Spin

PART ONE:

NOTHING PERSONAL

1.

TODAY

‘WE BROKE UP.’

I gave Steve the news as we waited for coffees at Gene’s Beans, our regular at 8:15 most weekdays. Pouring with rain, hankering for our caffeine hits. Oh, and I got the chocolate doughnut as well. Just because.

‘Hang on. You broke it off, or was it the other way around?’

‘It was me.’

He seemed disappointed. ‘I kind of thought, you know, you were just going through a rough patch, that’s all.’

‘It went stale a long time ago.’

‘How’d she take it?’

‘She left quickly.’

‘Righto.’

‘Can we change the subject?’

As much as Steve was a friend, he couldn’t fake empathy. Deep and meaningful was not his shtick. But then I saw him thinking. A flicker of a thought, anyway.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘Nothing. Except wow. When Amy wore that cowgirl outfit to Skye’s 30th, good lord.’

‘Don’t remind me.’

‘Sorry, I’ll shut up. Just—wow,’ he said.

‘Coffees for Geoff and Steve,’ came a yell from Gino behind the coffee counter.

We shouldered our way through the crowd and grabbed our coffees (large long black for Steve, for me the regular flat white) plus my doughnut. Although there were a dozen coffee shops in the vicinity, Gene’s Beans was always busy. Busiest at 8:15 on a Monday. Gino gave us a friendly wave amongst the chaos and we walked out, umbrellas north.

‘The cowgirl wasn’t right for you anyhow.’

I sighed. ‘Stop, please.’

‘Okay, remember I’m here for you.’

We walked down Miller Street toward the office, Steve filling me in on his weekend adventures with Skye, something to do with cosplay. He was a guy that talked quickly, his hands frantically trying to keep up with his mouth. It was much ado about nothing, until he asked: ‘So what’s the announcement this morning? You must know who’s gonna get the job.’

‘I don’t know.’

Steve studied me. ‘You’re suited up. I smell a rat.’

Normally I wouldn’t mind the jibes; I just wasn’t in the mood. ‘It’s not me.’

He looked sceptical but turned back to his coffee. ‘Yeah, okay, I think it’ll be McNamara. I hear that guy knows how to manage up.’ Yes, he does. The prick.

Two minutes later, we got to work—211 Miller Street, North Sydney, office of Heatseeker Software, which held the lease on the top two floors. The gunmetal grey marble and stainless steel lobby reeked of money and was designed to impress. And if that didn’t, there was always the Heatseeker stock price, which was twelve times the value it listed at on the NASDAQ. Unfortunately, I didn’t own any so it made not an ounce of difference. Regardless, the Texas company and its cowboy owners were famous in IT circles. Make that infamous.

ABOUT HEATSEEKER SOFTWARE

(NASDAQ: HSKR, Last Sale: US$97.40)

Heatseeker was founded by the Oliver Brothers almost twenty years ago. The story goes that in 2005, Jeremy Oliver—socialist hacker extraordinaire with the username ‘Heatseekr’—got into the CIA’s confidential servers and leaked their data like the Exxon Valdez. The Russian Foreign Intelligence Service (formerly known as the KGB) was delighted, until he did the same to them about six hours later.

He got caught by the US Feds before the Russians could spike his tea with Novichok, and for years afterwards was the pin-up boy for the socialists, anarchists, conspiracy theorists, and every other nutcase, whack-job bozo on the dark web.

Coincidentally, his brother Richard started selling software that prevented the same type of hack attack. Smart. A lot of people think they were both involved in the data leak but nothing was proven. Instead, Jeremy confessed and copped the rap while Richard was free to start the business.

Either way, Heatseeker Software was born. The company made money, lots of it, and by the time Jeremy was released from jail, Heatseeker had listed on the NASDAQ. They then moved into anti-virus and firewall software, making even more dough. The brothers only ever lost one skirmish. In that instance, they claimed ownership of CAPTCHA, those distorted letters and numbers you see as security on some websites. Most people said it was a money-grab, and it probably was. When it went to court they lost, and CAPTCHA became a trademark of Carnegie Mellon University. Regardless, that didn’t stop the Oliver’s net worth increasing to a few hundred million dollars. And like all socialists who suddenly become flush, they knew how to spend it. I’d never met them, nor been invited onto their Gulfstream G650 or Amethyst superyacht, but there was always a chance the invitation was lost in the mail.¹

Steve and I took the lift up, crowded in with other suits, techs and clones. At Level 9, Steve got out with some of his IT technical brethren, all identifiable by their facial hair and that vague earthy smell. This was the mushroom level, where they were kept in the dark and fed shit. As Steve exited, he asked, ‘Aquaman vs Submariner?’ The guys to my right looked at him, then me, strangely.

Thankfully, the lift door closed abruptly. Then it was up to Level 10 for sales, marketing, HR and accounts, where I got out. My hood.

Mari peered up from her workstation. ‘Hi, Geoff.’

‘Morning, Geoff,’ said Lachlan.

As did Nadine. ‘Good weekend?’

I nodded politely and feigned a smile for all of them. My desk was in a quiet corner where I hoped I could wallow in peace. That’s where I planted myself, greeted by the photo frame on my desk, an old selfie of Amy and me happily seated at the QVB baby grand. I shuffled it into my drawer.

Booting up the laptop, I logged on. Inbox full again. And I sighed. You know when you hit ‘Contact Us’ on a website and your enquiry goes to some poor backroom Oompa Loompa to answer? Well, I was that Oompa Loompa for the Heatseeker Australia site. It was Monday morning, so most of it was spam as opposed to real enquiries. I started deleting emails. This was my job. This was my life. Something had gone horribly wrong.

Nadine popped her head around the corner. ‘You coming to the meeting, Geoff?’

‘I’ll be there in two minutes.’

She smiled sweetly. ‘You’ll be late. It starts in one.’

‘Okay, thanks.’

I think a little context here would be helpful. I flat-out lied to Steve. This morning’s meeting was where Mark McNamara would be appointed the Chief Marketing Officer, the CMO, of Heatseeker Australia. I knew this because I had applied for the job. There were only two Marketing Managers working at Heatseeker—Mark McNamara and myself—so it wasn’t a big field. And it was obvious he’d get the gig. McNamara had only been with the company a couple of years but he was definitely Kid Dynamo. He looked after Heatseeker’s marketing to the big-spending industries—government, banking, insurance, telecommunications, and retail—while I took care of the rest. Although he was only slightly older than me (I think late thirties), he’d been through private schools, dressed in expensive Italian suits, and still had the silver spoon hanging from his mouth. He was all show and tell. A certified member of the Heatseeker in-crowd. Everything I was not.

And it wasn’t just that. Ian Daly, the Australian Managing Director, loved him. Why wouldn’t he? I was an idiot to think I could possibly get the job. I was told I came close but Mark gave a better interview. He was able to ‘think outside the box’, was more ‘creative’ and was being ‘fast-tracked’ because of his leadership potential. This was code for ‘McNamara beguiled them with bullshit’. But I wasn’t bitter. No siree. So today, me wearing the suit and the freshly polished shoes, was simply about showing dignity in defeat.

I stepped into the boardroom, where about ten colleagues were already seated at the long table. Standing at the front was our fearless leader, Ian Daly. And sitting to his left was Mark McNamara, wearing Armani and a hint of stubble.

‘Can you close the door, Geoff?’ Ian asked.

‘Sure.’

Noni gave me a gentle smile as I took the only chair left, between Nadine and Casey. Drum roll, please.

A pause for effect, then: ‘Today marks an important day for Heatseeker in Australia.’

Witness a paunchy middle-aged white guy, promoted beyond his ability by the last middle-aged white guy in charge. I give you: Ian Daly.

‘As many of you know, marketing is pivotal to our local success,’ said Daly. ‘And as we transform how we go to market and drive growth for Heatseeker, we need a strong leader to step up to the plate. Someone laser-focused on—’

It became ‘blah, blah, blah’ right about then and I turned my attention to Mark’s perfect stubble. If I came into work like that, I’d look like I’d slept in. Mark, however, made it look designer. Then I heard a tune. A tune that sounded like Kanye West’s Gold Digger. Shit. My ringtone. I woke up to reality, fumbled, and turned the thing off.

‘Sorry,’ I said to no one in particular.

Daly looked unimpressed, clearly not a fan. ‘Where was I?’

Where are the clowns? Send in the clowns?

‘Yes. I am very pleased to announce that Mark McNamara will take on the CMO role, starting today. Mark has taken ownership of our key industries and helped deliver strong annual growth for all. I want to personally thank Mark for his vision, results and stewardship of the Heatseeker brand and I look forward to his strategic nous being applied across the entire Heatseeker business.’

Sounds like a win/win for all concerned.

Everyone began clapping. I had my best Oscar-smile on; you know, the one where the Academy Award winner is announced and the losers have to continue grinning for the camera. That was me. I’m no Chris Hemsworth but I did okay.

‘Did you want to say a few words, Mark?’ Daly asked.

Try to stop him.

Mark stood up, smug as all hell but trying to put on the humbles. ‘I just wanted to say thank you, Ian, and thank you, team. I’m excited and privileged to be leading our marketing efforts. And I’d like to take this opportunity to redefine my role as the CMO. It represents more than just the Chief Marketing Officer. I prefer to call myself the Chief Motivational Officer.’

I looked around the room to see if anyone else could smell what he was shovelling.

‘Let’s push that envelope together. But now’s not the time to get philosophical. I’ll leave you with this word: Ubuntu. It speaks to our connection. Our mutuality. It means: I am because you are.’

Jesus.

Daly nodded his approval and there was scattered applause from around the room. The title of Paul McCartney’s album Kisses on the Bottom sprang to mind, but I digress.

‘Thanks, team,’ Daly closed. ‘You have a great day!’

We filed out of the boardroom, McNamara giving me a thumbs- up on the way. ‘We’re going to make a great team, Geoff.’

‘Absolutely.’ Go team.

I got back to my desk, sat down, and tried to peer outside. It was a windowless cubicle. Then a tap on the shoulder. ‘Geoffrey?’

There was only one person in the office that called me Geoffrey. I turned to Noni.

‘Geoffrey, I’m sorry.’

Noni had been with the company forever, now in the role of Operations Manager. I’d known her for five of those years, back when she saw something in the interview and hired me.

‘Was it my lousy acting?’ I asked.

‘I knew already.’

Of course she did. Daly would have chosen McNamara, but one thing he didn’t do was paperwork. That was Noni.

‘It’s okay,’ I said, not quite convincingly.

‘How’s Amy?’

I shrugged my shoulders. ‘We’re not together anymore.’

‘Oh, Geoffrey.’

‘The relationship just ran its course, I guess.’

She nodded. ‘Why don’t you come over to my place for dinner tonight? Barry’s in Melbourne and Ella’s working late. I’ve got some lamb on a slow roast and it would be a shame to eat it alone.’

‘I’d love to but… I’ve got a risotto defrosting at home.’

‘Perfect. Bring it in for lunch tomorrow.’

I gave up. ‘What time?’

‘6:30. You’re okay with lamb?’

‘Lamb’s perfect. Thanks, Noni.’

As she turned to leave, Noni leaned over and spoke softly. ‘Don’t take it to heart. You were the right man at the wrong time.’

Noni departed but the bad taste in my mouth lingered. Like I’d just eaten a shit sandwich.

1All of this information is based on pure speculation and idle gossip. I for one do not believe a word of it; besides which, I can’t afford to fight a defamation case right now .

2.

DINNER WITH NONI MARSHALL

NONI LIVED WITH HER husband Barry and daughter Ella in Summer Hill, a leafy suburb in Sydney’s inner west. They’d bought their four-bedroom Victorian years ago, long before the value of the area skyrocketed. The suburb, dominated by a flour mill and moderate aircraft noise, had become a valuable slice of real estate thanks to its proximity to the city. Ah yes, Sydney prop-erty—you’ve got to be in it to win it.

I’d first met Barry at one of our work functions and liked him immediately. He had been a co-founder and bass player in the mid 80s Australian band Ice Station (not to be confused with Icehouse). If you had forgotten the name, you’d most likely remember their Top 10 single, Broken Promises (I’ve Made a Few), which had one of the worst videos of all time.² Barry then went on to manage bands and start his own music label. It was a small outfit and I got the feeling Noni was the one earning the big bucks, but who cares? The people he knew and the stories he told were fascinating.

And then there was Ella, their daughter, who I suspected was about my age. This was, of course, all guess work via piecing together random, fractured discussions. The truth of it was, I’d talked to her only once, when Noni hosted drinks at their house a month ago. If I recall correctly, Ella was a veterinary surgeon and… that’s all I remember. I drank a little too much and Steve took me home in his car. I had to return the next day to pick up my Nissan. It was a messy night.

I turned off Smith Street, past the towering spire of Summer Hill Uniting Church, into Henson Street. Noni’s house was halfway up on the right, stunning and immaculate. I parked the car, checked the time — 6:22 — grabbed the bottle of Lakeman Sauv Blanc, and walked up the path to the front door. The sensor light went on, followed by a barking dog behind the door announcing my arrival. Some movement down the hallway, then the door opened. It was Noni.

‘Hi, Geoffrey. Come in. Ignore Zootie.’

Zootie, a spaniel that sounded more vicious than it looked, gave me a quick once-over and lost interest.

‘Dinner’s almost ready. What’s this?’ Noni asked.

‘Just a white. Hope it’s okay.’ I handed over the Lakeman.

‘You shouldn’t have,’ said Noni, ‘but thank you.’

We walked down the hallway, the walls sprinkled with family photos and famous singers Barry had either toured with, worked with, or partied with. Midnight Oil, Cold Chisel, INXS and most impressive of all, a mid-career David Bowie. It was like a walk of fame. When we reached the kitchen, the aroma of cooked lamb was unmistakable.

‘It smells great,’ I said.

‘In terms of drinking, can I propose we stick to a half-bottle of Shiraz that Barry opened last night? It’s a nice one.’ She brought out a bottle of Watt Estate Shiraz, a far better wine than my Lakeman plonk. I couldn’t help but laugh.

‘What’s so funny?’ Noni asked.

‘I had some with Amy at The Loft. Before everything turned to shit.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. Do you want something else?’

‘No, it’s fine. It’s all… fine,’ I said reflectively. ‘Can I ask you something?’

She pulled out two wine glasses from the cupboard. ‘You know you can.’

‘How close did I get? To getting the job?’

‘Geoffrey, I can’t tell you that.’

‘Why not? I won’t breathe a word.’

Noni poured the wine and passed me the glass. ‘There were two candidates,’ she said, ‘and you came second.’

‘That helps. Thank you.’

‘Geoffrey, lift your glass,’ said Noni. Which I did. ‘To more important things,’ she said, and tipped her glass against mine. We both had a sip, the wine a strong reminder of Saturday night. The only difference was, I’d keep my drinking to a minimum tonight.

‘Come get some dinner,’ Noni said. She passed me a plate and we walked to the benchtop, where the lamb was next to the sauce and vegetables.

‘Last thing about Mark,’ I said, ‘then I promise to shut up. His rah-rahs—he did it today in the meeting—I had to hold down my breakfast. And that tag about being a Chief Motivational Officer. It’s beyond stupid. I need to think of some wanky term like that and trademark it.’

Noni looked at me, saying nothing.

‘I’ve had a couple of dreams where I’m pushing him out of a plane at 20,000 feet,’ I said, as I plated up. ‘On the odd occasion he grabs a parachute but I’ve tampered with it.’

She smiled. ‘Mark is self-confident, yes. Sometimes he comes across as a bit of a…’

‘Wanker? Here’s my issue. He joined, what, two years ago? Remember last year’s Heatwave event where we got those record attendee numbers? I worked my butt off. After it was done, Ian gave him all the credit,’ I bleated. ‘He got the award, he got the bonus, and I bet he got a pay rise. Mark then said to me, ‘Now you know what good looks like.’

As we took our seats at the dining table, Noni played a straight bat: ‘You’re blaming Mark when you should be blaming Ian.’

‘Mark should’ve called out how much work I put in. Maybe shared his award.’

‘If you were in his shoes, would you have?’ Noni asked.

I went silent.

‘Geoffrey, can I give you some advice?’

‘You think I need it?’

‘I think you do,’ she said. ‘Sometimes things are built up to be much more than they really are. This job is one of them. Mark getting it does not make him a winner and you a loser. Do you really want Ian as your manager? And do you really want to be on midnight calls with the Olivers, getting yelled at?

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t.’

I didn’t want to remind Noni that early on she said she expected big things of me. It was only now beginning to dawn on me that I was extremely average.

‘Geoffrey, work doesn’t define a person. You can let it, but it’s not the sort of person you want to become. And obviously with Amy it wasn’t meant to be. You split up when?’

I looked at my watch. ‘47 hours ago.’

Noni laughed. ‘When you stop counting the hours, you’ll start to feel better.’

I sighed. She was probably right.

‘You know Nadine’s got a soft spot for you.’

I nodded. ‘I’ve guessed that.’

Then a voice from behind us: ‘Hello? Am I interrupting?’

‘Just shop talk. Do you remember Geoffrey?’ Noni said.

I turned and saw it was Ella. ‘How could I forget?’ she said, giving Noni a quick peck on the cheek. Despite the fact she was dressed in an unflattering blue polo shirt (designer label: ‘Summer Hill Village Vet’), Ella was stunning. But not stunned to see me. I got a wry smile, but not a warm one, as she sat down at the table.

‘I hear you don’t remember the party. Dancing on the table? Singing I’m Too Sexy?’

Noni smiled with conspiracy. ‘Ella, stop.’

‘Mum didn’t tell you? It was funny until you stripped to your underwear. Then daddy got his shotgun and told you to get the hell out.’

‘Ignore her, Geoffrey. She’s stirring.’

It seemed to take some time before they both stopped laughing.

‘I’m kidding,’ said Ella. ‘You’re not that exciting.’

Noni turned to her. ‘You’re home early.’

‘We were going to operate on a cat with bladder stones but we put it off until the blood tests got better. I won’t go into detail while you’re eating.’

Noni nodded. ‘Thank you. Do you want some? There’s plenty left.’

‘I had a microwave dinner. The smell is amazing though.’

The phone rang in the hallway; probably either Barry or an Indian call centre. Noni made a move, motioned she wouldn’t be long, and walked out.

The silence was broken by Ella: ‘So you really don’t remember the party?’

‘Most of it,’ I said, ‘but towards the end it gets a little hazy. I remember your boyfriend. Brad.’

‘Brett.’

‘That’s right. He’s a photographer.’

‘A journo,’ she said, unimpressed.

‘With an interest in photography?’

‘Not that I’m aware of.’

‘I remember you work at the Summer Hill Village Vet,’ I said, as I read it from her embroidered polo. She shook her head, probably resisting the urge to kick me underneath the table.

‘You called it a halo career,’ Ella said.

‘Sorry? A what?’

‘A halo career.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I don’t know. You weren’t making a lot of sense at the time. I’m sure it was meant to be insulting.’ Now she was getting prickly.

‘Look, I’m sorry. I don’t remember saying anything, so please don’t get hung up about it.’

‘Hung up? You’re a piece of work. Unlike you, I remember us meeting. It was at this house about five weeks ago.’ The anger in her voice was growing. ‘You’re the marketing guy. Marketing, where you basically lie for a living.’

‘That’s a common misperception.’

‘I sometimes wonder what would happen if everyone in advertising and marketing used their powers for good rather than evil.’

‘We’re not evil.’

‘That’s a joke and a half. Isn’t your company run by crooks?’³

‘Absolutely not.’

‘So before you get all high and mighty about other people’s careers, look at your own,’ she said with a serrated edge.

‘Can we start over again? I’m Geoff, pleased to—’

‘And you can take your condescending attitude and shove it.’

Noni appeared in the doorway and Ella looked at her, then back at me. I think the verbal shellacking had come to an end. Ella turned on the charm in front of Noni: ‘I need a shower to get clean. Good seeing you again, Mr Marketing.’ Her last words before leaving the dining room. Good talk.

Noni and I finished dinner, had a cup of tea, and I was on my way. As I got to the front door, Noni gave me a hug. ‘I’ll see you in the office tomorrow, Geoffrey. And don’t worry. You’ll get your chance.’

It wasn’t until I got back to the car that I realised I hadn’t checked my phone for messages since switching it off in the Daly meeting. As it turned out, the poorly timed call had come from Steve. ‘Hey, Geoff,’ the message began, ‘I just found out who got the job. McNamara. Bloody McNamara. What an arseclown.’

Indeed.

2According to Barry, he’s done his best to remove it from YouTube and the like. It might still be up there but he sounded serious .

3NOTE TO THE OLIVERS’ DEFAMATION LAWYERS: Her words, not mine .

3.

BACK IN TIME

‘YOU’RE GOING TO embarrass yourself.’

‘No,’ I respond. ‘I think you’re more worried I’m going to embarrass you.’

Amy shakes her head, a smile briefly dancing on her lips. ‘Wrong. I’m going to walk away.’

Here’s me sitting straight, shoulders back, perched behind the baby grand piano in the Queen Victoria Building. Of course, I’m teasing her, but my confidence is at a temporary high after the long lunch and French champagne at Joie de Vivre. No particular reason for the expensive lunch. Just because.

The Adelaide