Nobody True by James Herbert Page A

lead to my premature demise.
    Hopefully, you’ve stayed with me so far. It’s just that I thought it important that you knew some of my history—it’s pertinent to all I’m about to tell you. Believe me, I’ve left out heaps of personal stuff because I didn’t want you to lose interest along the way.
    But now I’m ready and—hopefully again—you’re primed to hear my tale. Everything I’ve told you leads to the horrendous event that was to change my life—or I should say, my existence—forever…
    10
    “It’s too big for us,” I said, keeping my voice steady, avoiding Oliver’s glare. The debate—all right, the argument—between Sydney, Ollie and myself had been going on for over an hour at least. “We’re just not ready.” I leaned back in my chair, arms folded across my chest, staring at my outstretched feet, ankles also crossed.
    “Not if we expand.” Oliver was leaning forward in his seat, wagging a finger at me.
    “The time isn’t right for us to take on more staff. We just don’t have the capacity here.”
    Oliver slapped his thigh hard and I winced; the slap must have made his leg smart.
    “Then we move!” was his reply.
    “Are you kidding? It was difficult enough taking over these premises. We’re too busy for the disruption anyway.”
    “There is another way.” Sydney Presswell was sitting behind his broad but minimalist desk, and his voice, as usual, was quietly soothing. Sydney had always been a good advocate between myself and Ollie, whose interaction these days was becoming more and more volatile; we barely agreed on anything lately, particularly when creative work was involved.
    We both turned our heads towards our finance director/manager.
    Sydney had piled on the weight over the years—too many drawn-out client lunches—but still managed to look dapper with his grey receding hair and grey suits the latter always worn with deep blue or red ties. The flesh of his neck puffed out over his shirt collar a little, but his aquiline nose and soft grey eyes beneath finely arched eyebrows gave him the appearance of a benevolent patriarch. He wore those understated glasses, no frames, just plain lenses supported by hinges and plastic nose pads. Although now going through his third divorce, no lines furrowed his smooth brow and only slight bags hung beneath those pale-grey eyes.
    We waited for him to speak again, perhaps both of us relieved that our increasingly angry confrontation had been interrupted.
    “We could merge,” he said simply, leaning forward and interlacing his fingers on the desktop before him.
    Neither Oliver nor I reacted. I just stared.
    Sydney’s pale face was impassive. “Blake & Turnbrow have been chasing us for some time, as you know. They’re much larger than us and have offices worldwide. Together we could easily manage our respective clients and any more we might care to pitch for. Blake & Turnbrow are keen to amalgamate with us.”
    “To take us over, you mean, don’t you?” I said, my annoyance now focused on him. That in itself was unusual, because Sydney was the easiest person in the world to get along with.
    “No, I don’t mean that,” he said, his retort mild, not at all offended. “If getting into bed with a prestigious global agency will help us expand and find bigger clients, why should we balk at the idea?”
    “Because, Sydney,” I said with disguised impatience, “it means giving up control of our own business.”
    “Wait a minute, Jim,” Ollie put in. “It doesn’t have to mean that at all. Lets take the helicopter view.”
    It irritated me further when my copywriter used ad-speak: “overview” wasn’t good, but “helicopter view”? And a “takeover” was a “takeover”, not the sharing of a bed. A suspicion struck me: was Oliver really surprised at the suggestion, or had he and Sydney already discussed the prospect in my absence (I was often away from the office on photographic shoots or making TV commercials, allowing