There was only one person who did not take to the new man. That was the factory foreman, a grumpy old cynic who clashed with Philip from the first week when the Accountant ventured to interfere, as old Andy Britton put it, in his department. Philip had bustled through the workshop suggesting improved layouts and methods. He criticised the old man’s outmoded methods of stock control. He went over his head in telling off two young apprentices he caught smoking in the lavatory. Bill White, well-known for his easy-going camaraderie with all his employees, smoothed over the ensuing confrontation. He assured old Andy that he had great confidence in Mr. Grainger who had already started putting in extra hours, often working late into the evening when even the factory workers, never mind the office staff, had gone home. To Philip, he mentioned that Andy had been around a long time and must be allowed to run the Workshop and the men in his own way, apart from Inventory Checks which were properly the responsibility of the Financial Department.
The football season was over, but Philip asked if he could introduce Johnny and Charles to the delights of fishing. Bill had been feeling tired lately: he was glad of a few peaceful hours pottering about the garden without the rumpus created by two boisterous boys.
Helen sat at her dressing table brushing her hair. Bill had gone to bed early, but now she saw that he was awake. He smiled at her but her heart turned over at the greyish pallor of his face, the additional wrinkles around his eyes, his air of preoccupation. She decided to laugh him out of it.
“The boys are back,” she said. And—I say, I think our Philip has a girlfriend.”
“Really,” said Bill but without much interest. If only he did not feel so deathly tired all the time. And this nagging indigestion—it really wasn’t fair—it wasn’t as if he ate very much—nor anything fancy.
“And that’s not all, darling,” went on Helen, rubbing cream into her face. “He seems to be keeping her hidden away in a country cottage somewhere. Mind you the boys could be exaggerating. I didn’t like to question them closely—it’s probably just an old shack or a caravan love-nest….”
“It’s hardly our business, is it?” said Bill impatiently. “I don’t suppose the boys will be corrupted.”
He switched off the light abruptly and pulled the blankets up to his chin. Helen lay in the dark, wondering about snappish episodes Bill was going through recently….
Philip, too, seemed concerned at the change in his boss.
“Come out to the country next week, Bill,” he invited. “I’d like you to see the place I’ve bought—well, confidentially it’s my—fiancée—who’s bought it. I want you and Helen to meet her—she’s quite something—in the same line as myself, but she’s very high up in Mitchell and Briggs—that’s where we first met, years ago. And now—well, I know you’ll understand, Bill—we’re living together and we hope….”
“You don’t have to explain, old chap,” said Bill. He was anxious to get back to his own office and sit down quietly in its peaceful orderliness. Philip’s office always made his head ache—it was so untidy. His method of filing seemed to be to create yet another pile of papers on the floor. Yet when asked for any document, he could lay his hands on it in seconds. He refused to have any of the girls from the pool downstairs in here. He was the despair of the cleaning lady whom he would not allow to move anything from desk or table tops to dust. She just had to vacuum between heaps.
Helen was enthusiastic about the weekend: the change would do Bill good. And maybe she could persuade him to buy them a holiday home.
They were both totally unprepared for the shock of the first sight of Philip’s “little shack,” heralded with whoops of recognition by the boys. Helen leaned forward from the back seat and clutched at Bill’s shoulder, the one furthest away from Philip who had driven them there in his brand-new station wagon. The long, low, white ranch-style house with green shutters was set in a beautifully-landscaped garden which sloped down to the river.
“See the boat! See Uncle Phil’s new boat!” shouted Johnny.
“You said you’d have it next time,” said his brother. “Good old Uncle Phil!”
Mary, too, was a surprise. She was breathtakingly beautiful and, though dressed for a casual weekend, she wore staggeringly expensive-looking, well-cut clothes. She had obviously already made a big hit with the boys, and Helen felt a tiny twinge of jealousy. She quickly fought it off, however, when she was welcomed so warmly.
“I’ve heard such a lot about you two,” she said. “Philip is your number one fan. You’ve both been so kind to him….”
“Nonsense!” Helen laughed. “It’s we who are indebted to him. He’s so good with the boys. And so generous….”
She looked over to where Philip was showing the workings of the outboard motor to Bill and the boys. Guiltily, she compared the two men. Bill had been handsome once, in a classic way. Broad-shouldered, slim-hipped, thick wavy hair, agreeable features. He was still attractive, but he looked thin and stooped at the side of Philip—ugly and fat, but vivacious and amusing.
I suppose some women go for that oversized manliness, thought Helen. And the way the boys are hanging onto his every word! He certainly is a man to inspire confidence.
She sat down contentedly in the garden chair Mary had beckoned to on the patio—and determined that she would enjoy a relaxing weekend.
It was not to be….
Shouts alerted the two women that something was wrong. Then Philip and Charles appeared, half-carrying Bill between them. Little Johnny followed, sobbing with fear.
“Phone for an ambulance,” said Philip coolly. His eyes were filled with tears as he watched Helen kneel in front of her husband who could not speak, and was obviously in great pain.
Helen said over and over again that she did not know how she would have survived the next few months without Philip. He and Mary took the boys for days on end and Helen was vaguely surprised that the town flat could be spacious enough for both of them and the boys, too. Philip chauffeured Helen back and forth from the hospital; he took care of all the arrangements. He even telephoned Bill’s father, now living in retirement in Bournemouth. The old man was upset, but being confined to a wheelchair, he could not promise to come up.
“Tell Helen I’ll pray for her and Bill,” he told Philip. “I’m so glad they’ve got such a good friend in you. I know my lad—he’ll pull through.”
Thankfully, he was right, though it took time and careful nursing. It was costly too with the convalescent home and the special treatments. And Bill was told that he must take things easier when he took up the reins again. His heart would not take too much worry or exertion. He began to make plans for re-organising the factory to fit in with his new lifestyle. They would move to a more modern site, pay off all loans on the machinery and invest in a computer. It would all be set in motion after the yearly Audit.
Helen was arranging flowers on the dining table when the phone rang. Mary and Philip were invited to dinner and Philip’s daughter too. It was nice that Philip’s ex-wife was allowing the girl to visit him and Mary now. It was Bill on the phone.
“Hello, darling,” said Helen brightly.
“About this evening…” he said in a strange voice.
“Oh no!” said Helen. “No hitches, I hope. Everything must be perfect for Philip. I know he’ll like the dinner—I’ve all his favourites—steaks, and that good Burgundy—do you think he’ll manage one of my apple pies as well?”
“I doubt it,” said Bill drily. “He’ll be eating in a cell tonight. The police have just taken him away.”
Bill wiped the sweat from his forehead. He was beginning to feel the old dizziness.
“And don’t expect Mary—nor the girl—they flew to Switzerland last night. The fool seemed to have a death-wish himself—he came to gloat, I suppose…didn’t expect the auditors till tomorrow….”
He heard Helen gasp. He felt the band of pain round his chest growing tighter, but he got out one more sentence. “I had such confidence in him, Hel
en…and all the time he was…he’s fiddled the firm out of a hundred thousand pounds—I’m afraid we’re…finished….”
This oddly-bitter little tale was published in an Accountancy magazine, normally devoted to dry and technical in-trade articles. I suppose they thought it might serve as some awful warning. Myself, I knew I had cheated in the telling—in writing away my anger at Alain’s deceit, I had deliberately omitted the terrible personal sexual insult I had felt from the whole nasty business. I wrote another story, this time for a very popular “romantic” magazine.
The Consultant
by Gaby Lemoine
Michäel stepped out into the crisp spring sunshine. He felt exhilarated—all was well with the world. Behind him, in spatial terms, was a smart little Bachelor Studio in a not-too-run-down quarter of Paris. Behind him in temporal terms, were his Final Examinations in Accountancy. Ahead lay his first sole assignment for his firm of Business Consultants. He was to check over the books of a factory on the Charles-de-Gaulle airport. His small black Fiat, a slightly-more expensive car than he could really afford at the moment, was parked across the road under the trees in the small square.
He tossed in his leather briefcase, a present from Picardy to convey the congratulations of his proud parents. He nosed his way past the halt sign and swung into the busy ring road. All the way along the Péripherique he was happily engaged in planning his future. A reasonably-quick promotion, some widely-varying jobs to increase his experience—then he would branch out on his own. Of course, he had weaknesses—his shyness for example—he had been criticised for that by his tutors and supervisors. But he was determined to conquer this, for his own sake as much as for his career. It did not do to be completely alone in Paris—loneliness could gnaw away and spread through the system like a cancer. But he had left his childhood friends behind in Le Touquet and since coming to the city.
He swung off the Périph at the Porte d’Italie and made for a café-bar he had spotted yesterday, Sunday, when he had done a practice run to work out and time his route. At seven in the morning, there were already quite a few customers. Several men in bright blue overalls and a couple of charladies were tossing back glasses of white wine. Business types, like himself, stood at the bar counter for a café crême with croissant. One young girl sat at a table, disconsolately smoking. She was attractive in a boyish sort of way—her hair was short but well cut. Her tight jeans and pink tee-shirt were clean and pressed. Michäel half-wished he were a more brazen type and could saunter over, sit down opposite her and make conversation. But she was probably waiting for someone….
He brushed the crumbs from his suit, apologised to the old man next to him for almost stepping on his dog, and once more took to the road.
Half an hour later he was behind a desk, his familiar tools—desk calculator, sheets of Bristol paper, clips of bank statements, piles of Invoices—ranged in front of him. Monsieur Lemoine, the Director, a short, fat, middle-aged man, had laid out the books, given a brief résumé of the firm’s most pressing problems—and left him to it.
By lunchtime, Michäel had got the ledgers into better order and worked out a schedule that he estimated would take him three weeks to complete. Monsieur Lemoine seemed content with his preliminary grasp of the situation and invited him out to lunch.
They went to a little family-run restaurant in the nearby village of Tremblay-les-Gonesse and over aperitifs, Michäel learned a little about the unfortunate recent history of the firm and rather less about the director. He gathered that Monsieur Lemoine was a workaholic, that he lived twenty kilometres north of Paris, that he rose at five in the morning in order to be first at the factory and seldom left before seven in the evening. All the more surprising, then, that his last accountant had managed to embezzle Company funds steadily for the past year, under his very nose, so to speak. What was more, the blackguard had managed to give the impression of doing his job efficiently while in reality he had let the paperwork lapse disastrously. This was why Michäel’s firm had been engaged—to sort out the muddle while the Procès was brought to court and Monsieur Lemoine was seeking a replacement accountant.
They were served an excellent meal in a low-beamed dining room—rabbit pâté, chicken gizzards in a cream sauce, a slice of Bleu de Bresse and a lemon tart. Monsieur Lemoine treated Michäel with impeccable courtesy but he seemed, to the younger man, to be holding himself back somewhat—probably due to his recent disillusionment about a trusted employee. Yet he seemed unwilling to pass final judgement on the man who had betrayed him.
“I was completely taken in,” he admitted. “I not only had complete confidence in him as an employee but—I’d begun to think of him as a friend.”
There was a wistfulness in his voice which helped Michäel to recognise in this apparently successful, mature man some of his own loneliness. He felt Monsieur Lemoine had also divined their common quality and was on the verge of opening up his private thoughts. But he stopped abruptly and turned the conversation to a more general discussion of the current financial crisis, government policies, rising prices, crippling taxes….
During the afternoon, Michäel’s boss looked in to talk matters over with Monsieur Lemoine and to make sure Michäel was coping. He seemed pleased with the progress of his protégé and promised that he would not pester him too much.
“Remember, I’m at the other end of that phone, though, Michäel,” he said. “Don’t hesitate to phone the Cabinet if any difficulties crop up…you’ll find every job brings its own surprises!”
At six, Monsieur Lemoine came in.
“Look, my boy,” he said kindly. “Don’t think you have to stay on just because I look all set to make a night of it—tomorrow’s another day, you know…I’m sure a young fellow like you has better things to do with his evenings.”
Michäel took the hint. Maybe the Director wanted to take a closer look at what Michäel had done to make sure of his competence. Maybe he was planning to leave reasonably early himself and did not want to lose face in view of what he had said earlier about his habits. And yet, that same shadow had crossed his face when he spoke of evenings….
Not that Michäel did anything wildly exciting. He drove home, opened a tin of Cassoulet, read a few chapters of a Sci-Fi novel and went to bed.
The following day he called in at the same café for his petit déjeuner. After all it was conveniently placed on his route and the coffee and croissants had been very good. He recognised several of the customers, including the man with the dog who nodded a friendly greeting. The girl was there, too, at the same table by the window. She was dressed today in a cornflower blue dress which exactly matched the colour of her eyes.
In the office, Michäel felt the same contentment as on his first day as he tackled the mountains of Packing Lists, Customs Certifications, Tax Forms and Wages Slips. It was all coming nicely to order and he had managed to pinpoint the fraudulent entries the criminally-inclined Controller had carelessly made in the statements.
He was not invited to lunch—the Director had to take an important client into Paris—to wine and dine him in high style. Michäel drove out alone to the Auberge and was greeted effusively by the Patron and served an almost-equally pleasant meal as yesterday—though he chose the less-expensive menu, naturally.
Bernard Huguenot, his chief, phoned him once during the afternoon asking him to call at the main office on the way home to pick up some documents.
Suzanne Puget, a young married woman who had joined the firm just before Michäel, was waiting to hand them over.
“How’s it going?” she asked. “Met any interesting people on the airport?”
Michäel laughed shyly.
“I hardly touch the airport proper,” he explained. “The factory is just off the A1—on the edge of the Industrial Estate.”
“Oh, what a pity!” Suzanne laughed. “I thought the place would be swarming with filmstars fresh off Concorde.”
“Well,” conceded Michäel, “Concorde does pass over
my head at 11.14—and it’s like a small earthquake in the office.”
“Really! Poor you!” said Suzanne. Well, I must be off. Mustn’t keep Philippe waiting…he’s taking me to the cinema…if I promise to cook him a nice dinner afterwards. And there’s the shopping to do on the way home,” she said, jangling the office keys.
“Oh, sorry,” said Michäel, blushing and gathering up the files. “I didn’t mean to keep you….”
“Oh—it’s nothing!” said Suzanne lightly. “Anyway, I expect you’ve got a far more lively evening planned—a young bachelor like you….”
Michäel’s contentment slipped a few degrees as he thought of the true comparison between their evenings. Suzanne’s one of wedded companionship—his sliding into a pattern of solitude.
His flash of doubt did not survive the night however and next morning he was quickly cheered. The man with the dog shook his hand warmly and several other people called out ‘good morning.’ The girl by the window was engrossed behind her spread newspaper, but he could see that she was wearing a mini-skirt and that her legs were long, shapely and bronzed.
Monsieur Lemoine’s elderly female Secretary, whom he had hardly noticed before, met him at the door of his office and she seemed rather flustered. She was the only Office Staff—the salesmen and the factory workers were strictly segregated with their own entrance at the other side of the building.
“The Director will be very occupied this morning,” she said. “So—you won’t disturb him unless it’s absolutely necessary, will you?”
“Of course not,” said Michäel in his usual quiet manner, despite a feeling of indignation. He had hardly set foot out of the Accounts Office, let alone sought to disturb Mr. Lemoine….
“He’s got—someone—with him, you see,” whispered Madame Denis, relenting a little her over-anxious warning.
Michäel did not feel any particular interest: his work and an occasional stray minute or two devoted to recalling the sight of those long, brown legs were enough to fully occupy his mind.
With Men For Pieces [A Fab Fifties Fling In Paris] Page 15