Bums on Seats

by Tom Davies

  CHAPTER 12

  It was Wednesday and free of lectures. He was at home and being productive. He’d rung his broker and bought £7,000 of shares in Royal Bank of Scotland. He’d emailed a final draft report to Chloe. Now he was making excellent progress on the research article. It might well be finished today. The phone rang.

  “Simon, this is Stuart Mison.” God, the Vice-Chancellor was calling personally. “Simon, I hear you’ve produced a promising proposal for my Senior Management Executive Committee. I’m anxious to explore all possibilities for funding. However, regrettably, I cannot attend the next meeting of that committee. I’ll be in Philadelphia speaking at a convention of Vice-Chancellors. Would you oblige me with a personal briefing? I really must keep on top of this.”

  “Of course, sir. When did you have in mind?”

  “Come to my house for drinks and snacks at eight tomorrow evening. We’ll be very informal. There’ll just be ourselves and Mrs. Mison, Sally – you know her of course.”

  “Yes, that’s fine, sir. I’ll be pleased to come.”

  “Good. Thank you. I’ll ask her to send a cab for you, then you’ll be able to drink,” he added considerately. “Goodbye.”

  Simon had been about to confirm his address for the cab driver but the VC cut the connection. On reflection, since he’d obviously been advised of the Zombek report, he was clearly well informed. Piddling little details, like every single staff member’s home address, drinking inclinations, perhaps even zodiac sign, would be no problem at all. Power must be a strange commodity to handle.

  An hour later, Sally Mison visited a nearby town. It was one of those rare communities that still has a high street mostly filled with useful small shops. There were no ‘For Sale’ boards, only two banks and no supermarkets. The shops were a little more expensive but staff were attentive, knowledgeable and discreet. A number of places offered home delivery. Heaven comes in many manifestations.

  She visited in turn a delicatessen, a wine merchant and a fishmonger. Her last visit was to a chemist.

  “Hello Madam, lovely day!”

  “Yes, good morning. I’ve come for my husband’s monthly tablets, please.”

  “Very good. They’re ready for you.” The pharmacist handed over the little pillbox containing eight Viagra tablets. There were no other customers at his counter. “That will be £100. As you know they have to be imported from America. When they’re licensed here, prices will fall. In the meantime, my supplier has considerable expense.” He avoided looking at her directly. His few similar customers seemed to prefer it that way. She was grateful for his help and appreciated his risk. She handed over five £20 notes and departed.

  Driving home, Sally thought about her husband and his prescription. Until a friend had told her of Viagra and the illegal source, and given them a personal introduction to the pharmacist, their sex life had become desperate. Stuart was fifty-eight and she was forty-eight. He’d started flagging three years earlier. It had reached the situation where he either couldn’t manage at all or, if he did, it was very brief. It drove him to the edge of despair. It impelled her towards infidelity.

  Now, with his pills, he could perform very well. It was a God-sent miracle. In case there were any unknown side effects they rationed themselves to a twice-a-week sex life. Even so, it was infinitely better than before.

  There was just one unsatisfactory aspect, which detracted from her pleasure. He had no inclination at all for foreplay. He would take a tablet 30 minutes before the event and wait quietly for the rush of blood. Once he was in command, her mere presence, or anticipated presence, was sufficient to have him thirsting action. She, on the other hand, wanted to work around to it. She craved endearments and kissing and stroking. But a girl can’t have everything, can she? she thought. They had a good life, with status, a nice house and home, and almost enough money.

  On Thursdays, Simon ran a part-time MA Business Studies course from 1:00pm until 7:00pm. The students were mostly in full-time employment and given a half day off by their employers. They were in their late twenties or early thirties. Of the eighteen students, eight were women. They were a likable class, mostly intent on a career and prepared to put in a lot of effort.

  “How can we use the Profit and Loss account to see whether the company’s making progress?”

  Nadia Jennings spoke up. “We can use comparative analysis. Look at the ratio of Gross to Net Profit, for instance. Compare that figure with last year’s equivalent. Or compare it with the figures from other organisations in a similar line of business.” It was a reasonable first answer. An interesting thing about Nadia from Simon’s point of view was that she was Sir Maurice Steynes’ PA, and he was Chairman of the University Board of Governors.

  “Supposing there was some special circumstance, like a change in production method?”

  Freddie Shah offered, “It would probably show up on the Balance Sheet as Capital Investment in Plant. In special circumstances there could be Notes to the Accounts.

  The afternoon passed quickly. Later he divided them into syndicates, gave them a problem to solve and left them for twenty minutes whilst he dashed to the Common Room for sausage rolls and coffee. There wouldn’t be time to eat at home before leaving for the Vice-Chancellor’s.

  At five minutes to seven he called a halt. “Would you please try and get a copy of your own company’s Accounts and follow through the aspects we’ve spoken of? Then we can discuss more realities of commercial life next time. Thanks for coming. See you next week.”

  There was just time to shower and change. He wore his chinos with his new Ben Sherman shirt. The cab came sharp at eight. At ten minutes past it rolled up to the Misons’ front door. Sally had been watching out and was down the front steps and at the car door before he had emerged. She leaned past him and said, “Will you come back for Mr. McGuire at half past ten, please? And please add the bill to our account. Hello Simon, lovely to see you.”

  He kissed her cheek. “Hello Sally, it’s lovely to be here.” She looked stunning in a simple skirt and blouse with an expensive pair of loafers.

  She linked arms and took him to Stuart Mison in a room he’d not seen before.

  “Hello Simon. It’s very kind of you to indulge me in your spare time.”

  “No trouble at all, sir.”

  “Call me Stuart whilst we’re here. Sit down, do. Champagne?”

  Sally lifted one of two bottles from an ice bucket and poured three glasses. They talked for a few minutes, as English people do, of the weather, yesterday’s weather and the prospects for tomorrow’s weather. Eventually the VC said, “Zombek?”

  Simon was a fluent speaker. He spent a deal of his working life presenting concepts. Mison listened and occasionally asked for clarification. Sally topped up the glasses as necessary. After an hour, Simon had covered the basics of the proposal and the syllabus. He’d not been too explicit about his reservations over the quality of the proposed students but the VC had been in education a long time and was Vice-Chancellor by merit, not good fortune.

  “Very interesting proposition, Simon. Let’s stop for a bite to eat, whilst we think about all that.”

  Sally left, then returned with a trolley and loaded the table. There were three small silver trays, each with half a dozen oysters; a plate of buttered brown bread; a plate of small continental pastries and a finger bowl with drifting flower petals. Stuart Mison plucked the remaining bottle, a Chablis, from the ice bucket, picked up three fresh glasses and ushered Simon to the table. It was, Simon thought, exotic and intimate, and a superb mini-feast.

  They talked, drank and ate, and decanted oysters straight from shell to throat. It felt primitive and somehow wicked and sexy. Sally was a good conversationalist. But Simon already knew that from his earlier encounter.

  They remained at table whilst the VC revisited Simon’s proposal. “An additional income of that magnitude would help enormously with all sorts of projects. But the whole scheme would want managing tightly. I wonder,
would you be prepared to take on a new responsibility – a sort of sub faculty? Perhaps occupy a new Chair, say, Professor of International Affairs?”

  Simon’s mind literally reeled. “I’d be deligh…” He never finished the words.

  “Of course you’d have to look after the University’s best overall interests in the matter. You’d be totally responsible for quality and for audit issues.” Simon’s high became a low. He recognised all too well the problems. And the VC had latched on. “But then you’re a bright, hardworking chap and, no doubt, there’d be lots of help at hand.” Simon brightened at the thought of not being alone with the responsibility.

  Sally interjected: “I wonder if there’s not something missing from the proposal. There would be several hundred young people in an utterly foreign environment. That alone could drag down their learning performance. What we need is a small cadre of special helpers for them. A sort of pastoral matters team. The Zombekians could send, say, two aunty figures, mature women; people with a bit more experience of life to sort out students’ mini crises. And we could provide two more people alongside them to help bridge the culture gap. Those two would know their way around the problems of our society. What do you think?”

  “Capital,” said Mison. “You’d need to clear that in principle with Nweewe, Simon, and of course get agreement to their funding it.”

  It was 9:30pm. The VC gave him a further grilling about the proposed syllabus and how it would be delivered by the staff numbers proposed. Simon felt comfortable about that. “It’s the bread and butter stuff that we’ve drummed into students for years. I’m not at all worried about that aspect. We wouldn’t try to incorporate Zombek economics. It is methods and techniques of business control we’d be teaching.”

  At about five minutes to ten, Mison said, “I understand your proposal. You’ve done well. I can see there’ll be much coordination required. But I can also see you’ll be up to it.” Simon glowed. Mison continued, “We must get you help to set up academic administrative procedures. I’ll ask Harold Bellamy, Dean of Mathematics, to put some thought into that area.” That was interesting; Bellamy was a member of the focus group.

  The VC surprised Simon by getting to his feet. “Well, unless you’ve anything else Simon, I must be off upstairs to do other things.” He was obviously leaving.

  “No, er, Stuart. That’s all been very helpful. Thank you.”

  “Good. Good. Sit and have a glass and talk with Sally then. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, then.” Mison left the room at precisely 10 o’clock. Sally shared the remains of the bottle between their glasses. There wasn’t much left. After a minute of uncomfortable silence she drained her glass and stood. He did likewise. She smiled, took him by the hand and walked to the front part of the house. He wondered if he was to be peremptorily shown the door to wait for his cab.

  But no! She led him into an unlit room and closed the door. The curtains were drawn back. He made out a small settee, a couple of chairs and a television set. They sat on the settee. His heart pounded at a ridiculous rate. Like a schoolboy’s at a first visit with a girlfriend to the back row seats in a cinema.

  “You do like me Simon? It’s so rarely that one meets a soulmate. I’m not mistaken am I?”

  “You’re wonderful, Sally.” He held her and kissed her. She wrapped herself around him. If anything, his heart beat even faster. “Sally, will Stuart…?” She sealed his lips with hers and he forgot the question.

  “Why do you like me, Simon?”

  “Because you’re everything a man could ask for.” She gave a small gasp and he felt her heart pounding through his shirt. He stroked her neck and face and kissed her forehead and cheeks and lips. She, in turn, grew more ardent.

  After leaving the room, Mison went immediately up to his bathroom. He ran a little water into a glass, opened his pillbox and took a Viagra tablet. It was one minute past ten. He started leisurely preparations for bed.

  “You’re a lovely man, Simon.”

  He responded by kissing her hands and wrists “Beautiful, beautiful creature,” he murmured and moved a hand to her left breast.

  She removed it and placed it back to her face. “Don’t rush me, Simon.”

  He returned to interspersing kisses with endearments. She sighed longingly.

  The VC gave a final dab with the towel and made towards his bed. It was ten fifteen. Only fifteen minutes to wait for the surge.

  Sally gave the tip of his left earlobe a nip with her teeth. It was electrifying. He responded in kind. This produced a sighing moan. Somewhere in the room a clock struck the quarter hour. Simon was so focused he never heard it. “I’ve never met anyone quite like you, Sally. I’m dying for you.” This produced a swift peppering of kisses akin to a physical assault.

  Stuart Mison heard the familiar singing in his ears as the blood started coursing through his veins. Twenty past ten. Not long now!

  “I wonder if heaven’s like this, Simon? Kiss me harder.” His lips were already feeling bruised, but he obliged. He could have sworn she purred. It occurred to him that time was ticking on. Hell!

  Without further warning a flush spread from the top of Mison’s head down his torso. Only twenty-three minutes. It had arrived early. But Sally wasn’t there! The mere thought of his wife had the immediate effect. He groaned with the exquisite torture.

  Sally began to lose restraint. Simon joyfully recognised the signals. Great. Wonderful. Fantastic! His cab scrunched up the drive. The sod was early! Twenty-five past ten.

  She made an effort, pulled herself together and said, “Save it Simon, save it. Another time, another place.” Another five minutes and there’d have been nothing to save. His visit ended very quickly. She again led him by the hand, but this time to the front door.

  The VC propped himself up on an elbow, threw back the duvet and smiled in delight: a fifty-eight-year-old man with an eighteen-year-old boy’s libido. Wonderful! But where, oh where, was Sally?

  The instant Simon was down the steps she slammed the door, shot the bolts and turned back down the hall like a demented thing. Her watch said ten-thirty. She stepped out of one shoe and high-kicked the other halfway to the kitchen. “I’m coming, my darling,” she shouted as she dashed for the stairs.

  She’d undone the waist button and zip, reached down cross-armed for the hem and dragged the skirt over her head by the time she touched the second step. “Soon be there my love,” she shrieked, discarding her blouse at the half landing. She did a funny little skipping step out of her tights on the upper steps. “Here I am, Stu,” throwing her bra completely over the banisters, she hopped into the bedroom dragging her knickers over a raised knee.

  “God, I’m absolutely gagging for it, darling,” she said as her shoulders hit the mattress! He was very restrained. It was a full two seconds before he was in situ! They had the most wonderful half hour in her entire married life.

  Three miles away, at about eleven o clock, Simon disconsolately padded from a self-prescribed cold shower to an unwelcome lonely bed.

  CHAPTER 13

  Simon was on edge, literally; he fidgeted on the front of his chair at the boardroom table. There were seven Deans present, plus the Academic Registrar In the chair. Harold Bellamy, Dean of Mathematics, broke the ice.

  “Good morning Simon. Welcome to this meeting of the Senior Management Executive Committee. Our main business is to consider your proposal for a bulk contract to take in 200 Zombekian students a year, each year, for three academic years, starting in September 1997. Thank you for your paper and for coming. The floor is yours, so to speak.”

  Simon had already decided to do his best ‘Tony Blair earnest reforming zealot’ act. “Thank you, I’ve long believed we have a responsibility to help with higher education in emergent third world countries. Probably all British universities take in overseas students. We already do so. But it tends to be on an ad hoc basis. My proposal is that we plan and implement a large scale educational venture with an African coun
try, Zombek.” He beamed at everyone. “It would require close liaison with their Government. Our aim would be to produce honours degree graduates who were competent to make an immediate impact in business in their country.” He beamed again, supporting his smile with strong hand movements in the air. He wondered if he was waving his career goodbye.

  “The Vice-Chancellor gave permission for informal contact with Zombek’s Minister of Education. In essence they are keen to proceed and appear able and willing to meet the market price for our services.”

  Simon shut up at the end of his opening, sensing it better to take questions in short bursts.

  Bellamy obviously felt that too. He said, “Let’s take questions as we go, then.”

  Deidre Summers, Dean of Economics, spoke. She was one of those exotic women who festoon their necks with gold chains and other jingle-jangles. Simon mentally dubbed her Ms Bullion Bosom.

  What she said though was anything but frivolous. “Chloe Hodgekiss, one of my Principal Lecturers, has been involved in this proposal. We have discussed this at length and are confident that the syllabus is sound and we can deliver it to the students. Are we confident of their ability to absorb it?”

  Simon recognised this as a challenge. He fixed his Blair smile and prepared to say ‘trust me’ but was usurped by Veronica Hamlyn, Academic Registrar, a fierce-looking, scruffily dressed woman. It was rumoured that she and her husband wore combat gear and Doc Martens at the weekends. She was known amongst the teaching staff as The Concrete Handbag. She had a reputation for maximising fee-income and for being clever. She proved a formidable ally.

  “The Vice-Chancellor asked the Academic Standards and Admissions Committee to look at that aspect and we’ve done so,” she said. “Zombek A levels are accredited by the Pan-African Educational Accreditation Association. Our regional university awarding body, in turn, accredits Pan-African. That being so, it becomes just a question of Pucklebridge deciding which A levels and what grades constitute entry standard to the course.”

  Howard Croft, Dean of Human Sciences, adjusted his silk bow tie, smoothed his flowing moustache, hooked his thumbs in the little front pockets of his turquoise waistcoat and fixed the Academic Registrar with what he judged an omniscient stare. In reality he looked supercilious. He didn’t care for her and didn’t mind showing it.