then Nick reaches over and plucks the photo out of Larry’s hand. He takes one more look at it and knows that’s where he’s shooting the spot. “I don’t mind supervising,” he says.
“But you’re directing. Who’s going to shut
you
down?” Larry says.
“I’m fully capable of producing myself—after midnight, that is.”
Larry leans back and considers Nick with a smirk. “Fourteen days of all-nighters just because you like the look of the place? What kind of workaholic perfectionist are you, anyway?”
Nick shrugs. He thinks of last night, finding Maya in a bleary heap on the sofa. The empty bottle of Barolo. The scornful look in her eyes when he woke her. “I just like the look of the place,” he says. “I don’t mind working nights. Nights are when all the best stuff comes out.”
Half an hour later Nick is back in his office, sifting through head-shots of model-slash-actresses (Larry is determined to find a girl with a “classy high school French teacher look”), when Ben knocks on the frosted-glass partition that separates him from the rest of the staff.
“What can I do for you, son?”
Ben arcs his neck around the doorframe at a jaunty angle, causing his linen scarf to fall away from his throat. “There’s a very large and scary man here to see you,” he stage whispers. “He seems
awfully
serious.”
Gray appears, lugging a wheelie briefcase that’s so stuffed full of documents it looks about to burst into a cartoon paper whirlwind. He falls back in a chair without being invited, releases a noisy gust of air, undoes a button and gives his tie a two-finger yank. “This place isn’t actually an office—it’s some kind of futuristic money-laundering front, right? Those replicants out there pretending to type on their shiny laptops don’t even look real.”
Nick grins. “Busted. Now to what do I owe the pleasure of an unannounced visit from the city’s busiest bloodsucker?”
“I prefer the term ‘judicial ambidexter,’ thanks.” Gray’s gaze passes over the smooth, clean lines of Nick’s office. For a moment Nick sees it through his friend’s eyes. The vast white-lacquer desk, concrete floors and floor-to-ceiling plate glass. A few high-gloss modern art books are stacked horizontally and at odd angles on a shelf “for inspiration.”
“Your office is very
American Psycho.
I assume that’s the image you’re trying to project?” Gray coughs at his joke. “Sorry. It’s my walking pneumonia. Chronic, not contagious. Doc says it won’t clear up till I’ve chucked the ciggies for three years straight. Can you believe that?” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his toy smoke and gives it a long, hard pull, then blows a vapour ring into the air between them. “Twenty-six days clean, not counting my birthday,” he says. His face drops into seriousness. “Listen, I was just in the neighbourhood—had a client meeting around thecorner—so I thought I’d stop in and share with you, confidentially, some thoughts I’ve been having on your, uh,
situation.
” He reaches into his briefcase, pulls out the calfskin document case and hands it back to Nick. “I thought you’d prefer it if I delivered you the bad news in person.”
Nick opens the file and sees that Gray has paper-clipped an extra page of scrawled calculations to the top of it. He casts his eyes down at the columns of numbers. Beside them in Gray’s tight, unforgiving handwriting are a series of headings like “family home,” “lake house,” “daycare and school fees,” “nanny salary, taxes and overtime,” and more alarmingly, “spousal support,” “child support,” “equalization of family income,” “upfront cash settlement,” “legal fees” and “payments in perpetuity.” He runs his eyes down to the bottom of the page and settles on a single figure circled heavily and underlined for effect. Its effect on him is, quite literally, staggering. He feels as if someone has wound up and
“But you’re directing. Who’s going to shut
you
down?” Larry says.
“I’m fully capable of producing myself—after midnight, that is.”
Larry leans back and considers Nick with a smirk. “Fourteen days of all-nighters just because you like the look of the place? What kind of workaholic perfectionist are you, anyway?”
Nick shrugs. He thinks of last night, finding Maya in a bleary heap on the sofa. The empty bottle of Barolo. The scornful look in her eyes when he woke her. “I just like the look of the place,” he says. “I don’t mind working nights. Nights are when all the best stuff comes out.”
Half an hour later Nick is back in his office, sifting through head-shots of model-slash-actresses (Larry is determined to find a girl with a “classy high school French teacher look”), when Ben knocks on the frosted-glass partition that separates him from the rest of the staff.
“What can I do for you, son?”
Ben arcs his neck around the doorframe at a jaunty angle, causing his linen scarf to fall away from his throat. “There’s a very large and scary man here to see you,” he stage whispers. “He seems
awfully
serious.”
Gray appears, lugging a wheelie briefcase that’s so stuffed full of documents it looks about to burst into a cartoon paper whirlwind. He falls back in a chair without being invited, releases a noisy gust of air, undoes a button and gives his tie a two-finger yank. “This place isn’t actually an office—it’s some kind of futuristic money-laundering front, right? Those replicants out there pretending to type on their shiny laptops don’t even look real.”
Nick grins. “Busted. Now to what do I owe the pleasure of an unannounced visit from the city’s busiest bloodsucker?”
“I prefer the term ‘judicial ambidexter,’ thanks.” Gray’s gaze passes over the smooth, clean lines of Nick’s office. For a moment Nick sees it through his friend’s eyes. The vast white-lacquer desk, concrete floors and floor-to-ceiling plate glass. A few high-gloss modern art books are stacked horizontally and at odd angles on a shelf “for inspiration.”
“Your office is very
American Psycho.
I assume that’s the image you’re trying to project?” Gray coughs at his joke. “Sorry. It’s my walking pneumonia. Chronic, not contagious. Doc says it won’t clear up till I’ve chucked the ciggies for three years straight. Can you believe that?” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his toy smoke and gives it a long, hard pull, then blows a vapour ring into the air between them. “Twenty-six days clean, not counting my birthday,” he says. His face drops into seriousness. “Listen, I was just in the neighbourhood—had a client meeting around thecorner—so I thought I’d stop in and share with you, confidentially, some thoughts I’ve been having on your, uh,
situation.
” He reaches into his briefcase, pulls out the calfskin document case and hands it back to Nick. “I thought you’d prefer it if I delivered you the bad news in person.”
Nick opens the file and sees that Gray has paper-clipped an extra page of scrawled calculations to the top of it. He casts his eyes down at the columns of numbers. Beside them in Gray’s tight, unforgiving handwriting are a series of headings like “family home,” “lake house,” “daycare and school fees,” “nanny salary, taxes and overtime,” and more alarmingly, “spousal support,” “child support,” “equalization of family income,” “upfront cash settlement,” “legal fees” and “payments in perpetuity.” He runs his eyes down to the bottom of the page and settles on a single figure circled heavily and underlined for effect. Its effect on him is, quite literally, staggering. He feels as if someone has wound up and
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