken are on the bank statements, and each manila folder occasionally dividing up the mass is lost in the gigantic deluge of paperwork.
"You've got some work ahead of you." Alan Davison tells me, a co-worker whose desk stays perpetually tidy. I once experimented by leaving a glob of chewing gum on the underside of his chair, and within two hours it was gone. He sits opposite me, a little divider separating us.
I don't pay him any attention as the phone rings. I sit down, settle back into my chair and pick up the receiver. It's Scott, wanting to show me some blueprints. I tell him maybe later and hang up.
B265 is the first client for today.
I take out my iPod and stretch my arms to 'In Motion' by Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross. I can't get through the day without electronica, typically Industrial, sometimes House. Keeps me focused and gets rid of unwanted background noise. I feel I can connect with every clink, every change in static, and every strangled cry. I'm a big fan of 'Closer' by Nine Inch Nails. Trent Reznor is a musical prodigy. “It's your sex I can smell. You make me perfect. Help me become someone else”. So much power in so few words.
I work through the first three statements, and finding five discrepancies, I note them on the paper. I note a post-it: 'B265 (Jason McDonald) can't finance himself out of a plastic bag. Question him re: fiscal decisions’.
Next is H596. She keeps her money very tight to her chest. I always check twice to be sure there are more 0's than there are decimal points. Susan Arbuckle is her name, and she lives in a penthouse somewhere. I throw the file to the next desk.
"One of yours." I tell Alan Davison.
I blink and the file disappears.
W379. D201. E568. Q193. K456. E999. F573. P090. Z147. V122. I take the stapler off Alan Davison's desk, making sure he doesn't notice, putting a small Star Wars storm-trooper figurine in its place and telling him it is "a present". That too goes missing when I turn around to return the stapler.
Shellie, the relatively new intern of three weeks, smiles at me as she walks by. I throw a wad of paper at her and point at Alan Davison. She fumes at him for a few seconds, then keeps walking.
"Maybe we should get lunch." Alan suggests.
'Go fuck yourself' is what I feel like telling him, but instead I say, "Sure."
Scott rings again. This time I can hear Terry in the background. I feign a pained 'dealing with a client' look while Shellie walks past. I think she tried to catch my eye. "You going to see these blueprints? They're great. We can do it easy." Scott says.
"I'm going to get to those accounts right away, okay, Mr. Kuziasco?" I reply and hang up.
***
Alan Davison chooses Brisbane Square, the most uncomfortable food court in the city. Too much sunshine, with the chairs metallic frames that lack any kind of padding. Pigeons flutter about our legs, picking at scraps. I've ordered from Subway. Alan has gotten a coffee and a grotesque egg sandwich from one of the faux-health food bars. Alan spills the coffee on the back of my hand when he sits down with his lunch. I slap a hand on the burning skin.
"You know," he says, "I've had a feeling Kristy's into me. What do you think?"
Unwrapping my sub, I give him a look of bemusement and shrug. "Could be." It's the only answer that seems to have sufficient gravitas. All things considered, I wouldn't like them having a relationship. Office relationships irk me. Serious ones, at least.
"She's one hell of a girl, that one." Alan continues, unperturbed by my disenchantment, "She's so bouncy. Don't you think, Jack?"
The sub is on the dry side. I put it down, pick up my Coke and sip.
"Are you seeing someone, Jack Fer-nan-dez?" He modulates my surname, mocking it with his overly dramatic tone. "Olga, wasn't it?"
"Yes." I imagine Alan Davison doused in kerosene. When that doesn't amuse me enough, I imagine shooting him, and whisper a quiet 'boom'.
The stench of Alan Davison's egg sandwich is close to unbearable. "Hit that, yet?" He takes a bite and I can't help but witness a gob of egg weasel its way out and land on his shirt. "Sounds Russian."
I think of a Russian-sounding last name. I remember one from a Tom Clancy novel. "Olga Alexandrov."
Alan Davison coughs mid-chew. "Bwo-oh!" Egg flies everywhere as he almost chokes on the sandwich. "That sounds exotic!"
"Oh, it is."
He's punching his chest, heaving, trying to clear his throat. "That's a hell of a name. Almost gave me a heart attack."
"Wish you would have a heart attack." I murmur.
His eyes lazily focus on the egg sandwich under his nose. "What?"
I sip some more of the Coke. "When I first saw her I was taken aback."
"That good looking, huh?"
"She's morbidly obese actually. I go for personality." I pause, and add: "I like my women fat and intellectual."
"Tough break, man."
I chew a little away at my sub. "There's more to love."
He puts the egg sandwich down, his way of showing that this is a big moment. "You love her?"
"Oh yeah, we're crazy about each other."
"Really?"
"She's a steal. Seriously."
I'm thankful for the few passing moments of silence between us. I feel like hocking up. His egg sandwich's odour penetrates every nose hair. I begin to question why I agreed to this doomed lunch. When I look up Alan Davison is still staring at me.
"Should I go for Kristy, Jack? Do you think?"
"Not yet. You have to work at these things. Get to know her and all that."
"Of course!"
The City Hall clock, my saviour, booms twice.
"We should get going." Alan Davison gets up and moves his chair in. "So many accounts to do."
"Actually, I'll be taking the rest of the day off. I have to pick up my parents from the airport." I neglect to mention that my mother is dead and my father is dying in a hospital. "And then pay off my car." I have two sports cars and one hatchback that I take to work to look poor. All paid off.
"Ah, yes. Checked with Willie? He might want to know what you're going."
"Could you?"
Alan Davison cracks a big, toothy, egg-infested grin. My hands clench. "After all the advice you gave me today, I can't see how I could refuse. How are you going to get Mr. Kuziasco's account done in time, though? You'd just finished on the phone with him when lunch came around."
"I'll get to it," I call from over my shoulder as I walk away.
I take out my mobile and call Scott.
***
I meet for dinner with my real girlfriend, Olivia Connolly, at Basa, an upmarket restaurant on the Southbank strip. We kiss and embrace. I check my reservation at the front desk and offer her the seat nearest to the piano player. There is a constant drone from people talking at other tables and the occasional hiss of someone receiving an order of sizzling hibachi chicken.
Olivia is dressed in a stunning black dress, with glittery swirls going down one side. Her hair is done up in a bun with two plastic needles, and there's too much red lipstick.
"Jack! Oh, it's been too long."
I laugh. "Less than a day, Olive! I saw you this morning."
"Did you?"
"Well, you were asleep."
She giggles. "I must've been. You snore."
I look down at the menu, signal for a waiter and give her a sly look. "If only I told you what you say when you are asleep."
"What do I say?"
"That's for me to know and for you to be blackmailed about."
The waiter stands next to me and I tell him I'd like a ravioli with guinea fowl and
burrata cheese.
"And you?" He turns to Olivia as I pass up my menu.
"Supreme of pigeon en crouton with crepes, mushroom sauce and cipollotti."
"Classy." I tell her. Mostly in jest, as she orders it every time we dine at Basa.
She takes her purse off the table, pretends to rifle through it, and feigns shock. "You're shouting, right?"
I fix her a comically sardonic look as I concede to her wish. "I guess. So how's things been with you?”
Olivia is a travel agent.
"People go in, I set up their travel, they fly out. Circle of life."
"You say that every time I ask."
"Because you ask me every time."
I love it when she gives me that half-smile and raised eyebrows. So damn sexy.
Leaning back in my chair, I ask, "Is that guy still giving you trouble?"
Olivia frowns and pouts at me. "What guy? There's a guy?"
"You know, that guy. The one that was giving you trouble."
"I don't know what you're on about, mister."
I shake my head. "Never mind, Olive."
She bursts out laughing. "I'm only kidding, Jack! Just pulling your chain a bit."
I run a hand through my hair. "God, I hate that phrase."
She gives me that sneaky half-smile of hers. "I know you do."
"So, trouble?"
"No. I fixed that problem."
"I want to hear this one."
She curls a lone hair strand behind her ear. "He came up to me and I told him that I didn't want to be disturbed today. However later, he puts an arm around me and tells me he wants me. I've told him again and again I'm going out with you, and that you could kick his ass any day."
"I could."
"And he's, you know, trying to come onto me. So then I get this idea. And this is gold."
"I'll bet."
"I tell him 'Oh, what the heck. Why am I holding back? I've always kind of fancied you.' "
I begin to smile.
"And I tell him to meet me in the bathroom. I suggest a storeroom. He heads off like the little golden retriever he is. I take the master keys from Phil's desk. Phil doesn't say a word. I get to the storeroom door and tell him, 'Ready or not, here I come!' before I slam the storeroom door in his face and lock it from the outside."
"How long was he stuck there?"
"I don't know. When I left he was still in there, moaning away and begging."
I take up the champagne flute that's just been poured with Pol Roger and toast her story. "That's one to be remembered."
"Indeed. He won't be bothering me again."
"Is this a big occasion or something?" Olive asks suddenly. "Why are we eating out?"
I quickly remember why I'd brought her out this evening and say: "I like taking you out sometimes."
"We live in a penthouse, Jack; you don't need to spoil me anymore than you already do."
"It's good to feel loved, isn't it?"
She frowns.
"Actually, I have something extra special planned for tonight."
Olivia's face lights up and she puts her hands together. "What is it? What is it?"
I reach in my pocket. "Oh, you know, just a little something for my spoiled little lady."
I see our meals being brought out as I take the velvet box out of my pocket. Cars rush by outside, and it begins to rain judging by the flashes of thunder, making the candle in the middle of our table seem extra warm. The chatter seems to die down as Olivia leans in, wondering what I'm about to produce.
I set the box on the table and she has a few reactions in the space of a second: intense happiness, awe and slight anxiety. She obviously thinks I'm going to propose, like I want her to.
"Just a little thing I picked up in my lunch hour." I push the box to her side of the table and she snatches it up, eyeing off the purple velvet, running her hands over the little hairs, savouring the moment.
"Oh, Jack..." She opens the box. A 24-carat gold Cartier watch stares back at her, gleaming in the candlelight. "It's wonderful."
Olivia pops it off the little pedestal in the box and snaps the wristband to her wrist. A price tag flops out from its underside: My Achilles heel.
"What is this?" She lifts up the tiny price tag, reads the $3,000 and opens her mouth in shock. Then Olive looks at me. "You didn't Jack, really."
"No, I did. I felt compelled."
"Compelled to waste that much on a bloody watch?"
"I thought you'd be grateful."
"I am, but...three thousand dollars. That's a lot."
"Says the woman who lives in a penthouse and drives a sportscar to work."
"Hey, you bastard. You bought them for me too. You're the big spender here."
"I didn't mean for you to see the price tag."
She regards my excuse with nothing but a grim look. "I saw it Jack."
Our dinners are set down. I pick up my fork, idling around the edge of the plate, waiting for her to start so I can change the conversation topic.
Olivia doesn't pick up her splade. "Where'd you get it from, anyway?"
It came out before I could stop. "Torneau."
"Torneau? Wasn't that place robbed yesterday? They lost half their stock or something, the news said."
"I had that watch on lay-by."
"Decade-long lay-by judging by the price."
I grunt and bring some guinea fowl to my mouth.
Olivia hesitantly starts her food. "I grew up in a poor family, you know," she continues as she eats, "I know the value of money."
"I was raised in a lower-class family too, Olive. Be grateful for what I do."
"Ever since we met you've been buying these things for me. Anything I want, within the next week, you've bloody bought it for me."
"You didn't say you wanted that watch." I point out.
"Don't try to get me off my point, Jack."
"I know."
"Do you know the value of money?"
"Of course I do, honey. Money's what we live on. Without it, we'd be worthless."
Olive blinked, shaking her head. "I can't believe you just said that. I can't believe you just said that! There's so much more to life than money!"
I wanted to leave as soon as possible. I look down at my plate and see there's still three-quarters of it to go. I'm spending $200 on this meal between us. Maybe I can make a run for it. But then I see that face and realise I can't abandon our relationship over a watch.
"How can we live like this?" Olive asks. "When are we going to settle down? When are you going to put all this into a Super or a Retirement Fund or something?"
"I'll think about it."
"Seriously, Jack, do that. You're flitting this hard-earned money away on things like watches and cars and really, when we're both sixty it won't amount to anything."
She picks up on my quite obviously stiffened frame.
"We are...getting married, aren't we?"
I look at my expensive dinner while I think of a response. "I, uh..."
"That's all I need." Olive says. "All I fucking need!" She picks up the napkin off her lap and throws it at me as she takes her purse. "A year and a half of living together and marriage isn't even on the cards."
Olivia's gone before I can reply.
