by D J Harrison
Somebody has got hold of me and is dragging me back to the car and pushing me onto the seat. I’m so grateful. It’s much more comfortable here than on the cold wet grass. The taxi driver seems to have got in the back of the car with me which I find a bit strange. He can go now, he can drive me home. Something soft and warm pokes my cheek and I push it away with my hand. The taxi driver is making groaning noises and I feel warm splashes on my cheek and forehead. As I settle down to sleep I feel the car start to move again and hope that I’ll be home soon.
15
There’s an awful amount of recrimination being thrown in my direction, this constant stream abated only by Tim’s need to take Toby to nursery and then go to work. I lie here, still very drunk, still incapable of coherent thought or action. There is nothing I can say or do in any event, Tim has the moral high ground for once and can be relied on to make the most of it. The only thing I can do is sleep.
****
I sit gratefully at my desk, finally re-joining the working masses after two days in bed recovering from the worst hangover I’ve ever experienced. There’s no prospect of my going within ten feet of a bottle of gin ever again; even the thought of ice and lemon makes me throw up. Tim calmed down eventually but I know he’ll raise the spectre of this episode at every opportunity. When he needs a defence against any criticism he now has a cast iron one.
My own sadness is caused by the look on Toby’s face as he watches his parents shout and bicker, while he wonders what he’s done wrong to cause it all. We’ve probably traumatised the poor child for life.
There’s an envelope on my desk requesting my presence at a meeting with the Managing Partner, Eric Knowles. This isn’t a man I normally have dealings with. My contact with him is confined to a few glimpses as he passes through the office. While the partners are the ones who run the business, Eric is the man who runs the partners. He’s famous for being ruthless, of being willing to get rid of anyone, including partners who fail to meet his exacting standards. He’s also considered to be the reason Landers Hoffman has prospered. He doesn’t normally deal directly with staff at my level, though I suppose Martin’s absence might have changed that. Whatever he might want me for, I doubt very much it can be good news. Routine work matters are dealt with through Paul; this invite can only mean something else, something non-routine.
A wave of fear greets the word “redundancy” as it shoulders its way to the head of the possibilities queue. As I stand and face Eric’s PA, I wonder if it’s a smile of pity on her face as I can’t believe she’s unaware of the reason for this meeting. She ushers me in, smile unwavering, then returns with a tray containing a light blue teapot, two blue cups, two blue saucers and a milk jug.
‘I’ll be mother.’ Eric reaches over to pour the tea. He’s definitely old school, from an era when people used to say that sort of thing. To blend perfectly with the questionable remark he wears a cravat, a shiny maroon silk scarf that pokes out of his unbuttoned shirt collar. His sharp blue eyes look straight into mine as he starts off the conversation.
‘Thank you for coming, Jenny.’ There’s no hint of sarcasm and I wonder if he’s even aware of my two days’ sick leave. ‘As you know only too well, these are difficult times for Landers Hoffman.’
My stomach squeezes into a knot and I feel cold and clammy. Redundancy, I guessed it. That’s what he’s building up to and not very subtly. Next he will tell me how valuable and special I am and how any other employer would be glad to have me. Then he’ll tell me about the need for staff reductions. Finally he’ll act very sad and give me my notice. I really don’t want to be made redundant. I really need this job. It’s all so unfair.
‘And very sad times too,’ he continues. ‘Martin will be sorely missed, he was a very special man, I’m sure you’ll agree.’ As he unflinchingly holds my gaze I’m fearful that he knows what Martin and I were doing. If this is the case then he may be sacking me for sexual indiscretion, clearing out the rotten wood, preventing any possibility of a scandal which would sully the reputation of his precious business.
‘So, Jenny, how are you?’
‘Fine, thank you.’
‘And the family?’ He glances almost imperceptibly down at the sheet of paper in front of him. ‘Toby must be one by now. How is he?’
Now I get it, he’s fishing to see if I’m pregnant again. He can’t sack me if I’m pregnant. I suddenly wish I was, just to be able to save myself.
‘He’s growing fast, doing very well at nursery. He settled there right away. It’s a very good nursery, very sought-after, we were lucky to get him a place.’ There you are: I’m a perfect employee – no child care issues; you can trust me to get the work done, please don’t sack me.
‘Good,’ he smiles, ‘that’s so important. They need a good start in life.’ He leans forward slightly in his chair. His small neat hands take the single sheet of paper off his otherwise empty desk and place it in a drawer before extracting a buff folder which has a tag which reads “Parker J”. He opens it to reveal a letter on Landers Hoffman stationery, presumably addressed to me but I can’t make out any details from where I sit.
‘I’ve been keeping a close eye on your work, Jenny.’ Here it comes, he’s going to make me a liar, tell me all the days I’ve lost because of Toby, and then sack me.
‘I’m very impressed. Since you came back from maternity leave your performance has been first class. You have an instinct for this job. You can see past the figures on the page and make sound judgements.’
This is taking an unexpected turn; this last bit is not consistent with being dismissed. On the contrary it seems that Eric is happy with me. The tension lifts and I allow a warm feeling to engulf me. No redundancy, no sacking – and I was so sure. How can I get things so wrong?
‘Martin’s loss has hit hard. He was an outstanding talent. You might be surprised to know that he thought very highly of you, said you were a consummate professional and recommended you for promotion only a few weeks before he left us.’
I sit upright in shock at the reference to Martin then feel relieved that Eric seems to have no idea of the background to Martin’s reference. ‘Consummate professional’ sounds very different when used in a sexual context instead of an occupational one. The warm glow of approval seeps through my skin and into my bones, displacing the doubts and anxiety. My bladder relaxes, stops its urgent prompting; the feelings I’m getting are nourishing and sustaining. Eric seems to be such a kind and thoughtful man; whatever he wants from this conversation I’ll be happy give him.
16
Although I shared his bed on many occasions, I can only remember being in Martin’s office twice before it became my own. What was his desk faces the city centre; as I sit in his chair I can pick out the line of Deansgate and the spectacular bomb replacement buildings that begin Market Street and house the most fashionable stores.
The rather smart ensemble I am wearing now was recently derived from those very buildings. Stylish and flattering, my new clothes are perfectly suited to a recently appointed Head of Audit. Eric made it quite clear that he’s taking a personal risk in propelling me to the dizzy heights of Martin’s position. He has several more obvious, safer candidates waiting in the wings but he’s given me a three-month probationary period. Quarter of a year for me to demonstrate that his faith is not misplaced and that his judgement is sound.
The first two months of this period have flown by on a gale of enthusiasm and energy. Paul is proving amazingly helpful; all my irritation with him as a boss has been replaced by a grudging admiration for his work ethic and dogged determination. He sits in front of me, halitosis diminished by the generous width of my polished oak desk. Behind his shiny head Manchester glistens in anticipation of what another day might bring.
‘I’ve made arrangements for a buffet lunch in the boardroom to be served at 1 o’clock. It’s the usual thing, laid out on side tables and covered up until the caterers bring in the hot food at one,’ he says.
‘
Won’t all the sandwiches curl up and spoil while we’re having the presentation? It’s all going to be sitting there when they arrive at 10.30. Why can’t they make it all fresh and bring it all in at one?’
Paul frowns. ‘That’s not what they do. It all gets put out this morning. The only thing they have to do at one is to bring in the hot plates. It means less disruption to the presentation.’
‘It means less trouble for them, you mean. When do they make the stuff anyway?’
Paul’s answer is to shuffle awkwardly in his chair and look down at his feet. I decide to let it go this time.
‘Do you need another run through of your part of the presentation?’ I ask.
‘No, I’m fine,’ Paul says sullenly.
My comments about his slightly shoddy catering arrangements seem to have pushed him into one of his miserable moods. I need him to at least show some enthusiasm for the opportunity that’s presented to us. World Ordnance Systems will be meeting us tomorrow; I intend to capture their business and thereby cement my own position as Martin’s successor.
The irony that it’s WOS which gives me this opportunity is not lost on me. The days Paul and I spent in Brackley seem long ago, when I was a different woman wearing different clothes and with a different mindset. Although my episode with Casagrande still gives me the shivers, I’m certain that whatever that was about has now been resolved. I’ve heard nothing from the man since my discovery that the proposed takeover took place. It was during the due diligence process that Landers Hoffman attracted the positive attention of WOS and could begin the process of pitching for their business. Tomorrow, I will complete the job and in doing so propel my firm into a new league. It might even get me a partnership.
‘You’d better be fine,’ I say, ‘this is the most important pitch we’ll ever do. When we get this account Landers Hoffman will be up there with the big four, on a par with the biggest UK accountancy practices. Having WOS will finally give us the chance to compete for the very largest corporate accounts.’
Paul nods but not very enthusiastically. I let that go. He’s heard it all before from me many times. It would be nice to feel just once that he was alive to all the possibilities, though. There’s a lot riding on tomorrow’s meeting, not least the prospect of an early confirmation from Eric that my position is a permanent one. ‘Give it three months,’ he had said, ‘we’ll review the situation after that.’ I have to keep this job. I am not going back to the way things were before I got it. Now I earn almost three times what I used to and our household income has doubled. My credit card debts are paid off and all without touching another note of Casagrande’s money. Harvey Nichols and its ilk are no longer off limits, resulting in the stylish elegance of my new wardrobe. I’m wearing a large chunk of my salary increase and it feels so good. Money aside, I love the job; I’m brilliant at it. I am thriving.
As soon as Eric confirms the job is mine for good I’ll get my own place and leave Tim. Even my bladder problems have diminished since I stopped accommodating Tim’s sexual appetite. As far as I’m concerned he can indulge himself elsewhere, I’ve no desire to have sex with him or anyone else for the time being, though the way that Eric looked at me when he saw me in my new outfit leads me to think that he might be in the mood to try to persuade me otherwise. In my present situation, that knowledge is something of a comfort.
Arriving home I find Tim in a conciliatory mood. On the whole, we’ve been getting on much better since I made him sleep in the spare room. It’s 7.00 by now and Toby is already nestled in his cot, fast asleep. I pick him up to cuddle him but he barely acknowledges me, his eyes are heavy and he settles back into slumber. Never mind. I’ll get to be with him at breakfast then he’ll be loud and boisterous, full of energetic one-year-old fun.
‘How are you?’ Tim asks, not bothering to turn off the television.
‘Fine, had a good day,’ I reply.
‘How’s your bladder been today?’ he enquires as casually as he can manage. What he really wants to know is whether my genitals have recovered enough for him to penetrate them and thrust himself to pleasurable release.
‘A bit sore,’ I lie, ‘the doctor said it would take some time to settle down,’ I lie a little bit more. ‘At least it’s getting better, even if it’s going to be a slow process.’ I feel like adding that the next penis inside me is not going to be his and that by the end of tomorrow I hope to be a step closer to making our separation a permanent one. If I weren’t so stupidly busy and had someone else to look after Toby, I’d have been long gone.
Leaving him to his obsession with men in shorts chasing after a ball, I sit peacefully in the untidy kitchen and eat amid the remains of Tim’s and Toby’s dinner. As I eat, I make a few notes for the presentation, a couple of last-minute details that I might need to cover. Tim comes wandering into the kitchen, sees me writing and adopts an air of neediness. He sidles in as if waiting to be rebuffed, but wanting to make the point that my attention should be on him.
‘It’s okay,’ I say, ‘I’m finished, only jotting down a few points for tomorrow.’
‘Oh that.’ His eyes widen in recollection. ‘I remember, it’s the big presentation tomorrow, is everything going okay?’
‘Yes, thanks, it’s all fine. I think I must know more about WOS than they know about themselves.’
‘This may be a daft question,’ Tim asks it anyway, ‘but why would they want to change accountants?’
A stab of uncertainty pierces my guts and I am beginning to feel exasperated at his inability to grasp even the simplest concept.
‘Well,’ I calm myself, moving into presentation mode, ‘they currently use the largest firm in the world, which is America-based, and although Landers Hoffman do operate worldwide, our roots are in the UK. WOS are an essentially British company. We’d be able to meet their requirements more closely, more locally.’
‘Yes.’ Tim appears less than convinced. ‘But they already have the biggest and the best. You yourself told me their existing accountants are bigger in the UK than Landers Hoffman, so why should that be a factor?’
‘Well, we go further than that. We’re essentially a North West business just as they are. We’re stronger and more mature in this region than anyone else. Here, where they have their most important manufacturing facilities, is where we are the biggest and the best.’
‘Yes, but it’s only accounting. Does it really matter who does it for them?’
My heart sinks and I fill with doubt. If this happens tomorrow, I won’t be able to deliver properly. I have to keep focused despite whatever they throw at me.
‘You’re wrong.’ I try to convince myself. ‘Accountants are playing an increasingly important role in the operation of businesses. We don’t only deal with the figures, you know, there are all sorts of other vital areas that we get involved with – taxation, corporate governance, all sorts of things. Since the Enron fiasco, businesses can’t thrive without a strong, confident accountant to support them and demonstrate to the authorities that all is well.’
‘Sounds like WOS are having trouble getting their clean bill of health then. It sounds dodgy to me.’
I flash disappointment at him. ‘Don’t be stupid. They like the way we work: we’re smaller, faster, more flexible, better focused, more attuned to their requirements.’ I practise my pitch on Tim with a growing irritation.
‘Is that just what you say or do they think that as well?’ Tim asks.
‘Well, they got a good idea of our capabilities from the due diligence we conducted for them, that’s where the relationship started between us. We impressed them and got on very well with their senior management.’
‘So you know the guys who are coming to see you?’ Tim asks.
‘Not exactly, it was Martin who dealt with them originally,’ I reply.
‘Oh, Martin.’ Tim’s face lights up as if he’s found something interesting to talk about at last. ‘What exactly happened to him?’
‘He died. Heart attack, qu
ite sudden, no history, bit of a shock. I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘But he went missing, didn’t he?’ Tim persists.
‘Yes, he died while he was away on business. It was nearly three weeks before he was discovered.’
‘That’s really weird, don’t you think? People don’t usually die and not be found. Where was he? Why did it take so long to find him?’
‘I don’t really know,’ I answer honestly. ‘They say he was found in a flat in bed. He must have been staying there when he died.’
‘Whose flat, why didn’t they know he was there?’
I’m getting a strong feeling of sadness and loss as we talk about Martin. I realise that I don’t have any of the answers to Tim’s questions. I can only imagine that Martin must have borrowed a friend’s flat. Yes, that must be it. Probably in London; he spent a lot of time there.
Tim comes behind me as I sit and puts his arms around me, working his hands through my armpits, so that he can cup my breasts and squeeze them gently. I shrug him off, tell him I’m trying to eat, and he retreats to his football match.
17
The early morning streets glisten in memory of recent rain. There is a cold harshness in the air as I stride into the building, I feel flat and forlorn when I need to be full of excitement.
The sight of Paul already installed in his office does nothing to raise my spirits. For a brief moment I wonder about his domestic arrangements. He admits to a wife and two young children, but he seems always to be here, working. There’s something about him, a distorted male pride that demands that he’s first to arrive and last to leave. Is he here because he likes it? Does he prefer to be here rather than at home in the company of his wife and kids? Does he behave out of some misplaced work ethic? Did his father etch this behaviour into his soul before he had opportunity to choose?