Memoirs of a Pretentious Business Traveller

When getting flown to New York on business, ensure that you receive nothing less than a king suite, two bathrooms, two televisions, 12th floor views down 1st Avenue, seventies décor that has retained that fresh Sinatra smell, and net curtains which offer a suggestive silhouette to your sky-scrapping neighbours as you nonchalantly strut around your suite in the nude – cigar in hand, hair wet and combed back tightly – exaggerating the wrinkles across your forehead as you so coolly cement one brow higher than the other. No one is there, but as every well travelled businessmen will tell you, people are always looking.

Brando, Sinatra. (Photo from Richard Avedon's book 'Performance')

When in public, walk with a justified self-importance. An arrogance that says, “The suit? Yes, the suit symbolises importance.” A black suit (pin-striped or plain), a silk tie fixed around an Egyptian cotton collar, French cuffs fastened with the finest cufflinks – “silver? No no, that’s white gold my friend, white gold” – which inch out from beneath your sleeve to create a subtle colour balance, the black leather shoes – toes pointed, leather polished to a reflective sheen – and finally, the briefcase, thin, streamlined, linear, brass latches securing documents of unrivalled confidentiality. You’re ten feet tall. You’re bullet, no, recession proof.

When you dine, remove the jacket and drape it across you forearm in one smooth movement. Here it waits as your eye, brow still raised, catches that of the service – oh yes, we call them ‘the service’. You’re good enough to entrust this piece to his hook. As he takes it from you, you whisper “good man”. Note his manor. This will determine your generosity when it comes time to entrust the same man with your Black-card.

Dinner will be exquisite. It always is. You’re a connoisseur. The wine choice, perfect. The espresso, smooth. It comes as a result of fine-tuning the business experience. Years it’s taken, but you pull it off with ease. Seasoned.

You tip above the requisite 18%. Not too much. You didn’t get to where you are by giving money away. But you got here through perception. The perception that you’re a mover, a shaker.

A rooftop bar. Manhattan by night stretches out below you. You appreciate it, but you’ve seen it before. Your eyes squint slightly as if each of those lights were shining directly into your eyes, brow still raised. It’s a contemplative look. A look that says “I once thought this town made me, but now I know, I made this town”. Scotch on the rocks. Warm. Smooth. Golden.

You retreat back to your suite.

You exit one of your two showers. Reach for a crisp white towel. Wrap it around your waste. You catch your reflection in the mirror as the steam dissipates just enough to notice your towel has dropped below the hip line. To the untrained this seems casual, but it’s composed. You’ve achieved too much today to bother with your loose towel. It’s coming off before you leave the bathroom anyway.

Again, no one is there, but every move of a businessman is calculated. Rehearsed. Nude, you reach for the remote. Markets in Japan are about to open. “Hmmm”, Nikkei roars past 10,000. You’re not in finance, but you take note.

You slip between freshly made sheets. You reflect. Things have changed today. You changed them. Setting the alarm, you know the world is braced for further change tomorrow. You’re a man, a business man. Civilisations were built and destroyed by men that wore your look. The raised brow, squinted eyes, and stern expression that says “I’ve got the world on a string, I’m sitting on a rainbow, Got that string around my finger, What a world, what a life”.

By Simon Moskva