"How... delightfuly touching," Bif sneered, sipping his drink again. "It's so charming when you pretend you care about other people, Tad." He'd been right: Tad hadn't changed sine high school-- and was probably every bit as self-centred and willing to climb over anyone to get whatever he wanted.
But what was he climbing for now? He was all too eaer to point out how rich and successful he was-- revoltingly tacky as it was-- so why did he need Derby? Bif swirled his drink absently, trying to work out what Tad's plan was. He'd never been the strategic thinker-- he was the muscle to back up the politics. The genius behind the plans had always been Derby. Bif didn't manipulate people on the social sphere-- he'd never had reason to: he was at the top of the pecking order as it was, there was no risk of somehow losing that-- he'd never really had to consider social manipulation, just preferring to ignore and sneer at anyone he didn't like. And hell-- he didn't even really need to dislike anyone: money tended to buy peace or allow you to avoid people who you wished to.
Tad was another matter though. A rogue trader, a spanner in the works: not one of them, but not one of the poor people anymore, he wore his money like a status symbol, as though desperately screaming to the rest of the world to pay attention to him. It was so... gauche. Just like being sexy-- it seemed to cancel out the effect when you had to remind everyone else that you were.
Bif didn't feel terrribly slighted at Tad's remark, knowing the value of working his way up through the company, knowing the ins and outs of the business, making the right contacts. He was, however, irritated with Spencer's... smarminess.
"You nouveau riche types," he said, trying to hide the briefest hint of a smile. "Win the lottery and you think everything happens overnight, don't you?" He sipped his drink again.