* * *
“Seriously, mate, not the drones again. Please, God, not the fucking drones.”
I was sitting with Scott in The Ship, our impromptu office. It was always quiet in the afternoons, the big tables empty enough for us to stretch out with our laptops. The wood paneling made you feel like you were on a ship; the stained glass like you were in church.
“The thing is...” I started.
“No.”
“But I’ve made progress, Scott...”
“Jesus, Rob, please not again...”
“I’ll buy all your drinks if you allow me five minutes to talk about drones.”
Scott laughed and slapped the table with his hand. “There is literally nothing you can buy me that would make you talking about drones worth it.”
“Fuck off.”
Although Scott grew up a few streets away and went to Cambridge, we never met until I walked into Simtech’s meeting room on Old Street. Parallel lives, we always joked. Scott was the only Cambridge graduate I had ever met who bought his underwear at Romford market and had a West Ham birthday cake every year until he was eighteen.
“On another subject, though. I really need that code,” Scott said.
I checked my phone, as if I had just received an important email. I was supposed to have written some scripts for a Chinese mapping company, but I was stalling and Scott knew it.
“I’m on it, Scott. I’m on it. It’s just more complicated than I thought.”
“So give it to Marc.”
“It will be complicated for him, as well.” Scott had wanted to outsource it to our team of programmers in Belgium, but I insisted on doing it myself.
“Right, but there’s six of them,” Scott said.
“Right, but it doesn’t always work like that in programming.”
My trump card. Blind Scott with science. He was rich, a brilliant businessman, but he couldn’t code. He sighed and swiveled around on his chair.
A few worry lines had appeared on Scott’s face. I knew he was thinking about selling the company. He had taken a hit after the crash and was “moving a few things around.” That was why he wanted me to write the code: to impress a potential Chinese buyer.
“Rob, look, you’re a mate, and we’ve been working together for a long time. I’ve always tried not to micromanage you, but I’ve gotta draw the line on this one. I need that code by the end of the week, okay?”
He looked out of the window, and I noticed his foot was tapping on the base of the chair. I didn’t want him to sell. I would lose my salary, something that petrified Anna. But more than that, to get my drones idea off the ground, I needed Simtech. I needed their name, their pedigree, Scott’s contacts in the finance world. Without them, I would be right back to where I was, in the suit that Anna paid for, presenting my scribbled-out business plan.
“If I get you the code by Friday, can I talk about drones?”
“For fuck’s sake, Rob,” Scott said, laughing, his accent thick, as if he was selling shoes on Romford market.
“Juan,” he said, looking at the bartender, his Spanish pronunciation flawless, “can you get us a couple of beers when you have a minute?”
Juan nodded and dutifully pulled a couple of pints and brought them over.
“Go on then. I’m all ears,” Scott said, taking a deep gulp. “But promise me you’ll get me the code by Friday.”
“Promise.”
Scott smiled and shook his head. “Right then. Drones. My favorite subject.”
“So,” I said, “we’ve talked before. You know what I think. It’s the future. The hardware is cheap, and people are going to use them everywhere. They’ll deliver us pizza, our Amazon orders. Builders will use them to deliver cups of teas on their...”
“Rob, spare me the preamble,” Scott said. “I’ve heard it a million times before. You’ll tell me about the search-and-rescue teams next...”
“Right, but there’s something new, and this is what I wanted to talk about.”
“Okay, go on.”
“Personal drones.”
“Personal drones?”
“Yes. Ultracheap, ultralight and ultradurable.”
“Okay,” Scott said. “And what do these personal drones do?”
“Take photos mostly.”
“Take photos?”
“Yeah, you’ve seen those selfie sticks.”
“Unfortunately, yeah.”
“Well, that’s exactly what these little drones will do, all controlled from your phone. So just imagine: You’re at a wedding and you need that big group shot. Or you’re hiking in the mountains and want to show people just how high you are, how amazing the scenery is... Or you’re in a crowd at a football match. These were things that only pros could do a couple of years ago. Now anyone can do it with a five-dollar bit of plastic.”
Scott thought for a moment, stroked his stubble. “Look, I get it, Rob, there’s something there and maybe you’re on to something. But it’s just too...”
“Too?”
“Too niche, Rob.”
“That’s what they said about selfie sticks.”
Scott’s phone beeped and he looked at his watch. “Fuck, I’ve gotta go.”
“Meeting?”
“No, new lady.”
“Oh.”
“She’s Russian. Lovely, but a little demanding.”
“You’ll be bored of her in six months.”
Scott looked down at his laptop. “Bit harsh, mate,” he said, scooping up his car keys off the table.
“Sorry, was only joking.”
“Probably true, though,” Scott said, waving goodbye to Juan. “And anyway, you prick, I could say the same about you. You love the chase, building the new project, but then you get bored.”
“Touché.”
“All right,” Scott said, downing the remains of his beer. “Don’t worry about the tab. I got it. And please, my little beauty, please get me that fucking code, okay?”
hampstead heath
it was the first time you’d seen snow so we went sledding, up on the hill where the big boys were and i just remember hurtling down, you crammed between my thighs, snow spraying up into our faces like the warp-speed millennium falcon. the only thing i would have changed jack is that i could have seen your face, that i could have seen your face as we were going down.
5
It was spitting with rain as
