A Spy by Nature - Charles Cumming [105]
‘I have no idea.’
‘Maybe fifteen million, conservative estimate. So every time somebody rings those machines, British Telecom is making sixty million pence which is… which is…’
The night is still while Dave makes his calculation. I do it for him.
‘Six hundred thousand pounds.’
‘Exactly,’ he says. ‘Thank you.’
Susannah is reacting to something Saul has said. She has a laugh like a broken fanbelt. There’s some kind of mousse starter in front of me and I am already halfway through it.
‘But of course the really smart thing about answering machines is that you have to call back if someone leaves you a message. So that’s another guaranteed call for BT, another four pence minimum. It’s no wonder they make the profits they do. What is it? About seven hundred and fifty pounds a minute?’
‘Is that how much they make?’ Katharine asks. Suddenly the entire table is listening to Dave’s monologue.
‘Apparently. And it doesn’t just stop with answering machines. There’s call waiting now, too. That’s the most craven one of all. You ring up a friend and even if they’re on the line talking to someone else you’re made to wait. Beep. Beep. Please hold the line while we try to connect you. The other person knows you are waiting. And it goes on and on. Fucking woman sounds like Margaret Thatcher. So you’re there, you’re holding the line, but they’re not trying to connect you. Like fuck they are. They’re just happy to let you run up your bill. And the other person may know you’re there, but even if they want to talk to you, nobody actually knows how to work call waiting. No one. What d’you do? Press Recall or something? Nobody knows.’
‘That’s right,’ says Fortner. ‘They don’t.’
He looks relaxed and composed, a drink inside him, safe in the knowledge that the Abnex documents are next door.
‘And let’s say they do.’ Dave is speaking faster and faster, gesturing wildly, cutlery in hand. I look across at Susannah, but she has nothing but pride in her eyes as Dave swallows a mouthful of mousse and continues with his discourse. Little bits of spittle spray out across the table as he says: ‘Then the first person they were talking to has to run up their phone bill waiting for the other person to talk to the person who’s waiting. That can go on for hours. And even then one of them will have to call the other back, which is another guaranteed call for BT. And then - and then - there are itemized phone bills. If you’re sharing a flat with somebody and they deny making that five-pound call to the number listed on the bill you then have to ring that number up and embarrass yourself by asking who the fuck they are, just so that you can work out if it’s your bill or his. You ever done that, Alec?’
‘I live alone.’
Again, silence settles around the table in the wake of my speaking. Saul frowns and then turns his head to face Katharine, his lips drawn together in a tight, disappointed line. Dave, looking pale and embarrassed, finishes eating, and for a while the only noise in the room is the tinkling of a fork against his china plate, the quick munch of his jaw as he chews and swallows. Saul is already up and collecting the plates before he has finished, stacking them noisily and making for the kitchen.
‘Can I give you a hand?’ I ask and, without looking at me, he says: ‘Sure.’
‘I’ll come too,’ Katharine offers, but Saul gestures at her to sit down.
‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘I only need Alec.’
Once we are in the kitchen, he turns on me.
‘What’s the matter with you these days?’
What surprises me about my reaction to this is that I am grateful to him for asking. For a brief moment I consider not bothering to deny any unhappiness. I want the opportunity to unburden myself. But it’s untenable. I have to keep up the masquerade.
‘I’m fine. Fine,’ I tell him, managing a smile, but there can be nothing in