"Truly," Greta agreed. Peripherally, a movement caught her eye. It was the man she'd seen in the ring, dressed in denim pants and a worn denim shirt. He was walking toward them. She became conscious of her tousled hair, and tried to remember whether or not she had brushed her teeth. Yet she did not fully connect these concerns with the materialization of this stranger.
"You must be the fortunate owner of this magnificent beast," the smiling man said. His lean, strong jaw and powerful physique were matched by a robust, accented voice.
"Yes," Greta said with evident pride.
He was taller than he had first appeared when she spotted him in the ring, a hair over six feet, she estimated. He had hazel eyes, and his dark brown hair was long and thick and pulled back into a neat ponytail. She guessed he was in his mid-thirties.
"Jennifer?" the man said, turning to the ranch's owner.
"Oh! I'm sorry." The older woman placed a casual hand on Greta's shoulder. "Jean-Pierre Poitras, this is Mrs. Greta Locke." At the "Mrs." part, her voice had risen ever so slightly.
Greta offered her right hand, then realized her mistake. He laughed, and with his left hand he gestured at his slung arm. Staring at it, she saw that there was no cast. "We can use this hand," Jean-Pierre said. Before she had a chance to realize what was happening, he had her left hand in his own.
She gasped, recoiling her hand like a viper. She clasped it protectively in her other hand, as if it had been scalded.
Jean-Pierre's face mirrored her own astonished expression.Jennifer's too.
Greta attempted to cover the awkwardness. "Oh," she said with a nervous laugh, "I'm sorry. It's just that you startled me." Unconsciously she was gently squeezing the hand he'd held, trying to imagine how it had felt to him. Horrorstricken, she asked herself, Did he feel it?
There was a long moment of silence in which everyone looked to everyone else. Finally, Jennifer spoke. "Jean-Pierre is a polo champion from Deauville, France."
Greta seized on this to move the conversation along. "Really? How fascinating. Are you playing polo here?"
He laughed at this, and everything seemed to fall back in order."There is no polo here. That is why I've come."
Jennifer explained. "We're considering starting a polo club right here in Woodside, Mrs. Locke. Perhaps Mr. Locke would be interested in sponsoring a player." This last comment was directed to Jean-Pierre. He arched his brows, inviting an explanation.
Instead of responding to this, Greta let go of her hand and fluttered it uneasily at his arm. "What happened?"
"Oh, this. My nemesis. Chronic dislocation. Shoulder. Worst it has ever been. I figured it was time to give my pony a rest and look into the idea of starting a club here. I need some time to recuperate." His eyes connected with hers, and for the moment that she held them, she felt as if he were acknowledging some unspoken confidence that they shared.
Jennifer spoke up. "We're delighted he's going to be staying with us for awhile." With a click of her tongue she began leading Mighty Boy along.
Jean-Pierre stopped her and took the horse by the halter. "MayI?" he asked Greta.
"Oh. Why, yes," she replied.
Jennifer patted Mighty Boy's head. "Have a nice ride," she said, and walked back toward the office.
Greta studied Jean-Pierre as he led the animal from its stall with a firm but casual hand. Mighty Boy tramped along happily, unresisting, as they walked the length of the stable in silence. Outside they stepped aside to allow the young groom to bridle and saddle the animal.
Jean-Pierre plucked a pair of sunglasses from his shirt pocket. "Perhaps we can ride together one morning, Mrs. Locke?" He grinned. Perfect straight white teeth contrasted with his healthy, tanned complexion. There was something suggestive in his fixed smile.
She felt herself blush. "Perhaps," she said. She had a premonition that was not altogether unpleasant. Before she had time to let the image develop any further, she quickly busied herself with the saddle's girth and stirrups. She could feel his eyes observing her. It felt intrusive, yet, at the same time, exciting. She nullified this indulgence by reminding herself of today's board meeting at Wallaby; its conclusion would signal a new beginning for her and Matthew. She pulled her scarf from her vest pocket, twirled it, and wrapped it lightly around her neck. The lenses of his sunglasses reflected her motions, but she could not tell on what exactly his eyes were focused, though they seemed fixed in the general direction of her upper body. Her breasts. At this thought she felt a prickling beneath her skin. First chilly. Then hot.
Feeling suddenly loony and playful, she stared directly into his sunglasses, as if she were facing a small display mirror. With a bold tug she knotted her scarf and laughed, and at the same time cinched her commitment to Matthew.
His own hearty laughter joined hers, filling her with an uncharacteristic and powerful sense of triumph.
She placed her booted foot into the stirrup, and his deft attention was little surprise as his free hand solidly gripped her other boot. With a quick hoist she was in the saddle.
He stood before Mighty Boy and stroked the horse's head. "Such a beautiful creature," he said, removing his sunglasses, "should certainly be allowed to jump, to learn new things. Yes? Maybe you would like to try?" He lifted his sunglasses and held them so that their eyes connected. He held hers for more time than she should have permitted. She quickly diverted her gaze to the jumping ring. Could she do that? Wait - why was she even considering it? She told herself to get going. Besides, she had not showered, and her hair was all mussed. Hadn't she come here to ride her horse?
"I don't think I could do that," she said. "I think I prefer simply riding alone."
He lowered his sunglasses again and bowed, as if to say that was fine. For now.
"Well, then. See you," she said. She was satisfied with the way that had come out, a practiced social indifference to her tone. Pressing her heels into the horse's ribs, she trotted off past the buildings and toward the hills across the low, golden, grassy field. She let herself look back. He was still standing there, watching her ride off. She hastily returned her attention to the path.
After Mighty Boy warmed up she pushed him hard, leaning into his powerful gallop. As if testing her will, yesterday's clear, hard thoughts of Matthew's secret plan and of her celebration bowl melted away, and were supplanted by fantasy. Her heart raced, and her mind ran free with raw and fiery images of the provocative Jean-Pierre.
* * *
"Thank you, Martin," Matthew Locke said.
Peter turned to Hank Towers for an explanation for this break in custom; it was he, Peter, who always started the meeting with opening remarks. But Hank's attention, like that of everyone else in the room, had shifted to Matthew. Something was wrong, but before he could speculate, Matthew spoke.
"As we are all aware, Peter and I have been at odds about how this company should be managed."
Peter threw his pen down on the table. With an audible huff he pushed himself back in his seat with straightened arms. "What's going on here?"
Matthew ignored this and continued, his eyes roaming from person to person in careful, measured doses.
"Peter and I have very different styles and strategies, which is positioning you, the executive staff and board of directors, in the middle of our discord. The situation isn't healthy for Wallaby." He let this sink in for a moment while he got up and walked toward a pitcher of water. Slowly he poured himself a glass.
"Peter," he started, resting the glass, "I've decided to ask the board of directors to accept my resignation - "
Peter could not believe his ears, and before Matthew had even finished with his explanation Peter was already celebrating inside. Hallelujah! Here he had thought that Matthew was going to propose a reorganization, but instead he was resigning. It was priceless! Maybe, Peter thought, Matthew had realized himself that he was not cut out for high technology, and would be better off going back into the potato chip business, with its bright colored plastic bags, its brainwashing the public on the virtues of junk food, its pureeing of rotten ingredients -
" - provided," Matthew continued, "that they don't approve my recommendation that you relinquish your duties as Wallaby's vice president of Joey, and chairman of the board."
The room spun. Suddenly, all eyes were fixed on Peter. He blinked, and tried to focus on a single pair, but those glanced away, as did the next pair, and the next. He leaned back in his chair. It squeaked loudly. He looked up at the whiteness of the ceiling for a moment and let his mind drain. Suddenly he understood Matthew's little game. He laughed at the ceiling. For a split second he had actually thought it could somehow be true, that Matthew was going to resign, that that was what Matthew was trying to warn him of, threaten him with yesterday. Such was not the case. Resigning was the farthest thing from Matthew's mind. The absurdity - proposing that the board give him the boot. Admittedly, considering the rumors that were flying about a reorganization, he'd been more than a little apprehensive late last night. But upon waking this morning, he'd told himself there was nothing to fear. He was the company's founder, and he wasn't going anywhere - except where he damn well pleased. This was preposterous. It was laughable. And he laughed hard and full, his shoulders pitching a little. None of the others joined in the fun.
When he managed to get his laughter under control, he straightened up and placed his clasped hands comfortably in his lap. "Sorry," he said, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. He gave himself a little shake, and blew out an exaggerated breath. "Forgive me for laughing, Matthew," he said with a smile, flattening his hand over his heart, "You had me going there for a second. I thought you were going to make my job easy."
His smile vanished. "But I guess you're not. So I'll spell it out for you." His face was relaxed and smooth, and he spoke coolly. "Matthew, you're not right for Wallaby anymore," he said. He let this hang in the air for a few moments. To his way of thinking, as chairman, his decision was already made. Out of courtesy he would explain to Matthew the circumstances, as a coach would after try-outs to the child who doesn't have what it takes to make the team.
"You did a good job of helping to get the organization in place for managing us through troubled waters. You created a strong sales force, and you did some other good things. I can't remember them all right now, but you did some okay things. However, were you to remain in your position any longer, this company would fail because of your weakness. You have no vision."
All this time Matthew had remained on his feet. Peter was impressed with how well he was taking it. Let's see, Peter thought, how he handles this part.
Peter opened his leather portfolio, which contained copies of the organizational chart he had prepared yesterday, listing himself as the acting president and CEO. "I think we can work out a respectable severance package, with full relocation, of course," he said, graciously, "and - "
"Peter, " Matthew said, cutting him off.
Oh wonderful, Peter thought, just what he had feared. Matthew was going to beg to stay. Yet he saw no sign of anguish on Matthew's face. Perhaps he was experiencing shock?
"You're a brilliant young man," Matthew said. "You've made this industry what it is. Were it not for you, we all know this company could never have been." His words flowed easily, without tremor.
"You had a dream to make portable computers for individuals, and you created this company out of sheer willpower and brains. Everyone here acknowledges that."
This was worse than Peter had thought. How long would he and his team have to sit through this, he wondered. Should he stop him now, and thank him? No, he told himself. Let him finish. After all, he had hired Matthew, and if anyone was to blame, it was he, for not realizing that a potato chip man could not be transformed into a silicon chip man. At this last thought he felt the start of a giggle in his chest, and he was forced to bow his head and pinch his lips tightly together to contain his laughter.
Matthew paused. What Peter didn't see were the sympathetic glances sent his way by the members of his hand-picked team. He resumed, "I was hired to complement you so that you could concentrate on developing your product ideas without the burden of managing a rapidly growing organization…"
Resigned to listening to the rest of Matthew's good-bye speech, Peter let his mind concentrate on important things. Leaking batteries, for instance. Longer screen life. Easy-to-service keyboards. Storage. Faster performance. Yes, that one was becoming more and more important. Must have faster performance.
Matthew's voice had become a faraway drone. "But I cannot do my job without having the power to fulfill my responsibilities. You have managed to create a rivalry with your once-greatest fans…"
What else? Agents. Now there was a subject he had become more and more interested in. Which reminds me, Peter thought, I've got to call the guys at MIT and see what they've come up with that we might use with the -
"IJoey Plus computer is late for delivery because of your inability to manage your organization. All that must change."
He sensed that Matthew was winding down, and focused once again on the here and now. Glad tidings, etcetera.
"So I have decided to ask each member of the board and executive staff to vote."
Peter looked at Matthew. "And what are we going to vote on, Matthew?" he asked, his voice pitched a good deal higher than usual.
"As I said," Matthew went on, planting both of his hands on the back of his vacant chair, "I cannot do my job as long as you have the final say in everything. I am asking the board and the executive staff to decide which of us will run this company. If they choose you, I will resign."
He looked around the room. Everyone seemed to think their blank notepads were fascinating.
"Matthew, now I'm getting angry," Peter said, rising from his seat. Unconsciously he began popping the button of his ball-point pen up and down with his thumb. "Can we please stop this desperate little game?"
"This is no game. I am perfectly serious. And as this company's president, I intend to conduct a vote."
The clicking stopped. "A vote? Then be my guest," he said, sweeping a hand at the mannequins seated around the table. "Go ahead, Matthew, ask. Ask everyone in this room who they want to run my company."
Hands in his pockets, Peter began to pace slowly around the room, like an impatient father awaiting the inevitable. "Wait," Peter said. "Better still, Matthew, I'll ask, okay?"
Matthew shrugged deferentially.
Peter stepped behind Alan Parker, general manager of the Mate division, the first executive Peter had hired when he had founded Wallaby.
"Alan," Peter said, resting his hand on Parker's shoulder. "What do you think about all of this? Pretty awkward, I agree. But nothing we can't take care of, right? Do I need to repeat the questions? Who do you think should be in control here at our company?"
Parker sat upright, his attention focused on his hands, which he held tightly clasped together on the table. Normally a warm and friendly person, Parker had worked as Peter's right-hand man during the early years of Wallaby when they had found themselves a major force in the Fortune 500. He removed his glasses and brushed the back of his hand across his forehead. His dread was palpable.
"Yes, Peter," Parker said, his voice struggling against fond memories, "we did build Wallaby into a wonderful thing. And if it weren't for you, this industry would have never become what it is today. However, you and your Joey team have created a rivalry with my Mate group. My division, which provides the butter for our bread, feels that you, the very inventor of our livelihood, think the Mate, and my people who work on it, are second-class citizens."
He swiveled in his chair to look at Peter with his complaisant, pleading eyes. "Because of the way you behave I can't do my job, either. It's like you've abandoned your roots in favor of Joey, like you've forgotten all about the millions of people, the millions of children, who use a Mate computer every day. Mate is your family, and we feel abandoned."
Peter moved his face closer to Parker's. "Spare me the history, Al. Okay? I'm sorry if you're sensitive about the way things may seem, but face it, you know our future lies in Joey. What do you need to hear? What can I say to make you feel better? I think you and your group do a great job keeping Mate alive, and you can tell them I said so. I'll even tell them myself. I'll come over every other week, if that's what you want, and pat them on the back. Matthew can't do that. He can't even work a Mate computer. How the hell is he going to talk to the people who keep it alive?"
Parker stiffened. "That's not the point. Don't you see? You're doing it right now. Doing what you always do, changing and twisting things around to suit you. Only you."
In all their years of working together, Parker had never spoken to him like this. It was as if the man had suddenly aged and hardened before his eyes.
"We're not a little start-up company anymore, Peter," Parker exploded. "We're big business, and we need to be run like a big business. And that includes taking care of the people who got us here!"
An unpleasant taste shot up from Peter's throat. He already knew what Parker's vote would be. And if Parker, who was easily his least problematic executive, felt his way, what about the others?
Alan Parker narrowed his eyes and slowly shook his head. His face softened, and for a moment he was once again the kind and grateful man Peter remembered. "Peter, I believe Matthew has what it takes to run this company. But I also believe you should lead our new product development - "
Peter lifted a hand, cutting the executive off. "Save it," he said, patting Parker stiffly on the shoulder. "So, everyone thinks I'm a jerk. But it was this hot-shot businessman," he said, flinging a hand towards Matthew, "who let things get to this point of confusion and misunderstanding."
Matthew stood. "Peter, I want us to work together, but for me to be able to manage Wallaby, you need to let me have the power to do what's right from a business standpoint."
"Well forget it, Matthew," Peter said. "And let's cut all this crybaby sentimental crap too, okay? Okay. Fine. If this is how you want to play the game, we'll just go around the room and ask everyone if they want me out." He leaned against the window ledge, in the exact section Matthew had just vacated. He squeezed the ledge on either side with his hands, white-knuckled, as if this would somehow anchor his place in the room.
"All right, who's next?" Peter said, his voice bordering on hysteria. "Let's see. Denise. You. Just a simple yes if you think Matthew should have final power. No drama, please, we've all got a lot of work to do today."
Denise Campbell had started her career with Wallaby as a financial analyst. Young and bright and a genius with numbers, Denise's long record of successes had recently been rewarded by Peter, who had promoted her to the role of CFO. With anguished eyes, she faced Peter. "As a publicly held company, our first obligation is to our shareholders."
Peter held up his hand again, stopping her before she could go into a long-winded justification. "No verbosity, please, just a yes or no." His eyes blazed.
She looked into her lap. "Yes," she said. "But Peter, you have to stay on as - "
Eyes closed, he turned away from her with a disgusted expression and a quick shake of his head.
Paul Crane, executive vice president of sales and marketing, was regarded by everyone for his no-bullshit manner, which he now demonstrated with a simple nod of his head.
Matthew stood off to the side, watching the process without expression. It went on like this until the entire executive staff was polled. Then Peter queried each of the visiting directors, who had flown in from different parts of the country to attend the meeting. Not a single no was spoken. When Matthew counted all but the final response, he stiffened, awaiting the finale.
Peter knelt before Hank Towers.
"Hank," Peter said, his voice a desperate croak. "You, more than anyone else in this room, know what Wallaby means to me." He drummed his chest with his palm. "You and I, Hank, we made Wallaby everything it is today. Didn't I agree with you a few years ago that we needed someone to run the company? And wasn't I supportive when we hired Matthew? We made a mistake is all, and no one gets it. But you do. I know you do."
Hank sat perfectly still, but Matthew could see that Peter's words were having an effect on him. And on some of the others. Sounds of sniffing and little coughs, throats clearing, filled the room.
Matthew's pulse quickened. Although everyone else in the room had voted in his favor, Hank could essentially persuade them all to compromise in Peter's favor, dissolving Matthew's ultimatum. If Hank did that, the plan would be off.
"Hank, you have to trust me on this one," Peter implored. "Matthew isn't right for Wallaby. If you let him have this, he'll turn Wallaby into a second-rate company. All I want is for us to be number one, Hank. It's all we've ever wanted, right?"
Matthew sweated to read Hank's expression. Had he been kidding himself into thinking he could lure Hank's loyalty away from Peter.
"Damn it, Hank, look at me. Don't you see what he really wants? He wants us, the renegades, to connect to IC-fucking-P's computers! If that's not selling out, man, what is?"
Matthew held his breath, for Peter's assessment was ultimately the motivation behind his entire secret plan. And if this revelation, however ridiculous it may have sounded, caused Hank to waver, to trust Peter's instincts, then Matthew had not a single grain of hope of ever succeeding with his monumental plan. He heard the sound of his own heartbeat squishing wildly in his ears.
Hank looked Peter in the eye, and slowly shook his head.
Peter grunted. It was a wrenching, painful sound.
"Hank, no. No, Hank. No." He spoke very slowly, pausing with every few words to catch his breath. "We did it before. And we can do it again." He planted his hands on Hank's shoulders and gave him the sort of shake one gives a drunkard. "We can run Wallaby. Until we find someone who can cut it. Hank."
Hank gently removed Peter's hands from his shoulders.
"No, Peter," Hank whispered. "No."
"Hank, this is my life we're talking about, here. You will kill me if you don't save me." Tears spilled down Peter's cheeks. "You're my only hope."
Hank rested his hand on Peter's shoulder. "Petey, we're a big company now, at probably the most critical point in all our history. You are too unfocused to manage Wallaby. Matthew can." He punctuated this last line with a squeeze. "But you've got to stay on and be the innovator. We only want you to let Matthew do his job. You'll think this is all bad for awhile, but then you'll understand. You'll be a lot happier focusing on future products." He let out a huge, exasperated sigh. "For Chrissake, Peter, we love you."
Peter slowly rose to his feet. Matthew was rounding the table, coming toward him.
"And if I don't agree to all this?" Peter said to Hank.
"I'm afraid it's the only option you've got."
Peter could think of a few others. For example, he thought with morbid pleasure, he could pummel Matthew with punches, that was one option, or he could choke him until he turned red, then blue, then black and begged for his life while everyone sat there as they had through the whole meeting, staring at their fucking yellow pads, just dying to lift their pens, Wallaby logo pens, and begin calculating what their stock options would be worth after today's news got out.
And wasn't that what it all came down to in the end, he asked himself. Wasn't that what he'd used to lure each and every one of them there? The bottom line. Didn't they understand that for him, it wasn't the money. His life's happiness was the bottom line. And he had just lost it. With this thought a deep dread coursed through his chest. He thought of last night, and he felt a shudder, as though an ice-cold fear had poked its finger into his rectum. He felt as if he were about to defecate, right there for all of them to witness, his grand exit. He was coming apart from the inside out.
With every last ounce of strength he willed himself to stop shaking, to compose himself as best he could. He lifted his chin. "Wallaby is my life," he said, his voice high and distraught. "But as you've all determined for me, that doesn't matter anymore."
Matthew came closer. "It doesn't have to end like this," he said."I want you to stay with me. I want you to make our future whileI manage the present." He reached out to Peter.
"Don't you come near me!" Peter screamed, flinging his hands into the air. Several of the people in the room jumped in their seats, groaning in agony at what they were being forced to witness.
Their eyes linked for the last time. "You've stolen my life, Matthew." He faced the people seated at he table. But he had nothing more to say. He turned and charged for the door.
Martin Cohn leapt from his chair and started after him.
"Leave him," Hank ordered, fixing his eyes sharply on Matthew.
The door slowly and silently swung inward, sealing the new team together inside the room for the first time without Peter Jones.
Matthew couldn't see Hank's gaze. He was facing the sunlit window, staring down at his clenched fists. He willed them to relax. And as he watched them uncurl, he felt his guilt slip away. And in its place he grasped a new feeling.
Power.
William Harrell worked through his morning in the usual fashion, attending three meetings, then moving on to his daily correspondence.
After eleven o'clock he left the ICP headquarters building for a ten-block ride to an exclusive men's athletic club whose clientele consisted entirely of high-level executives. Typically, the club arranged rotating squash and racquetball matches between executives in similar positions from different companies and industries. A president of an insurance company, for example, might be paired with a CEO from an advertising agency; a TV executive with a restaurant magnate…or the chairman of the world's largest computer manufacturer with chairman of the world's largest food manufacturer.
Waiting for his technical and business advisers to arrive for their two o'clock meeting, William stretched and considered the soreness in his arms. They felt now as they had after his match with Rolland Worthy, chairman and CEO of International Foods, a little over two years ago. During that match, he mused, he had felt as though he'd been punched in the stomach midway through the game.
"What do you know about Wallaby?" Worthy had asked him.
The hard rubber ball struck the wall with solid force and rebounded toward William.
His concentration and judgment were wrecked by Rolland's question; his racquet overextended. The ball hurtled past him.
"What, I hit a nerve?" Worthy laughed, arming his sweating wrinkled forehead with his shirtsleeve.
William crouched. "Wallaby is a small company in Silicon Valley that manufactures portable computers and those new small wonders referred to as PIAs, which stands for personal interactive assistant," William said flatly. He bounced on the balls of his feet, anticipating Worthy's serve.
Worthy tossed the ball in the air and pounded it with his racquet, then dropped to a defensive footing, his actions fluid and youthful.
William smashed the ball and they played out the serve, and he ultimately gained the ball after Worthy crashed into the wall.
"You okay?" William huffed.
Worthy gave his shoulder a quick squeeze where it had connected with the wall. "Serve," he ordered.
William served and the game continued.
Before the match, William had started the day in his imperturbable business-as-usual mood. He remembered the pleasure he felt upon reading his business adviser's latest market-share report, announcing that ICP had nearly doubled its total unit sales of the BP computer, compared to Wallaby's estimated total sales of its Mate all-in-one portable computer. But though sales of the BP were greater than those of the Mate, William Harrell's consummate business sense counseled against feeling triumphant. He rationalized that Wallaby was presumably up to something big; Peter Jones, Wallaby's eminent founder, had been too quiet as far as the press was concerned. Normally the capricious spokesman of the portable computer industry, Jones had not granted a public interview in more than a year, and that concerned William. Jones had something up his sleeve. Something really big. The only thing that kept William's fear of Jones and Wallaby from growing beyond a mild concern to an actual loss of sleep was the fact that Jones was a poor chief; though he was capable of creating innovative miniature computers, he was incapable of running the company. Without proper guidance and leadership, Wallaby would sooner or later fold.
As they headed from the court to the showers, William wiped his face with a towel and asked, "All right, Rolland, fess up. Why all the interest in Wallaby?"
"This is off the record, my friend. They called one of my best guys, Matthew Locke. They're flying him to California to interview for a job as president."
William felt the color drain from his face.
"Locke, as you know, is who I'm thinking about advancing into my slot when I retire in a few years," Worthy said.
"Anyway, he stopped by my house last night and told me that he had gotten a call from a headhunter and was a candidate to take the lead at Wallaby, working with some kid named Peter Jones."
William remained silent, praying that Worthy would go on and spill everything he knew about Wallaby and its interest in Locke.
"I think Matthew wanted me to tell him he was guaranteed my job when I retire. When I told him I couldn't do that, not yet anyway, he said then that he was going to fly out there to California and see what the company was all about.
"I just can't figure it," Worthy remarked. He paused and slung his towel over his shoulder. "Why would some hippie bantam computer nerds want to hire the president of a company that makes soda pop and chips?"
Harrell knew precisely why. What had he been mulling over all morning? The only factor preventing Wallaby from becoming a bona fide threat was that Peter Jones lacked the business savvy necessary to take his small company into big business. His intuition about Jones had been correct. The young man was looking to hire an innkeeper to run the shop so he could concentrate on building the nifty toys.
"You think they're going to start stuffing little computers into cereal boxes?" Worthy quipped with a chuckle as the two men headed for the showers.
Despite the hot shower, William Harrell felt washed with a chilling morbid dread. Not since his wife had begun her slide into the final stages of cancer had he felt that same feeling of helplessness that comes when loss seems inevitable.
That day was now long past. Worthy's disclosure about Wallaby had been enough to give the older man a jarring advantage that perhaps helped him win the squash game. But in the long run, William smiled to himself, the aching effects he had felt in his muscles after that game were a meager price to pay for what would be felt by the business world, thanks to the data Worthy had advanced him.
Had it not been for that squash match two years ago, he reflected, he might still be worrying about Wallaby someday becoming a serious competitor to ICP, rather than a subsidiary.
What had started as a far-out notion that night following the squash match was beginning to enter the formative stages of reality; the brakes would come off and the wheels would begin turning after Wallaby's board meeting today. His secret acquisition plan was the first thing to come along since Martha's death that had totally engrossed him, and he had wholeheartedly welcomed the diversion as a way to overcome his grieving.
William dreaded the thought of the ensuing two hours during which his advisors would spew figures and specifications, suggesting competitive market action and reaction, while all along he had begun, more than two years ago, his own competitive market plan, its countdown to liftoff about to commence.
* * *
Peter sped away from the company parking lot and raced for the engineering building and the solace of his office.
Turning into the driveway, however, he became suddenly aware of the tears streaming down his face. Cutting the wheel sharply he vaulted off the curb, then sped down the street. His outrage toward Matthew and everyone in the boardroom for what had just gone down was not coming as intensely as he wished. Instead, he felt only anguish. The damage was done, and he knew it was irreparable. Matthew had stolen control of Wallaby right from under his nose, the ultimate irony being that Peter's plan was to propose his, Matthew's, elimination. They had all turned against him.
He raced past the Wallaby buildings and headed for the highway, his mind frantically searching for answers. How could he not have seen it coming? Where had he gone wrong? Had he any forewarning of this? Could he have prevented it from happening, or have better prepared for Matthew's evil force? Had there been, when he had first interviewed Matthew two years ago, some clue, some inkling of what was to come?
"Are you sure you'll make it?" Peter said nervously.
"I'm sure," Rick Boardman said. "But if you don't quit breathing down my neck, I'll never have it ready by four o'clock!"
Rick was Peter's most prized software engineer. When Peter had discussed with Hank Towers the possibility of hiring Matthew Locke, he learned that Matthew was a somewhat reserved person. So Peter went directly to Rick, who was the programming leader on the new Joey computer. Peter asked Rick to put together an eye-popping sight-and-sound exhibition of the prototype computer, something to really show it off.
"I just hope you can do something incredible, Rick," Peter said.He turned to leave.
"Wait," Rick said, taking the bait.
The programmer clicked the small button above the trackpad, and on the screen an image of a bag of International Foods Crunch-Munch materialized. The bag opened, accompanied by crinkling sound effects, and popcorn started exploding out of the bag, followed by animated, high-spirited peanut-people adorned in tiny colored sunglasses and striped sneakers. Each carried a little bucket. They chased after the three-dimensional popcorn puffs, splashing sounds resonating from the attached stereo speakers as they drenched the popcorn with candy coating. A baby kangaroo suddenly appeared on the scene, and the little popcorn people chased after it. The joey appeared to tear open a pocket right in the middle of the screen, then hopped inside, dropping a wink before vanishing. The peanut people dove in after the little fellow, then in the next instant they all came bursting out of the pocket with a pennant, which they unfurled: "WELCOME, MATTHEW," A chorus a children's voices screamed the same welcome and then the screen faded to black. Finally a phantom paintbrush appeared and painted the screen with the shimmering Wallaby logo.
Peter grinned with extreme satisfaction and pride. Still, he laid on a little more pressure, a little more challenge. "Hmm. I wonder if you make the last part, with the paintbrush, a little faster," he said, tracing the word "Wallaby" on the screen quickly with his finger. "Maybe you can add that part you showed me last week, too, with our little Joey pointing out the device's features with those slick animated flash cards he's got stashed in that secret pocket of his…."
Rick nodded excitedly. "Yeah, yeah, I can do that."
Peter left to the staccato sound of keystrokes and clicks, and went to his own office. Taking a folder from his desk, he lowered himself to his stylish couch, kicked off his dock shoes, stretched out comfortably, and began sifting through the collection of articles and clippings about Matthew Locke and International Foods, which had been mailed to both him and Hank earlier in the week by the headhunter they had retained for the search.
In a "Fortune" article entitled "Big Business Chairman Hopefuls," Matthew Locke was the first person mentioned, accompanied by a half-page picture of the young grinning Ivy League executive posed before a wall of soda bottles in a super market. The article predicted that Locke was being groomed to succeed International's long-time chairman and CEO, Rolland Worthy. It described Locke's career over the past fifteen years at IF, listing the numerous successful marketing programs he had developed, all of which Peter recognized: Holy Cow ice cream, Presto Microwave Popcorn, and one of the most popular beverages of all time, Orange Fresh carbonated juice. International Foods had formerly been separated into several divisions, the largest being food, beverage, subsidiary, and services. The article explained how Locke had consolidated the food and beverage divisions into one group, and had the services divisions rolled out as a subsidiary operating unit. That way, International Foods was able to concentrate primarily on developing and marketing its mainstream products; non-retail sales were managed as a separate business unit.
Pretty smart, Peter admitted. In his head, he tried to work the formula on Wallaby's separate product divisions, Mate, and the new Joey, but did not come to the same conclusion Locke had reached. Each of Wallaby's divisions was unique from a technological standpoint, and incompatible, unlike food and beverages which, as far as Peter was concerned, were all the same. This type of solution would not work in a company like Wallaby, Peter concluded, just as he had known it wouldn't when he started the Joey project a few years ago. To create Joey, he had taken a number of his top engineers from the Mate division and moved them into their own building. There were accusations of special privileges, and the accusations were true. Peter nursed, stroked, and dined his people in the Joey building. A giant refrigerator was stocked with exotic foods and beverages, portable Walkman CD players were free, and in-office massages were provided by professional masseuses and masseurs.
Dismissing Locke's consolidation concept as impossible at a place like Wallaby, and therefore an inappropriate measure of the man's abilities, Peter skimmed more articles. He read interviews with people who had worked for Locke over the past several years. Most of them reflected on his no-nonsense business attitude and keen marketing abilities. One marketing analyst who had worked with Locke on International's now highly successful line of diet beverages said that Locke often had several secret projects going at any given time, and as different market opportunities arose, he called upon the brewing projects to launch major new products. The analysts and business community, and the most important group of all, the consumers, perceived the new products as brilliant and timely. Most of them, however, had been waiting in the wings, in some instances, a few years, until the right moment arrived to move them out of the marketing group and into the supermarket. One spiteful IF manager revealed anonymously that Locke had never actually invented any of the products himself. The most outstanding example was the pull-tab, which back in the early 1970s banished the need for a can opener. While Peter took it for granted nowadays that all you had to do was pop the top on a can of soda to sip its contents, he could remember back to when he was a boy, when you had to use a can opener to get to what was inside. It was this fact, that Locke was the one to introduce the pull-tab, that appealed to Peter more than anything else. He compared the metaphor to the Mate and Joey. The Mate was the first all-in-one portable computer (though inside the company they referred to it as a "luggable," rather than a true portable) that you could easily move from room to room, place to place, but it was nonetheless difficult to use; you first had to understand the utility "tool" programs that controlled the machine and its programs before you could fully employ all of its features. Getting into the Joey, on the other hand, was easy, intuitive, like using a pop-top can; all you had to do was to look at it to understand how to use it, no special tools or knowledge were required. The built-in address book and calendar and phone dialer and e-mail program all looked like, and behaved like, their real world, paper-based counterparts. Plus, it was much smaller than the Mate and truly portable, able to run on its rechargeable battery for days at a time. The trackpad interface was so intuitive that in studies Wallaby conducted with brand new users, every attendee was naturally drawn to the small black square without so much as a clue from the study group guides, their fingers sliding across its surface without any thought at all about what they were doing. Just like the soda pull-tab.
So as for Locke's reported reputation of taking credit for what others had invented, Peter felt neither surprised or concerned. It was a non-issue. He was the primary inventor in the company and everyone, including the public, knew it. Locke was being considered because of his abilities to run the business side of things, and only the business side.
Which was just fine with Peter. But what about Matthew Locke?Would he be content with a second-place role to Peter?
That question had just been answered in today's board meeting.The tables had turned, and now Matthew was the star. He had usedPeter as a pawn in his own deceitful, unscrupulous game. How longhad he been planning this coup?
Peter mentally lashed himself for not having taken some sort of action when, about a year ago, Matthew had suggested that Wallaby's products should be engineered to be more compatible with those of ICP. An alarm had gone off in Peter's head, but he had quieted it, tolerating the fact that Matthew did not fathom his desire to uphold Wallaby's proprietary-technology direction. In the long run, that's what it all boiled down to. Matthew wanted to transform Wallaby into an ancillary concern, its computers acting as peripherals to ICP's machines, allowing ICP to remain as the number-one portable and desktop computer manufacturer.
He felt exhausted and lifeless, disembodied, his foot heavy on the gas pedal, drawn by gravity as he raced down the highway pushing seventy-five miles per hour. Even the car was a fucking prop, Peter thought miserably. When Matthew had gotten one for himself just like it, he had told Peter it was because he valued his artistic appreciation for the machine, that he respected his passion for beautifully designed products. How many other little games of pretend had there been, when all along Matthew had been treating him like a child, playing him along and pacifying him until he could drop the ax?
His throat felt packed with cotton balls when the reality of what had just happened started to sink in. His stomach turned and rolled in mini-heaves. All he wanted to do was to make smart portable computers that made everyone's life easier. Couldn't he be allowed that simple pleasure? With this question, the weird feeling in his heart stirred. It had been dormant all morning, and he had all but forgotten about it. But now it was awake, and this time it felt a little different. A little larger, a little livelier. A little more painful.
All of Peter's work on the new and improved Joey Plus was over. Matthew had taken away the thing that was more important to him than anything else in the world. Peter could just picture it, how it would proceed from this day forward - Matthew marching into the engineering group, armed with a complicated schedule and an army of bozo project managers, all meant to scare the development team into finishing the Joey Plus. Then of course he would re-introduce it and take all the credit for Peter's hard work and vision.
How? Peter wondered. How could Matthew, the person he had sanctioned to join him in creating something so exciting and important, do this?
"Simple," Peter said aloud, at last letting himself acknowledge the underlying truth of the whole mess. "He used me."
Yes, he'd been used. But for the last time. Enough was enough. As soon as he got home, he would begin weeding from his life everyone who was using him.
His car phone jingled, and he punched it, knocking it to the floor. No more talking. It was too late for that. He gripped the wheel more tightly and pressed down hard on the gas pedal, eager to get home and begin undoing his mistakes, ditching the bad parts, nurturing the good parts. It would be just that easy.
He would start with Ivy.
* * *
"I think he answered, but then he hung up," Eileen said, holding the telephone to her ear.
"Forget it," Matthew told his secretary. He closed his office door and seated himself before his computer. He closed his eyes let out an exhausted sigh. Leave it alone, he told himself. Leave him alone, you can't get through to him, can't make him understand. It has to be this way. There is no other way.
His plan had worked. The executive staff and board of directors had faith in him to run the company after all. Peter could no longer stand in the way of his taking control of Wallaby. Now he was free to build momentum and power as he moved into the next phase of his plan. He felt a dizzying rush of elation as he fully comprehended what he'd just done. Though he had sincerely cared for Peter when they'd first met, after awhile he had grown less enchanted as he was reminded that falling for the young inventor would prevent him from ever achieving his real goal at Wallaby. He wholeheartedly wished things could have turned out differently. But they had not. And it was over. He only wished Peter had tried harder to understand the real reason everyone in the boardroom had voted against him, even though they themselves had not yet admitted it. He had known all along that Peter would not simply bow out gracefully and accept a non-management role in the company. If only he had been more receptive to the idea of connecting to ICP's computers, this would have never happened. There was no room for being sentimental now, he told himself. Why revisit the past? But as Matthew rested his eyes, he allowed his mind to wander back anyway, letting the memory of those intoxicating early days deepen the resonance of his most recent triumph.
The airplane banked left, changing its coastal orientation, and rose through the hazy grayness surrounding JFK Airport. Destination: San Jose, California.
When the seat belt sign blinked off, Matthew eased his seat back into a more comfortable position. Sunlight broke through the grayness and the cabin was filled with sunlight as the plane climbed.
"Good morning," a stewardess said. "Can I bring you a glass of orange juice? Champagne?"
"I'd like Orange Fresh, please," Matthew said. He was certain the airline carried the soft drink-it had, after all, been his idea to test-market the all-natural citrus beverage with this very carrier before it was introduced by International Foods several years ago.
The stewardess returned with a glass of the sparkling orange beverage. She placed a napkin on the tray and then set the drink upon it.
"Do many people drink Orange Fresh?" he asked.
"It's one of our most-requested soft drinks. Though most folks don't keep it all that soft," she said with a wink.
He felt a burst of pride and love for Greta. Thanks to her, Orange Fresh had carved a new and highly profitable market niche that had earned Matthew kudos from the company's executives. Though International Foods' marketing of the all-natural refreshment ("Good for you, and fun to drink!") had created a markedly successful soft drink, a second, unexpected market had blossomed, thanks to Greta - the Sassy Screw. One part vodka, two parts Orange Fresh. The healthy soda had instantly become a popular cocktail mixer, displacing Mother Nature's own natural contender, orange juice. In its first month of sales, the product reached the magic 50 million-case mark, and the company threw a yacht party for Matthew. That day, however, had ended in tragedy. And now, as he flew to California, he hoped that maybe, if he landed this job, the loss that he and Greta had suffered that day might be amended.
Finishing the beverage, he made room for the materials he had received from the headhunter who had contacted him two weeks earlier, expressing Wallaby's interest in him. He pulled his briefcase from beneath the seat in front of him and opened it on the vacant seat beside him. The over-stuffed folder inside contained newspaper clippings, annual reports, and magazine article reprints, as well as a brochure of Wallaby's computer, the Mate.
Although Matthew knew of Peter Jones - who in the Fortune 500 didn't? - and the highly publicized invention Jones created in his bedroom while a senior in high school, he became more and more intrigued as he browsed through the clippings.
A cover story in "Time" two years earlier touted Jones as"Silicon Valley's Hottest Kid On The Block."
"Forbes" magazine listed Jones in its directory of America's richest people. An accompanying article detailed Wallaby's phenomenal growth and financial milestones, ranking it the fastest-growing company in America. When Wallaby had gone public five years ago, Jones's total worth was estimated at more than 250 million dollars, with Wallaby reporting annual sales of just over 600 million. Holding the second largest share of Wallaby stock was Hank Towers, who was estimated to be worth close to 200 million dollars. A five-year-old "Fortune" article told the story of how Towers was the man Jones first approached for start-up cash with his hackneyed portable computer design. At the time, Towers had owned a small company that built highly-specialized computers that were ruggedized for field and medical applications. Towers had invited Jones to visit him at his offices after seeing the invention, the first truly all-in-one portable computer, at a science fair. Towers, unlike some of the others to whom Peter had shown the product, hadn't balked at its radical design, nor had he laughed when Jones explained his vision for manufacturing the computer at very low cost so that millions of people could have their own portable personal computer to take with them wherever they went. Not long after their initial visit, Towers gave Jones a check for 200 thousand dollars. The rest was history.
Another "Fortune" story was the first among several of the more recent articles to raise in Matthew a curious caution. According to Nicholas Whitley, a science teacher at Sunnyvale High School, "Jones was a rebel. He never wanted to participate in what the rest of the class was focused on. He wanted to do everything himself, on his own." Whitley admitted, however, that had Jones been like the rest of the kids, Sunnyvale High would never have become, thanks to its simple all-in-one design, one of the biggest education customers of the Mate computer - or any computer, for that matter. His main concern was Jones's leadership skills: "I wonder about Wallaby's long-term success. He's a bright kid, with a knack for divining opportunity, but as a company grows, I'm wondering if he'll be able to handle it."
A month-old "Business Week" article crystallized Matthew's caution. A profile on Jones commented on his biting rivalry with ICP, the world's largest computer manufacturer. When Jones was queried about whether Wallaby was developing communications features in their products that would make them more compatible with ICP's mainframe, desktop, and portable computers, he had replied adamantly, "Never. We do it our own way. Though I would consider letting them license our operating system and hardware designs." It was that interminable audacity that raised many eyebrows about the future of Wallaby. When Matthew considered ICP's size, more than fifty billion dollars in sales, and the fact that its computers were used for almost every aspect of worldwide systemization in one way or another, a red flag unfurled in his mind. Matthew feared that he was probably wasting his time speaking to Jones about becoming the company's earnestly sought president. At the same time, though, the lure of being in a position to influence the future technology tools used by people all around the world aroused his interest. Perhaps Jones was working on something new and more powerful than ICP's own desktop and portable computers, which had quickly overtaken and then dwarfed Wallaby's market share. Many speculated that that was the case. Jones, however, had remained tight-lipped over the past year and would talk to no one about what he was working on. If the speculation was true and he got in there now, while they still had a window of opportunity, perhaps he could help Jones build a strategy that would firmly seat Wallaby as the portable computer technology and market leader, with a perpetual lead over ICP.
He loosened his tie and pushed the seat to the fully reclined position. The stewardess asked him which entree he had selected from the lunch menu, and he said he was going to pass on the meal and nap until they arrived.
He had gotten little sleep over the few nights prior to his trip to Wallaby. Two nights earlier, after work, he had gone to a local computer dealer and purchased an Wallaby Mate computer. He had worked with the machine until two o'clock in the morning. Though he read the manuals and stepped through the tutorial programs packaged with it, he found the computer difficult to use, and that made him wonder how long it would take before Wallaby's sales began to dwindle even further; its last-quarter numbers had slipped from those of the preceding quarter. Furthermore, for a portable computer it was considerably heavier, bigger, and shorter-lived in the battery department than ICP's and other, smaller companies' portable computers. Although schools preferred the system because of its rich library of education programs, the market for the Mate was closing fast. If Wallaby wanted to be successful in the future it would have to bring something radically new to the table, something so compelling people just had to have it.
The Joey came close to fulfilling that tall order, but not close enough. But it would, soon enough. It was Matthew's plan to make Wallaby more compatible with ICP's computers. If only Peter had agreed, things would have worked out better, and he would not have had to unseat the young man from the company's top position.
As he loaded Joey's e-mail program, any pain he had felt at the loss of his friendship with Peter was almost fully entombed now. With e-mail, Matthew had been able to communicate with his secret partner in Manhattan for the past two years, and he had been looking forward to this day, to sending this message, for a long time now.
He typed:
- - - - - - - - - -
TO: wharrell@icp.comFROM: mlocke@wallaby.comSUBJECT: STATUS
Today I was granted full support by the board of directors and executive staff to take over all senior management responsibilities at Wallaby, including the development of the Joey Plus computer, which will be complete and ready for release in three months.
I attempted to persuade Peter Jones to accept a position within the company to oversee the development of our future products, but my sense is he will not accept.
We will succeed regardless.
—Matthew
- - - - - - - - - -
He tapped the Send button, and a flashing message appeared indicating that the e-mail was being transmitted.
Just then, his office door opened and he spun in his seat. It wasLaurence Maupin.
"Hello, Matthew. How are you holding up?"
Matthew leaned back in his seat, blocking the computer screen with his upper body. "I think I'm still in shock," he said wearily, wiping his sleeve across his brow.
"Your statement's out to the press," she said, giving the folder in her hand a little shake. She looked at him with a genuinely concerned expression. "Why don't you take the rest of the day off?"
"I think I will," he said, and offered her a grateful smile. He turned and shut off the computer, noticing before the screen went black that his message had been successfully sent.
"Good. We can catch up later," she said, touching his arm lightly.
He gathered his notes and briefcase. Exiting the building, he felt euphoric yet depleted, as if he'd just run a marathon. And he had won. The race was finished, and he had emerged victorious. His biggest obstacle had been overcome.
Unlocking his car door, he was struck by a sudden realization, and he let out a small laugh at the irony of his new position. He'd really done it. He'd really made it. And farther than he had ever imagined. To think that soda and crackers were his business just a few short years ago. It was incredible. Indeed, although he would not become the chairman of the largest food company in the world, as he had once dreamed, today's accomplishment set him up for an even greater eventual success - chairman of the largest computer company in the world.
Opening the front door of his home, Peter was suddenly assaulted by a strange blaring voice and shouts of laughter. The cacophony grew louder and more vexing as he neared the computer lab.
Charging into the room he found Ivy sitting cross-legged on the floor and holding a joint to her lips. Her enraptured smile wavered when she registered Peter's expression.
Two other young people, both boys, were also in the room, both seemingly oblivious to Peter's arrival. One of the boys held a microphone with a thin cable that ran into a small black box, which was in turn attached to a Joey. The computer and a color monitor rested on a table in the center of the room, which was littered with beer cans, bottles, and junk food packages. On the monitor was a bright yellow smiley face, and as the boy spoke into the microphone the smiley face became animated and responded.
"Say cheese," the boy said.
"Say cheese," the smiley face replied, but with an unreal robotic tone rather than a natural human-sounding tone. Simultaneously, the words "Say cheese" appeared in a little balloon, like in a cartoon strip, beside the smiley face's mouth. Nicknamed "Myna Bird," the program, which Ivy had designed, was a crude demonstration of speech recognition and synthesis, which enabled the Joey to hear and speak plain English words. The microphone fed the sounds directly into the converter box and through the Joey, which interpreted them into actual text and spoken words, based on a library of words it had already learned.
"Goo goo," the boy said.
The smiley face did not reply.
"I said, `goo goo,'" the boy said again, breaking into gales of laughter.
"I said," the smiley face said, unfamiliar with the rest of the sentence.
"I said `goo' fucking `goo'!" the boy shouted.
"I said…fucking," the smiley face said.
The boy chuckled a trippy chuckle and glanced at the others - and saw that none were laughing. He turned around and saw Peter. Busted.
"What the fuck is going on?" Peter said loudly.
"What the fuck is going on?" the smiley face mimicked, deadpan, minus the fury.
The others guiltily bowed their heads, mindful of Peter's palpable anger - all except for Ivy who, turning to avoid looking at Peter directly, rubbed her nose to stifle a small giggle. In her attempt to contain her mirth, the situation worsened and her cheeks puffed and she burst out laughing.
Peter approached her with his hands on his hips.
"What's so fucking funny?"
The boy holding the microphone quickly switched it off, before the smiley face could say anymore.
"You are," Ivy said, bringing her knuckles to her face, sputtering out more giggles. "You are, love."
The boys chuckled nervously, like maybe this wasn't so bad after all.
At the sound of the sharp slap, all laughter ceased.
Peter stood there, eyes blazing at her, his hand still raised in the air.
With a vacant expression, Ivy absently brushed her cheek and tried to focus her vision on him.
"Get out," he said, turning to the others.
Ivy remained seated on the floor, stroking her face while the boys disconnected the equipment from the Joey and gathered their knapsacks.
"You can keep the beer, man," one of the boys said as he shouldered his pack. Then the pair was gone.
Alice padded softly into the room and began picking up the scattered litter. She stepped on an empty potato chip bag, which crackled noisily underfoot. Peter could see that it was an International Foods brand, one of Matthew's onetime goodies. Too bad he hadn't stayed in fucking soda pop. Any temporary remorse Peter felt for his behavior, for slapping Ivy, vanished, and his rage returned with greater force.
"Leave it, Alice. Ivy will clean up."
The housekeeper hesitated then returned the empty bottles to the table, her face flushed as she soundlessly exited the room.
Peter turned and faced Ivy from where he now stood, across the room.
"I'm sorry," she said, still sitting on the floor and now rocking back and forth with her arms wrapped around herself. "We were working on my program, and I wanted to surprise you tonight with a new dialect module I put together - "
"You have to go."
" - and I wanted to demonstrate it when you walked in, so you would be happy."
"I said leave."
Tears were dropping from her chin and she remained seated on the floor in a trance-like state. His eyes settled on the Joey's silent glowing screen, the smiley face staring at him with its stupid knowing grin. His jaw quaked as he fought back his hurt, his longing to run to her and have her hold him, to apologize and tell her about everything that had happened. He was torn.
No, not her.
Regardless of what had happened last night, he needed Kate. Not this girl, who, he reminded himself, like everyone else, was using him.
"Get out!" he shouted.
"But I love you!"
"No!" He turned and raised his hands to his head to subdue the pounding that was growing angrier the longer he stayed in this polluted room. "You used me. You even stole my clothes."
"I'm in love with you. Peter, please. I almost died when I heard you were coming to speak at the commencement. I had to sneak into the reception, just so I could see you. And then when I met you and you invited me here, I knew it was because you felt it too, the way we connected when we saw each other." She came from behind him and attempted to take him in her arms.
"Don't touch me," he said, shaking her off. He crossed the room and positioned himself on the other side, a chaise lounge between them.
She stayed where she was, hands at her sides and face all red and puffy. "Peter, I need you. I've changed my life because of you."
He looked in her direction, but his eyes were unseeing. "If you don't get out of here right now with everything that's yours, I'll carry you outside myself and throw you down the hill." His face was unmoving and placid, almost like the smiley face.
She took a step toward him, her hands twisting together, pleading. "But last night. Peter. What about last night?"
He closed his eyes and clamped his jaw. Nothing.
"Fuck you, then," she spat. But she made no motion to leave. Instead, she crossed her arms over her breasts and stood there. A sound that was both a laugh and a cry burst from her lips. "Don't you see? I did this for you, because I care about Joey, and you. Why don't you want to believe that. That's why I changed my studies, because I knew this was something important." She smacked the monitor. "You know you care about it." She pointed at him accusingly. "You said so yesterday, when I showed you how far I'd come." She made a disgusted face. She fought to hold back her tears. "But you don't give a damn. Not about anyone but yourself."
He did not respond. As she collected her things, his attention remained fixed on the computer's screen. He heard her climb the stairs and enter the guest room. There were sounds of drawers opening, the closet door sliding on its tracks. A few minutes later she came downstairs. He did not look at her.
She crossed the room and ejected a floppy diskette from the Joey, and picked up a box of floppies sitting on the table. She placed the items in her knapsack, hoisted the bag onto her shoulder, and collected her small duffel bag at the doorway. Straightening herself for a moment with her back to him, she spoke. "You're gonna regret you did this, Peter." Then she was gone.
He sat down and glared at the smiley face. It returned his gaze, passive, obedient, waiting for input. Just like everyone else, he thought morosely, it wanted something from him.
At his side he felt the neck of a bottle protruding from between the sofa cushions. He lifted it. A nearly empty bottle of wine. Red wine.
And then it hit him. The bottle was the special Cabernet Sauvignon Kate had given him on their first date, which they had vowed to drink together when Wallaby turned ten years old.
"No!" he cried, and hurled the empty bottle at the evil smiley face with its leering, shit-eating grin.
The monitor exploded in sparks and smoke, the smiley face gone forever, and the room fell into silence and he was all alone.
* * *