TUNA LIFE (16 page)

Andrew was unsure what it was. Was it the success of Tuna Life or the pills Richard had provided him, that was the catalyst for the change in his personality? He had always preferred to stay in the shadows, to make things happen, but avoid any attention that followed. During the last few months he had gradually started to appreciate what followed his new-found fame. He enjoyed being recognised in the street, he enjoyed people discussing him at the neighbouring restaurant tables, he even enjoyed the fact that his whole circle of friends seemed to have changed.

When he worked at Avensis Accounting, part of his job had been to attend various networking functions. The partners had told him he needed to expand his circle of influence, strike up relationships with people who could assist his career, either by referring new clients or making the Avensis brand better known in the market. When he now attended a function, people approached him. Andrew was the person people wanted in their circle of influence.

“Sold to Andrew Engels, from Tuna Life.”

“Go Hasselhoff,” Horne yelled from one of the neighbouring tables, to the apparent great joy of the other guests.

“Some of you need to dig a bit deeper in your pockets, unless you want Hasselhoff here to buy everything,” the auctioneer said, pointing at Andrew. The room erupted in laughter. “Especially since the next item is a very special one – the next item is a frozen chicken from Coles.” People started clapping. “This is no joke. And it is a free-range chicken, so don’t try to hide behind the animal cruelty excuse. Last year we got three thousand five hundred dollars for this chicken. Let’s see if we can beat that record tonight. All the money goes to Guide Dogs New South Wales, so start looking for your check books.”

The auctioneer started working the crowd. The auctioning of a frozen chicken was a good old tradition at SBA Lawyers. An item with a retail price of less than five dollars. Whoever ended up with the winning bid in effect just gave a donation, money for nothing. The auctioneer was clever and managed to pit two of the tables against each other. A businessman from Horne’s table was bidding against an overweight mining company executive from Andrew’s table. In the corner of his eye Andrew noticed a beautiful woman was staring at him. It was the retail chain MYER’s new face, the model Mira Johnson.

Andrew had been sneaking peeks at her all evening. This was the first time she looked back.

The bidding had stopped at two thousand, and was now only increasing with fifty- and hundred-dollar increments. The auctioneer wasn’t happy. “Andrew, are you sure you don’t want to place a bid? You know it might actually be nice with chicken for dinner – instead of tuna for once,” he said, receiving erratic laughter from the crowd.

“Five thousand,” Andrew said, to patchy applause from the other guests. There was a lot of old money at the club house, and even though most found it amusing that Andrew had bought most of the items being auctioned off, some now found it a bit vulgar. There was no need to flash around your money like this.

“Five thousand one hundred,” Mira Johnson hollered across the room.

Heads turned, and for a moment most of the chattering completely stopped. When people discovered that it was the beautiful MYER-model Mira Johnson who had outbid Andrew Engels, the room again erupted in applause. Were they witnessing a very public courting between a famous model and an up-and-coming tech guru?

The auctioneer didn’t waste any time. “What if we make it ten thousand, five from each, then you can share the chicken – a romantic dinner for two.”

The room broke out in laughter.

“Fine by me,” Mira Johnson yelled out as a reply.

All heads turned towards Andrew Engels. Eagerly awaiting his response.

“It’s a deal. I mean – It’s a date,” he said to more laughter.

“Come up after the auction is completed, and we’ll sort out the details,” the auctioneer said. Andrew’s eyes met Mira Johnson’s, and they both broke out in smiles.

Andrew was glad he hadn’t called the make-up girl for a coffee.

36

MONTH 5

NUMBER OF EMPLOYEES: 25

NUMBER OF USERS: 25 MILLION

VALUATION: $60M – UNKNOWN

“I don’t understand what the problem is,” Scott Davis said. “It’s not interfering with my job.”

“There’s nothing to discuss. I need you to focus your time producing business stories. To spend half a day, driving around with Mark, is not an option. It’s not productive. I can’t have two staff looking into this case about the missing women. It’s already been a couple of months since Mark started looking into this case, and he still hasn’t found a shred of evidence that there is a connection between the missing girls. I’ve told Mark he can follow up the case in his spare time, if he wants, but you stick to business news.”

“So I can’t be Mark’s mentor anymore?” Scott asked.

“Correct,” Vesna replied.

“I want that in writing.”

“You’ll get it in writing as soon as you start sending me the weekly reports from our Performance Management conversations,” she said, before slamming the door to the meeting room shut.

Scott swore. It wasn’t really the fact that he wouldn’t be able to help Mark. He was still not sure whether there was a story there, whether something illegal had happened. And they hadn’t really made any progress over the last few weeks either. It was hard to work the case like they did; squeezing an hour in here and there, still juggling their normal jobs. If they really wanted to get a breakthrough they needed to make an all-out effort. But now Vesna had effectively put an end to that possibility. She had forbidden Scott to assist Mark. He could have accepted walking away from the case, but he couldn’t accept being told what he was allowed to do or not. Certainly not by a girl, hardly dry behind her ears. It meant nothing that Vesna was his boss, he simply couldn’t accept it. He glanced at his watch. Five to four. It was time to pack up for the day anyway. He had an errand tonight; Marissa’s parents had confirmed something interesting, something the bartender had brought up at the McDonald’s restaurant. In the weeks leading up to her disappearance their daughter had started to attend a few private parties. She hadn’t explained whether she went there to work, to party or to meet someone. Only that it was parties for these new tech companies that seemed to pop up everywhere around the coast. Marissa’s mum had said that her husband, after losing his job, had started reading the Gold Coast Times from first to last page. Previously he only read the sports pages, but now he stretched it out to kill as much time as possible in the morning. He had noticed some of Scott’s articles about the new economy. How some of these new technology companies from the Gold Coast were about to conquer the world.

“It’s good that at least someone is fighting back,” Marissa’s mum had said. “It seems like more and more shops and businesses are closing down every week because of this internet. Can’t compete with China.”

Scott Davis nodded. His job was more uncertain than ever before. It had been like that for the last few years. He reasoned he should visit one of those tech parties. See how the new economy celebrated itself. Vesna Connor couldn’t refuse him that.

Stingray Bar, at the QT Hotel, was packed with a freak show of a meat market. Bankers in cheap suits hung by the bar as lawyers and investors circled the room, hunting for prey. The prey was the geeks who stood spread throughout the room, chatting about their ideas with wannabe Venture Capitalists and greedy Angel Investors. Spray-tanned blondes, with deep cleavages and shallow opinions, prowled the room. Smiling to the investors, nodding to the lawyers and winking at the geeks. The investors were too old and had been hit hard by the GFC. The lawyers were boring, worked too much and were living on credit. The geeks however, the potential rockstars of the new economy, were young and had all the opportunities laid out for them: They had the potential to become ultra-rich, they worked in sexy companies, companies the local gold diggers understood. It was easier to say that your boyfriend developed mobile apps than made money on providing retirement advice. The geeks’ money was cooler, and the geeks were easier to mould; take them to an exclusive clothes shop, give them a new hairstyle, Lasik their eyes. It was simple. This was gold-digger heaven.

Scott Davis felt like an outsider where he stood with a bottle of Stella in his hand. He had wanted to order a Tooheys New on tap, but apparently they only drank imported beer in the new economy. As it was free he hadn’t bothered putting up a fight with the bartender. Instead he now stood observing the meat market in front of him. It made him appreciate that he had stopped going to nightclubs a long time ago.

He had met his wife of fifteen years at university. He had been studying journalism, she psychology. She’d had beautiful long black hair, curling down to her narrow waist. She’d had more bone in her nose than most others had in their entire body, and Scott had been in love from the moment he laid eyes on her.

A thump, thump rang out in the room, and the talking, flirting and networking came to a halt.

“Thanks,” the MC said.

Scott Davis studied the invitation. Richard Smith from Y-Bator. Scott Davis had done some research before the evening’s event; he had mapped out most of the successful companies of the new economy, and run checks on who the directors and financial backers were. It was an interesting fact that there seemed to be a lot of Russian money involved. Y-Bator, the largest incubator and investor was owned by Roman Bezhrev, incidentally the same guy who owned Crazy Kangaroo Strip Club. Roman also seemed to own several other private investment vehicles. Scott Davis had no idea why he had structured it like that, but he assumed it gave Roman the opportunity to invest in different growth periods for start-up companies. One company would invest very early – in something as simple as an idea or a team. These were the most risky investments. Another company would invest in companies that had finished products or services, and at least some revenues confirming that there was a market for their idea. These companies needed funds to grow and most of them went belly up within three years. But such was the game; you spread your risk on enough investments, and most likely one of them would be a homerun. With his network of companies Roman always had an opportunity to invest, regardless of where the start-up was in its business cycle. Roman was obviously not going to risk missing out on any opportunities.

Most of his companies had external investors as well. The difference between Roman Bezhrev’s companies, and traditional VC and Incubator companies, was that Roman’s companies were controlled by a very select group of individuals. The ‘Russian Boys Club’ as Scott Davis intended to coin it in his next newspaper article. The new economy didn’t actually create that many new Australian millionaires. Most of the profits ended up in the pockets of a handful of Russians. Scott wondered how Vesna would like that angle for an article.

“It’s a pleasure to be here today, among so much talent,” the MC, Richard Smith, said peering out over the crowd. Scott wondered whether he was referring to the blondes or the geeks. “We’ve been through some tough years at the coast. Many of my personal friends have had to move from the Gold Coast to get work elsewhere.” The bankers, lawyers and the investors nodded in unison. The geeks stared with empty eyes. “But from the ashes the Phoenix has arisen. A new generation of entrepreneurs; fearless, ambitious and with an everything-is-possible attitude they have conquered the tech-world in record time. The Gold Coast is now the place where the old titans of the industry look for innovation. I’ve even heard rumours that large American VC firms are considering setting up offices here, to learn how we do things. Because it is right here in this room, right here tonight, that the future Mark Zuckerberg, the future Jack Dorsey, and the future Steve Jobs are being made.”

The room erupted in applause and stomping feet. The blonde gold diggers became even more intense in their hunt for the chosen one. The future Steve Jobs. The future Mark Zuckerberg. Where were they? Who were they? Fame, a life in the spotlight, a life in endless luxury. The odds of achieving all those things had never been better than just now, just here in this room. The gold diggers all knew it.

“So, without lingering too much, let me present this year’s winner of start-up of the year, a winner which we in Y-Bator have supported from the moment they presented their idea to us, an idea that has completely redefined the experience of how we try and purchase clothes. Without further delay, let me introduce Andrew Engels, the CEO of Tuna Life.”

The room again erupted in applause. Some even whistled. The bankers, investors and lawyers nodded politely to each other, as to say: Good choice, a deserving winner. The blondes stared at the stage, with hungry eyes, already calculating. How were they going to get him by themselves? All they needed was five minutes, an opportunity to make their bodies touch. Make him realise that they were made for each other.

Andrew Engels strolled onto the stage. There he was; the new Steve Jobs, the future billionaire. Both envious and admiring eyes followed him as he arrived at the middle of the stage. He winked and waved to one of the audience. The blondes all turned to see who the recipient of the attention was. In a small lounge suite, in one of the corners of the room, the up and coming model Mira Johnson sat, surrounded by a group of suits.

She waved back.

The blondes growled.

The biggest prize was already taken. Who was next on the list?

On stage Andrew accepted the prize for start-up of the year. It was a plaque made out of plastic. Andrew immediately got a bit disappointed. It looked cheaper than cheap, and he had to admit he had expected something more. Start-up of the year. He had thought that was a big thing. An honour. There was little chance he would ever put the cheap plastic plaque on any wall in Tuna Life’s new offices. A cheap white piece of plastic, with Tuna Life and Start-up of The Year, engraved in block letters.

Richard Smith smiled. “And what more appropriate, for the start-up of the year, than to receive their very own 3D printed plaque. We all know how busy a start-up venture is. Tuna Life is planning to open up offices, both in New York and London, later this year. So instead of giving them the traditional glass vase, which we gave last year’s winner, we thought we might as well give Tuna Life the blueprints for the plaque and the equipment to make duplicates for their new offices.”