⚒️ Last of the international playboys
by Joel Glover
There are points in your life that are defined by music. Songs represent relationships. Songs trigger memories. These are all crucial tracks.
Crucial Tracks is the song-a-day music journal where you share the songs that play a role in your life. Integrates with Apple Music, Mastodon, and Bluesky. Free!
His suit was the same blue it always was. The family legacy, whether in heavy worsted woolens, linen, or the kilts for formal events to nod to a deeper heritage still.
It fit perfectly. Of course it did. His tailors were the best alive, stitches and patterns tracking a story of imperialism and militarism.
His shoes were as British as could be; made by a cobbler from Hong Kong, in a shop owned by an Italian, in a style brought into the country by foreign aristocrats. There would be cowboy boots on Texas Oil Men, imitation mining boots on parvenue wealthy, and even the slippers favoured in space-borne environments. But if you are the Designated Board Member of the St John Family Office for Cavendish Stellar and Cavendish Enterprises then you fly the flag.
The evening’s event was a philanthropic one, at least nominally. The total running cost of hosting a party in Great St James was exorbitant; the logistics alone running into the tens of millions. Competitive bidding in blind auctions and performative donations might push the event past break-even. A trust or two would make up the difference, for appearances sake. The real value in the event was the people. Starlets pitched their abilities to producers; athletes sought out investments which would turn their earnings into generational wealth; insider trading on a scale beyond criminal took place over whiskey sours.
His date was waiting for him.
Unless you were Valerian St John the Third it would be unusual to meet internationally acclaimed research scientists who looked like they’d stepped off a New York runway. But there she was, Justina Lauryna Karvaičiai. Eyes so blue it put his suit to shame; skin the colour and texture of his most expensive silk sheets; a waist you could almost close your hands around; a mind as sharp as a razor, and a tongue to match. She kept him on his toes. When she was minded to do so.
“You look beautiful.”
He told her this because it was true. He told her it because it embarrassed and annoyed her.
She had an eye for fashion, much better than his own. He paid a stylist and several consultants to keep him abreast of trends. She somehow found time between unravelling the implications of advances in physics provided by Cavendish Technology Transfer and explaining them to over eager post-graduate students to blaze a stylish trail on his arm.
The yacht Excelsior had a small boat to get to shore when the seabed didn’t allow for closer docking. Valerian could pilot it himself, of course. He was sure Justina could also, as he had yet to find anything at which she didn’t excel. He paid a man to do it for him though, so he could enjoy a cocktail—or two—and the view.
Forget the vista though, he was staring at her.
It took him a flute of champagne and fourteen steps to get to his third refusal of the evening. Dredging the London canals; schools in Accra; clean water for Flint. He could fund the requests of course. He was, by most reckonings, the fourth wealthiest man on Earth. The three people who were richer were all family members. It was a lesson you could learn playing board games with your parents, or in the less demanding environment of Economics 101; if you control a monopoly, you get rich; if you control all the monopolies, you win. He could fund the requests, but he wouldn’t. People needed to learn how to pull themselves up by their bootstraps.
“Valerian! Justina!”
The hostess was impeccably elegant, her cheongsam a luscious turquoise.
“Mei-mei.”
The name meant beautiful, twice over, and she was.
The women exchanged kisses, lips pretending an affection they did not feel. There was rivalry here; he had dated Mei-Mei, once upon a time. Now she managed a hedge fund which invested in terrestrial concerns, an enterprise which was always going to be second rate no matter how hard she tried, whilst Justina’s eyes were fixed on the stars.
“I hope you can see your way to bidding this evening. Of course, an evening with Miss Guyana is probably not on the agenda, but there are other auction lots which might appeal.”
When you are the fourth wealthiest man on earth, an auction holds little appeal. Anything that is for sale—and much of what isn’t—can be bought in secret, one way or another. He would bid, of course. But only for experiences he could trade for favours, or give as influence winning bribes.
“Of course.”
“She’s a nice girl, Miss Guyana,” Justina whispered in his ear. “You’ll see.”
He took a fourth flute of champagne.
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