Free Nobody True by James Herbert Page B

was more than a little annoyed I raised both hands placatingly. “You don’t mean that. See, this is what happens when you’re doing coke. It makes you bloody schizophrenic.”
    “At least I’m not the one that’s holding the agency back. You were frightened to pitch for this account until Sydney and I persuaded you. Even worse, you’re scared of tying in with a bigger agency so that we can expand.”
    I felt the skin of my face tighten. “Let’s leave it there, okay? I don’t want to get into this right now.”
    “No, Jim, ‘course you don’t. Let’s face it, chum, you don’t like change, you never have.”
    I could have pointed out that we’d built the agency together, account by account, and I was equally a prime mover in everything we had achieved; but it wasn’t worth it—it was no good talking common sense to him when he was in one of these stupid moods. He had been hitting the bottle all evening, first emptying the miniature whiskies from the mini-bar, then ordering a bottle of Black Label from room service, while slipping into the bathroom every so often for cocaine hits. And I’d thought he had a bladder problem.
    “We’re both tired,” I said evenly, grimly aware that there was no point in trying to reason with him. Alcohol and coke were a bad combination. “Let’s call it a day, carry on tomorrow morning when I’m fresher and you’re straight.”
    “Why? You think that’s going to change anything? You’ll still be holding me back, as ever.”
    “You don’t know what you’re saying, Oliver.” I refused to rise to the bait, suspecting the bitterness of his words had more to do with whisky than powder. “Enough for tonight, okay? We’ll start again in the morning.”
    “You won’t change your mind though, will you? You still won’t agree to a merger.”
    “This isn’t the time to discuss it!” I shouted back at him. I wanted to give him a smack, wipe the supercilious smirk from his face. Instead, I said through suppressed anger, “I’m turning in and I think you should do the same.”
    “What?” he raised his arm and peered at his wristwatch. “Going to bed at half-past eleven. Well I’ve got better things to do.”
    He grabbed his jacket hanging over the back of a chair and tramped across the sheets of layout paper towards the door, crumpling them, leaving scuff marks over my Pentel visuals.
    “Oliver, don’t,” I called after him. “This is bloody silly.”
    “Fuck you,” he said as he pulled open the door to the long hallway beyond and turned to give me a contemptuous look. Never before had he regarded me with that kind of expression and I was shocked. He looked as if he could kill me.
    Then he was gone, slamming the door behind him, and that was the last time I saw Oliver while I was alive.
    12
    Maybe it was the vodka, then the brandy, then the gin I’d consumed from the mini-bar that made my OBE so confusing; I’d downed them all in rapid succession after Oliver had left the suite.
    Now on my own, surrounded by trampled layouts, I’d grown more and more angry. Trust Ollie to walk out on me when there was so much work to be done by Monday. And trust the fool to go back on his word that he’d keep off drugs for good. Now our partnership was in jeopardy all over again. I needed a copywriter who could judge what was good and what was awful. I needed a business partner who could think clearly when important decisions had to be made. I thought Ollie had learned his lesson from last time around.
    It was past midnight when I went through to the room next door and threw myself onto the bed, an almost empty miniature of gin clutched in one hand. I supported myself on an elbow and drank the last dregs (shit, I hated gin) and let the tiny bottle drop to the floor as I flopped onto my back. Oliver, Oliver, why did you have to do it? Why now at this crucial time? The bank was probably one of the most significant accounts we’d ever take on and, once we became committed,