he’s not mental . He’s high functioning. He’s not just going to forget about this place. He’ll look .’
‘I don’t think he will. I think once you’re out there he’s going to be so caught up, he simply won’t think of it.’ Cantor leaned forward. ‘And if he does, if he does look, if he sees what’s happening, fine. Put him on the phone. I’ll deal with it.’
Yeah, I thought, great: if Ess goes mooching online and sees what you’re doing to Resolute, you’re a voice on the phone. While I’m there, on the ground, in the flesh. Not quite the same… But I knew Cantor wasn’t really a bad bloke. He wasn’t malicious, didn’t mean Ess any harm. He genuinely believed that what he was doing was the right thing to do, the best thing for Ess, for Resolute, for everyone. He’d told himself this and toldhimself this until he had no choice but to believe it. And he did. He genuinely did.
For weeks I’d been trying to play a similar trick on myself. So far I’d not managed it. At some point the story I kept telling myself always stalled, froze, or revealed itself as only one of many stories that could be woven out of the same set of facts. The fact of Ess, the fact of Ess’s illness, of his delusion, and his colleagues’ priorities…
‘Let me give you a number.’ Cantor now took my phone from me, slashed it open with a fingertip and started typing. ‘Anything makes you uneasy, you call me on this number straight away. I don’t want you imagining even for one second you’re on your own out there with him. Anything makes you less than a million per cent easy, you call this number.’
But I wasn’t listening. Something else had occurred to me. ‘How are we going to pay for stuff?’
‘What’s that?’ He tossed my phone back, making me fumble for it.
‘Well, you’re not giving him any money, are you? The code, the company account… it’s all bullshit, isn’t it?’
Cantor looked confused. Then he said, ‘Ray’s paying. Same as always. Didn’t you know about this?’ When it was clear I didn’t, he went on, ‘Ray always pays. For his trips and so on. He won’t claim expenses. Hasn’t done in years. I offered him a travel budget but he wouldn’t have it. He said to me, “Martin, there’s a reason why it’s called petty cash.” He’s covering the trip out of his own pocket, the flights, the hotel, this guide person you’re hiring, everything.’ Leaning forward again, Cantor invited me into a smirking confidence. ‘You know Ess doesn’t take a salary, don’t you? He just comes in and does whatever he does, basically, for free. Little arrangement he’s had for years. Going back to the Skycoach thing. The Skycoach fuck-up.’
Cantor seemed to expect me to be amused by this. But I wasn’t amused. I was appalled, aghast.
Seeing my expression, he went on, more coolly, ‘I wouldn’t worry about Ray. He’s done all right for himself over the years.’
Of course he had. It was well and widely known that at an early point in Resolute’s success Ess had, in what many understood as a gesture of flagrant corporate disloyalty, sold a significant number of his shares in the company. Well, he was a founder; the shares only existed because he – and three other guys – had caused them to exist; he could do what he wanted with them. The sale had anyway amassed him a stupendous profit, and it was well and widely known also that Ess had in short order speculated this profit into a still more stupendous personal fortune. Until the dark days of Skycoach, this profit, this fortune had been the thing about Ess that everyone at Resolute most enjoyed talking about. Round the coffee nooks and the copier cubbies you heard regular mumbles about ‘Raymond Ess’s millions’ or ‘Raymond Ess’s billions’ or ‘Raymond Ess’s gazillions’.
It was bollocks – obvious bollocks, as Ess was himself the first to point out. He didn’t have gazillions, and he didn’t have billions. There
‘I don’t think he will. I think once you’re out there he’s going to be so caught up, he simply won’t think of it.’ Cantor leaned forward. ‘And if he does, if he does look, if he sees what’s happening, fine. Put him on the phone. I’ll deal with it.’
Yeah, I thought, great: if Ess goes mooching online and sees what you’re doing to Resolute, you’re a voice on the phone. While I’m there, on the ground, in the flesh. Not quite the same… But I knew Cantor wasn’t really a bad bloke. He wasn’t malicious, didn’t mean Ess any harm. He genuinely believed that what he was doing was the right thing to do, the best thing for Ess, for Resolute, for everyone. He’d told himself this and toldhimself this until he had no choice but to believe it. And he did. He genuinely did.
For weeks I’d been trying to play a similar trick on myself. So far I’d not managed it. At some point the story I kept telling myself always stalled, froze, or revealed itself as only one of many stories that could be woven out of the same set of facts. The fact of Ess, the fact of Ess’s illness, of his delusion, and his colleagues’ priorities…
‘Let me give you a number.’ Cantor now took my phone from me, slashed it open with a fingertip and started typing. ‘Anything makes you uneasy, you call me on this number straight away. I don’t want you imagining even for one second you’re on your own out there with him. Anything makes you less than a million per cent easy, you call this number.’
But I wasn’t listening. Something else had occurred to me. ‘How are we going to pay for stuff?’
‘What’s that?’ He tossed my phone back, making me fumble for it.
‘Well, you’re not giving him any money, are you? The code, the company account… it’s all bullshit, isn’t it?’
Cantor looked confused. Then he said, ‘Ray’s paying. Same as always. Didn’t you know about this?’ When it was clear I didn’t, he went on, ‘Ray always pays. For his trips and so on. He won’t claim expenses. Hasn’t done in years. I offered him a travel budget but he wouldn’t have it. He said to me, “Martin, there’s a reason why it’s called petty cash.” He’s covering the trip out of his own pocket, the flights, the hotel, this guide person you’re hiring, everything.’ Leaning forward again, Cantor invited me into a smirking confidence. ‘You know Ess doesn’t take a salary, don’t you? He just comes in and does whatever he does, basically, for free. Little arrangement he’s had for years. Going back to the Skycoach thing. The Skycoach fuck-up.’
Cantor seemed to expect me to be amused by this. But I wasn’t amused. I was appalled, aghast.
Seeing my expression, he went on, more coolly, ‘I wouldn’t worry about Ray. He’s done all right for himself over the years.’
Of course he had. It was well and widely known that at an early point in Resolute’s success Ess had, in what many understood as a gesture of flagrant corporate disloyalty, sold a significant number of his shares in the company. Well, he was a founder; the shares only existed because he – and three other guys – had caused them to exist; he could do what he wanted with them. The sale had anyway amassed him a stupendous profit, and it was well and widely known also that Ess had in short order speculated this profit into a still more stupendous personal fortune. Until the dark days of Skycoach, this profit, this fortune had been the thing about Ess that everyone at Resolute most enjoyed talking about. Round the coffee nooks and the copier cubbies you heard regular mumbles about ‘Raymond Ess’s millions’ or ‘Raymond Ess’s billions’ or ‘Raymond Ess’s gazillions’.
It was bollocks – obvious bollocks, as Ess was himself the first to point out. He didn’t have gazillions, and he didn’t have billions. There
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