The motorbike shrieked, stuttered and finally grunted to a halt in a pathetic dribble of gravel. This, Matt knew, was entirely the wrong image. He wanted it to roar upon its arrival with the strength of a lion, raking up the dirt in a solid wall with its talons, or wheels as the case might be, and generally doing whatever it took to achieve the fanfare the king of the city deserved.
All right. He had some way to go before he could legitimately crown himself. At the moment he was more like a kitten flexing its stubs of claw. The few adverts and shorts he had broken his teeth on were balls of wool bounced teasingly in his direction, but now his owners were beginning to see his potential. This new series would be his first kill, so to speak, his first taste of fame's blood before he mauled it, dominated it, made it his. It was, after all, made for him. He fitted into this world so perfectly that it must have been crafted specifically for Matt Engarde. There was simply no other explanation.
Motorbike secured, he paused at the window of the restaurant to straighten his hair. It was such an ingrained habit that his thoughts were easily able to wander as he did it. If this Nickel Samurai series took off – which it would, if he was in it – the first thing he would do was buy himself a new ride. His current bike had served him faithfully, but, like an old pair of shoes, faithful was all very good until the object in question started to leak.
Next on the list was a better television and sound set-up. He couldn't quite justify this in the same way, but knew all the same that it was absolutely necessary. If anyone questioned him on why sleek, glossy and, most of all, expensive technology was vital to his continued existence, he didn't need to explain. No one wasted an opportunity to claim that he wasn't the sharpest yari in the Samurai's hand. He might not have an answer to the question of why he needed a new television, but that was only because, as everyone always said, he wasn't intelligent enough to see it. There. Problem solved. He needed a new television.
Satisfied with the state of his hair, swept across one eye for no reason other than he was willing to sacrifice depth perception for the sake of fashion, he strode to the restaurant's double doors. He had arranged to meet the manager who would give him the wind to set his career flying for dinner, despite his uncertainty about her. During their introduction yesterday she had barely said anything, staring at him in a way which betrayed absolutely no attraction, sexual or otherwise.
Matt considered this to be a hideous breach of etiquette. Only the most uncultured of women would fail to be entranced by his charms.
"My name is Celeste Inpax," she had said. As formal as if she was greeting her landlord, as dry as if her tone was lost in a desert during the height of summer yet as cold as the North Pole. She hadn't appreciated his attempts to melt the ice, either. He'd tried to relax her, shown that he himself was, as he put it, cool with whatever. She told him that she would prefer not to be called Manager Dude, in a voice so polite it had to be taken as offensive.
Oh well. Maybe that meant she would be focused on furthering his career. That suited him. He could bypass personal interaction and relationships for that. They didn't mean much to him in any case. After all, when you were Matt Engarde, it was impossible to step out of the house without being presented with a street full of people ready to fulfil any needs for personal interaction and relationships to any extreme.
The restaurant was of five star quality, and each star would have been cut from gold and studded with diamonds. Matt had chosen it solely because anything worth doing was worth doing extravagantly. It had oak panelling. It had carpets the same crimson as the wine it served. It had a piano raised on a dais in one corner, allowing notes to flow like water around its patrons. They themselves were seated in a forest of potted ferns.
There were absolutely no sharp, triangular corners in red and white plastic, which was what the majority of Matt's clothes consisted of, and nor were any of the diners in their late teens with their hair swept over half of their face, but he chose to interpret this as a positive sign. Juxtaposition of opposites was supposed to be good, right? It was impossible to juxtapose anything more opposite than Matt and this restaurant.
Celeste, on the other hand, wore the subtle, dignified surroundings like a second skin. She raised a hand as soon as Matt entered, his eager smile bounding ahead of him across the room, but it took several seconds for him to locate her and take a seat beside her.
His clothes squeaked against the leather seats. Celeste refrained from commenting. She managed, Matt noticed, to do this very pointedly. It wasn't that she was not commenting, she was deliberately refraining from it. She folded her hands in her lap instead.
"Good afternoon, Mr Engarde,"
Matt rested his elbows on the back of the seat.
"Hi, dude."
"Ms Inpax will be fine, thankyou."
Piano music wandered over, tried to replace the awkward silence but quickly gave this up as a bad job and retreated to safety behind one of the ferns. Celeste coughed. Matt was glad to know he had experienced a cough which was simultaneously genteel and business-like before he died. It was a rather unique sound.
The wine list was flourished before them by a sympathetic waiter. The wine was chosen. The list was removed.
Silence reigned again.
The most annoying thing, Matt decided, was that his manager was not at all embarrassed by the lack of any conversation. She was using it to survey him, as a builder might survey the plans for a future manor house. That feature worked well there, this one needed some tuning, that one had to go completely, but, the key to all observation, it would make money. Dreams of a new motorbike and television consigned to five minutes ago, Matt pityingly labelled her as shallow.
"Do you like cats?" she said.
Matt wasn't entirely sure how he was expected to respond to this one.
"Um, sure, dude, why not? They're cool."
The change was even more dramatic than Matt's fashion sense against the backdrop of the restaurant. Celeste grinned, unfastened her ponytail and shook it until it tumbled around her shoulders, which became bare as she slipped off her jacket.
"That's all I needed to know."
From the moment she heard the motorbike snorting outside, Celeste had been prepared for the worst. She expected to be disappointed now, exhausting herself trying to find a bit more substance in this transparent sheet of a personality, paper thin and daubed with vanity as clumsily as a child's finger painting.
She was pleasantly surprised.
While her initial assessment was not far off the mark, the stupidity she perceived in Matt was stupid in a highly endearing manner. As soon as she tuned out the word 'dude' in every other sentence his company was even rather pleasant, in that it entertained her. The way he tried to look sophisticated as he drank wine he clearly didn't like, the way he mispronounced every item on the menu, the way he insisted that he was twenty-one even though she, as his manager, knew details such as the fact that he was eighteen; his charm somehow turned every action which should have rasped against her nerves like a banshee with laryngitis into melodious amusement.
It was night by the time they left the restaurant. Celeste shivered as her shoes stepped onto a pavement invisible in the dark. The echo of her footsteps knocked mournfully on down the street, aimless, before it was mauled by the sinister nothingness. An unexpectedly cold breeze worked its way right through her jacket with more persistence than an electric shock.
She looked at Matt. He returned the glance.
"Hey, uh, great to meet you properly. I'll see you at the studio tomorrow, right?"
"Yes, that's right. Eight o'clock."
"Great. Catch you later, then, dude."
Celeste watched him leave.
It had been silly of her, really. She doubted she would ever work out what made her think he would loan her his jacket, or offer her a ride home on that motorbike.
She fished her mobile phone out of her handbag instead.
"Hello? Is this Adrian Andrews? It's Celeste Inpax. Hello. I was just ringing to say I met Mr Engarde again today. I asked him about cats..."