Learning Curves

by Gemma Townley

  Jen took out her new pad and paper and prepared to start taking notes, but her mind was still dreamily absorbed in thoughts of Daniel. Kissing her. Smiling at her. Talking till two in the morning because neither of them wanted the evening to end.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, and thank you, Jay. So, the SWOT analysis. Well, many of you will know of the SWOT. But few of you will be using it properly, and even fewer will really be getting the most from it.

  “Essentially, the SWOT analysis helps you make sense of your internal and external analyses. It’s your opportunity to put the two together and to look at the whole— what the company’s strengths and weaknesses are, as identified in the internal analysis, and how the strengths can be maximized and the weaknesses reduced. But you add to that the opportunities and strengths as identified in your external analysis—and then you can see how the company is positioned, what it needs to do, whether or not it’s really fit for purpose.”

  Fit for purpose, Jen wrote carefully. God, if anyone was fit for purpose, it was Daniel.

  “Let’s take an example, shall we? Someone give me a company to work with. One that has relatively straightforward strengths and weaknesses—that we can get to grips with the internal workings of.”

  There was silence for a few moments, during which a guy at the back started to suggest Duracell, but he was quickly shouted down.

  “A condom company,” said Lara seriously. “We’ve analyzed them before, and I think we’re all familiar with their internal workings.”

  “And some of us are all too familiar with their weaknesses,” chipped in a woman at the back who was proudly sporting a large, pregnant belly. A ripple of laughter filled the room and Jen started to giggle.

  Mary looked uncertain. “Condoms, you say? Well, okay, then . . .”

  “Which is why it is crucial that we leverage our strengths to maximize our output and reduce our overheads . . .”

  Daniel nodded vaguely and hid his BlackBerry under the table as Robert, Wyman’s chairman, twittered on about growth and efficiencies.

  Fancy a drink tonight you sexy beast? Am in deadly meeting. Call me! D x

  He sent the e-mail and tried to look nonchalant when the familiar ping was heard by the entire board.

  “Just some routine business that needed an answer,” he apologized. “Sorry, chaps. So, we’re leveraging our strengths . . .”

  “Yes, Daniel,” said Robert seriously. “I was rather hoping that you might have something to say on that.”

  “So, for our market-leader multinational condom company, we have strengths: brand awareness, high quality, size—no, don’t laugh, I’m talking about the company— and market leadership. Weaknesses: reliance on one product, we think—although I will look into James’s comment on sex toys—reliance on suppliers, size— because being big can be a weakness as well as a strength—and lack of innovation.”

  Poor woman, Jen thought to herself as around the room everyone was collapsing in giggles while Mary did her best to keep a straight face and plow on.

  “Opportunities would be James’s sex toys or other sex-related products, increasing market share, sourcing new materials or buying a latex manufacturer, and tackling new markets. Threats would be new entrants to the market, other types of contraception such as the male pill, and suppliers raising their costs.

  “Can you see that by putting these together, you are starting to arrive at options: You are starting to see how it all fits together and how ready the company is for the future it faces. If you can do a good SWOT, then the next stage of your analysis will be very much easier.”

  Jen nodded seriously as her mind shifted away from Daniel and on to more pressing matters. She knew all about threats and weaknesses—her father still didn’t know about the article about Bell, and it was only a matter of time before he found out. The nurses had so far been very obliging, keeping all newspapers and television from him in the interests of his relaxation, but that would only work while she was the only person visiting him. Now that everyone was back from their holidays, he could find out at any minute, and she still hadn’t worked out quite what she was going to do about it other than cross her fingers and hope a lot.

  She looked down as her phone started buzzing, and as she read a text from Daniel, she found her worries dissolving. Everything would be fine, she told herself, a goofy smile plastered on her face. How could it not be fine?

  “So, for tomorrow, I’d like you to read pages thirty-three to ninety-four of your textbook and undertake the exercises recommended,” concluded the professor. “Thank you, everyone, and see you tomorrow.”

  20

  “So, how’s the patient?” Jen asked tentatively. Her father had been in the hospital for four days now and even though she’d convinced the nurses that allowing him a newspaper of any description would be a bad idea, she was still convinced every time she came in to see him that this would be the day he turned on her; this would be the day he’d produce a gnarled old copy of the Times and point an accusing finger at her. He’d start off looking wounded and upset; then he’d get really angry and start throwing things around; and he’d conclude by telling her that as far as he was concerned he didn’t have a daughter anymore, like Blake Carrington told Sammy Jo in Dynasty when she helped to kidnap Crystal—or was Sammy Jo his niece? Jen couldn’t remember, but she didn’t suppose it really made a huge amount of difference.

  “Better, now you’re here,” George said gruffly. “I told the nurses today that I’ve had enough and I’m going home. I’ve got to get out of this dump.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it dump,” Jen said cautiously. He doesn’t know yet. I’m safe for another day. “I mean, you do have a private room, a button that gets the nurses scurrying in after you, nice food, lots of books, fresh flowers . . .”

  “Nevertheless, I’m getting out of here today.”

  “No!” Jen said, alarmed. “If you leave now, you’ll get ill again. You need to rest.” As she spoke she told herself that she had his best interests at heart—and actually she really did; if he left the hospital he’d find out about the article and it would be bound to make his heart worse. Plus the longer he stayed here, the longer she had to prove to him that she was a good person who just happened to make mistakes every so often, as opposed to a total bitch from hell who would sell her own father up the river. That had to be good for his mental health, right?

  “I need to get back to work,” George said firmly. “I have important things to do.”

  “Other people can do them,” Jen said quickly. “Come on, Dad, haven’t you heard of delegation?”

  He looked at her and raised his eyebrows. “I delegate lots of things,” he said dismissively. “But some things can’t be delegated. And I need to get back to them.”

  “What things?” Jen pursued. “You’re ill, you can’t work. Tell me what they are and I’ll help you.”

  George rolled his eyes. “Just things, that’s all. I need my phone, my laptop.”

  “If you had those things, would you stay here a bit longer?” Jen asked thoughtfully. “I mean, if I got them for you, would you stay here until the doctors say you can go? Look, it’s Friday now anyway, so there’s no point leaving now. Give it till after the weekend at least.”

  George looked unconvinced. “They won’t even let me have a television in here.”

  Jen reddened guiltily. “Tell me what you need and I’ll get it for you. But promise me you’ll stay here a few more days.”

  George grimaced. “My keys are over there. You know the address? My laptop is in the sitting room. And my phone . . . I think it’s in a coat pocket in the hallway. Can’t believe I left it behind.”

  “No problem. I’ll get them for you. I’ll bring them over tomorrow.”

  George looked at her and there was the slightest trace of a smile on his face. “I’m so proud of you, you know,” he said quietly. “So pleased you’re back in my life, even if it was under rather strange circumstances.�
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  Jen glowed and smiled slightly. “Me too,” she said quietly.

  “There are so few people in the world that you can trust,” he continued. “But family . . . well, I think you can trust family. Wouldn’t you say, Jen?”

  Jen nodded silently.

  “Done any more work on your MBA?”

  “You want me to visit you and work?” Jen said with a little smile.

  “That’s exactly what I want.”

  “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks, Jen. You’re a good girl.”

  Jen smiled back, wishing she could feel so sure.

  “Daniel, you’re looking thin. Are you eating properly?”

  Anita’s voice was concerned, but her eyes were twinkling, and Daniel reached over to kiss her once on each cheek. She was sitting at a table in the window, her pale features and blond hair shining in the sun, and she left a light lipstick trace on Daniel’s face.

  “You’re very kind to be worried about me.” He grinned.

  “I’m worried about my authors, Daniel, that’s all. I need to make sure you’re fit and well enough to make sure that people buy their books, and if that means I need to feed you first, well then, so be it.”

  “You know, it’s been too long, Anita.”

  Anita raised her eyebrows at him. “And we both know whose fault that is,” she said caustically. “Now, are you ready to order?”

  Daniel quickly looked at the menu and nodded.

  “Don’t tell me. You’re having pasta.” Anita smiled, picking up her glass of water and taking a small sip. “I’d guess ravioli.”

  “Actually, no,” Daniel said with a little grin. “I think it’s time to break a few habits, don’t you? I thought I might have steak.”

  “My, my. You really are changing, aren’t you.”

  Daniel shrugged. “Maybe I am. But bear in mind that it used to be me buying you lunch, and I was broke, so no wonder I always ate pasta.”

  Anita smiled. “And look at you now,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “Managing director. You’re quite the success story, you know.”

  Daniel shook his head. “Hardly,” he said.

  “You don’t think?” Anita asked quizzically.

  “I think I’m hungry,” Daniel replied evasively, turning to his menu.

  They ordered and Anita shook back her hair. “So come on, tell me what this is all about, Daniel.”

  Daniel looked at Anita’s intelligent, expectant face and sat back in his chair.

  “Do you ever look at your life and wonder how the hell you ended up where you are?”

  Anita frowned. “Tell me you’re not having a mid-life crisis, Daniel. I’m not sure I can cope with that at lunchtime; I’d need a drink, for one thing.”

  “No, no, nothing like that. It’s just . . . I worry I may have taken a wrong turn. At some point. You know, I spend my life in meetings and I can’t be arsed contributing to them. I’m meant to be running a company and I just don’t think my heart’s in it anymore.”

  Anita smiled. “Management is exceedingly dull, Daniel. That’s why you get paid so much to do it.”

  “You think I’m stupid to be complaining?”

  “I think complaining is the wrong way to go. Doing something about it is more my style.”

  “My chairman wants growth and cost-cutting at the expense of everything else. Big bookshops, loads of them everywhere, pile ’em up and sell ’em quickly. That’s not what I started the business for. I feel like I’m betraying something.”

  Anita sighed. “That’s the way of the world, Daniel, but there’s still room for niche players. Wyman’s used to offer the best advice on books. What happened to that review magazine you used to publish? That was great.”

  “Considered too expensive and dropped,” Daniel said despondently. “By my own marketing department, after thorough research that I could hardly disagree with.”

  “But you’re the managing director. Of course you can disagree.”

  “Not really. It’s too operational. Anita, that’s just the problem,” said Daniel, playing with his fork. “I have nothing to do with books anymore. I just look at spreadsheets.”

  “I suppose it isn’t your job to focus on the books anymore.”

  “I know . . .”

  Daniel sighed and Anita took his hand. “Come on, Daniel, you’re just having a rough patch, that’s all— you’ll work your way out of it. But let’s not get too depressed, shall we? Tell me what else is going on. Are you still breaking hearts all across London?” She smiled, hoping to break Daniel out of his despondency, and was relieved to see his eyes twinkling.

  “Actually, no,” he said, his face suddenly becoming lively with color. “I’ve . . . well, I’ve met someone.”

  Anita clapped her hands. “Daniel, I can’t believe you’ve been sitting here talking about work when you’ve got such incredible news! You mean to say that the eternal bachelor has finally been tamed?”

  “Maybe,” Daniel said with a little smile. “Tell you what, you let me bore you stupid with every little detail about Jen, and I’ll listen to everything you’ve got to say about the books and authors on your list. Who knows, you may manage to remind me why the hell I went into this business in the first place. . . .”

  The next day was Saturday. Jen got up early and, after a quick breakfast, took the tube to her father’s house. It felt strange going there, seeing the place he’d lived his life without her, without her mother; the house where he’d lived for the past fifteen years, going about his life like any other person, like she’d never even happened.

  Still, it was also a chance to nose about a bit, check out the photographs, rummage around for a little glimpse of the private life of her father. Not his very private life—that would be weird, and also pretty revolting, really—no one wanted to think about their parents having a private life even with each other and she certainly didn’t want to find pictures of women about the place. Or, worse, items of clothing . . . Jen shuddered as she opened the front door. Maybe she’d forget the rummaging. Maybe she’d just find the laptop and phone and get out of there.

  It was a big house, one of those smart white St. John’s Wood houses with railings outside and big gates with locks on that make it look like the inhabitants are desperate to keep the world out of their home. And no wonder, she thought, her eyes widening as she took in the paintings all over the walls, the sculptures, the expensive furniture. There were no squishy sofas, no dogeared books scattered around; just dark wood, velvet, and leather.

  She walked around, her footsteps echoing off the walls and making her feel self-conscious. It felt strange to see this vast array of things, all belonging to him, none of which she’d ever seen before. Somehow she’d always imagined him in some parallel universe, living in the same house they’d lived in together, but without her or Harriet. Either that, or living in a really depressing bed-sit, like Arthur from Eastenders moved into when he left Pauline.

  She walked into the kitchen and saw a half-drunk glass of port on the kitchen table, and a newspaper from December twenty-eighth, the day he had gone into the hospital. She blanched. Somehow the heart attack seemed more real now that she was actually in his house—now she could imagine him sitting here; using the phone over there.

  Quickly she put the plate and glass in the dishwasher and made her way to the sitting room, an opulent room with two large ornate gold mirrors hanging above the two fireplaces. There, on the coffee table by one of them was her father’s laptop. She picked it up, unplugged it, and carefully wrapped the cord around it, looking for its case.

  She couldn’t see it anywhere, so she went into her father’s study, where she found it leaning against the desk.

  Just as she was about to pick it up, she was startled by the phone ringing, its harsh trilling piercing the silence. She stared at it for a few moments, unsure whether or not to answer it. Finally, she decided she would—it might be important, she reasoned, and the caller should at
least be told that her father was away at the moment.

  She picked up and before she could say anything, a voice started to speak urgently.

  “Hello, George? It’s me. Where’ve you been? I need to talk to you.”

  Jen frowned. She knew that voice, but it felt strange hearing it here. “Paul?” she asked. “Is that you? It’s Jen here.”

  There was a little click. “Hello? Paul?”

  But it was too late—the connection went dead. Jen stood still for a few moments, trying to think of a reasonable explanation for why Paul would be calling her father, needing to talk to him. But she was at a loss.

  Unless it was another of her mother’s ploys, she wondered. Was Harriet using Paul to spy on her father now that she and Jen weren’t speaking? It was possible, she supposed, but Paul hadn’t even said his name. It was like he knew her father really well. And why would he hang up when he heard her voice?

  She suddenly realized that Paul would no doubt tell her mother that she’d been at her father’s house and had picked up the phone, which meant that she’d be getting an irate phone call herself before too long. Still, she could face Harriet’s inevitable tantrum later. Right now, she wanted to know just what was going on.

  Slowly, Jen put the phone down, put the laptop in the computer case, and walked back into the hallway, where she found her father’s mobile in his coat pocket as he’d promised.

  And then she stopped again. On the hallway mantel-piece, next to a large carriage clock, she saw something that looked familiar. It was a wooden block, just like the one her mother had given her for Christmas. She thought of Harriet giving it to her excitedly. Paul bought it at my request, all the way from China!

  Jen made her way slowly toward it and picked it up. It felt and looked the same. She turned it over. His had a little label on the bottom: MADE IN INDONESIA. She put it back uneasily. It couldn’t be the same one, could it? Hers was from China, not Indonesia. Unless they were made in Indonesia and shipped to China. Or maybe hers wasn’t from China at all.

  What is going on? she wondered uncomfortably. Why was her stomach tying itself up in knots? And why was she so keen to find easy explanations, to pretend to herself that everything was just fine?