:...One Man’s Wealth...:

Richard Peterson pulled up to the Newman’s house warming party in a dark blue, well-kept Rolls Royce. He switched off the engine, sniffing haughtily and straightening a non-existent crease in his Gucci jacket. He splayed his fingers, checking each perfectly manicured nail for the tiniest scratch or dent with his eyebrows raised, then paused to admire the ring on his left hand. It was a gold affair with beautifully shining emeralds encrusted into a complex pattern on the top half of the band. He smiled smarmily and gazed through the window at the Newman’s new house. It was three stories tall, and had ivy up at least half of it. The ground floor windows were stained glass, and were shaped like the arrow slits on old castles. Richard chuckled to himself. His windows were also stained glass, but they were bigger, and supplied more light than the Newman’s were bound to. And his were a real bargain - only one thousand pounds per sheaf of glass.

He scratched a non-existent speck of dust from the corner of his polished nose and opened the car door, swung out his legs. His shoes, also Gucci, shone brightly in the moonlight and were of a stark colouring against the snow. He smiled at them, or rather at his distorted reflection in them, then got out of the car and shut the door ever-so-gently, checking for scratches in the paintwork as he did so. When he was satisfied that the car had not been touched, he moistened his lips and turned back to gaze down the street. The other cars lined up there were nowhere near as posh as his, and this was to his relief. He would have hated to turn up in a car that wasn’t better than the rest. And his clothes - his gorgeous designer clothes - how rotten would he have felt turning up in something that was even slightly out of date? These clothes had been bought that very day, paid for on his platinum credit card (which the tiller had been very impressed with, judging by the look on her pretty face), and were probably going to be locked away forever in his wardrobe after the party.

But he could afford it.

He strode confidently towards the house, his shoes making satisfying creasing sounds, and as he did so he simultaneously checked his breath (fresh, minty) and his waistline (slim, but with just that hint of fat which suggested lots of well managed executive lunches). His tie, a navy blue silken weave of wonder, was at a perfect ninety-degree angle with his jacket, and he noted this with satisfaction.

Upon reaching the door, he was disappointed to find that they had not as yet installed a doorbell. He frowned at the problem. If he rapped his fist against the door, the well tanned knuckles would go red, and he wouldn’t be able to show off his nails. If he did rap on the door, and then tucked the afflicted hand into his pocket, he would absolutely ruin the perfect line of his expensive clothing. He frowned at the problem, then stopped because it hurt the botox in his forehead.
He was halfway through considering using one of the small statues by the doorstep to knock on the door instead when a sudden flash of headlights against the entrance told him another car was pulling up. He turned sharply, and saw a blue Chrysler parking just ahead of his Rolls. He watched the driver put the car into place slightly suspiciously (any contact at all with his Royce and he’d be straight onto the phone to his lawyer), then relaxed when he heard the engine switch off. Out of the front door of the Chrysler climbed Ed, wearing the suit he’d worn to Richard and Susan’s wedding (and subsequent divorce). Richard smiled smugly at the knowledge that his clothes were newer and fresher than his friend’s, then turned his attention to Ed’s wife, Emily. She too was wearing a dress he’d seen before, and that nearly made him cackle with delight. So far, so good.

Ed brushed down his coat, then looked up and caught sight of Richard. His heart did a nervous jump and he had to force a smile. ‘Hello, Richard. I didn’t know you were invited.’

This aggravated Richard, but again he didn’t frown lest the botox sting him. ‘Oh, absolutely. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’ He purred lightly, smiling and revealing his fifteen hundred pound bridgework and professionally whitened teeth. Ed smiled tightly in return, then turned his attention to making sure Emily could get onto the pavement in the ridiculous high heels she’d insisted on wearing.

When they eventually joined Richard at the door (Emily squawking that she was fine in her heels, thank you very much), Richard let Ed knock. He saw Ed give his ring a quick glance, and misinterpreted the look of doubt for a look of adoration. He made a show wiping an imaginary smear from one of the precious stones, and the way Ed looked away made his heart sing with delight.

Douglas Newman answered the door, and Richard was jubilant to discover Doug was dressed for casual - a presentable blue sweater and some musty old slacks. Douglas greeted both Emily and Ed enthusiastically, hugging the former and shaking hands with the latter, then turned his gaze to Richard.

‘Richard! How, er, lovely to see you! Nice suit, gorgeous, marvellous. Alright, everyone, let me show you inside!’

The rest of the night was a vanity fair for Richard. People from all around the neighbourhood admired him, his smile, his hair, his suit. Instead of buying a housewarming gift for Douglas and Barbara, he’d written out a cheque for six hundred pounds, and told them warmly (and smugly) to spend it as they pleased.

He yawned as he pulled up outside his apartment block (his was, of course, the Penthouse, top floor, top class, top style), and smiled to himself. Tonight had gone well, he decided. Yes. Very well.

He climbed out of the car, and wandered idly through the lobby, into the lift, and turned the key in the controls that would take the lift to the top floor. The lift sailed upwards, and delivered him to his beautiful front door.

Inside the Penthouse, all was calm, and peaceful...apart from the antique wooden table, which was covered in letters. Richard pursed his lips as looked at them resentfully, then ignored them and carried on through to the bathroom. He bathed, he dried himself off with the thick towels, he got into his flannel pyjamas and soft cotton dressing gown, and then he fetched the rope from the kitchen cabinet (steel, of course. The latest thing).

He sat on one of the chairs, at the table, and stared at the mountains of red envelopes without seeing them, twining the rope between his fingers. He didn’t move when the phone rang, and felt his face automatically sneer when he heard Ed’s concerned voice over the answer-phone.

‘Hi, Richard, it’s me, Ed. Look, I know it’s none of my business seeing as though you disregarded my services as an accountant last year, but I was really worried about you tonight. Where did all that new stuff come from? I mean - Susan didn’t leave you with that much after the divorce, did she? Richard, please pick up. I know you’re home by now. Pause. Alright, call me back when you get this message. Please Richard, for your own good...’

The automated voice took over. ‘Thank you for calling.’ It said, and broke the connection.

And Richard started to laugh. And laugh. He laughed at the stacks of bills on the table, at the credit cards in his wallet, at the empty cheque book on his mantelpiece. He laughed at the stained glass windows, he laughed at the plush sofas and the polished wooden floors. He laughed at the fact that the garage he’d rented the Rolls from would be wondering where it had gotten to.

But most of all he laughed at himself. He laughed as he took the rope and threaded it through one of the strong light attachments on the ceiling, balancing on the chair as he did so, and he laughed as he tied it slowly around his neck.

‘One man’s wealth...’ He shouted almost hysterically, body racking with childish giggles, kicking off his slippers so his feet could get a good grip on the chair below. ‘...Another man’s debt, eh Ed?’

He was still laughing when he kicked the chair away from underneath him.

27-02-2005