by Jenny Colgan
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Marcus, and the rest of them shuffled off obediently.
Gwyneth turned round again to Arthur, who tried not to show how impressed he was. God, but this woman was annoying.
Arthur was stretched over the empty bed, one of the few pieces of furniture Fay had left behind. It still smelled, faintly, of her conditioner. There was a long brown hair lying across the pillow. He picked it up. It felt for a moment like a trap – like she had left it there to see if her bed would be disturbed; to see what would happen.
Later, he was dreaming of horses again. He was pounding over the land. It was winter again, and the frosted wind caught against his throat. This time, he wasn’t alone. He looked down and realized his arm was around a girl. She was cowering into him and holding him tight, but oddly, he felt no emotion towards her. Suddenly he realized it was Gwyneth. Her fair hair was blowing over the cowl of her cloak. He groaned once, in his sleep, and turned over.
‘I can’t believe they’re actually all here,’ said Gwyneth that Friday. ‘And they’re all pretty much legible. Sven’s has something on it …’
‘I think that’s dog slobber,’ said Arthur.
‘Oh, God,’ said Gwyneth, dropping it as if it were acid. Arthur watched her, remembering the fragile creature he had held in his dream three nights before, not this smartly dressed efficiency machine standing before him.
‘Why do you do this?’ he asked suddenly.
‘What? Pick up pieces of paper typed by dogs with dirty paws? I have absolutely no idea, I assure you.’
‘No, I mean, your job. How did you get into it?’
Gwyneth looked at him. ‘Well, at university, I spent my summers working for …’
‘I don’t mean your job interview answer. Just … why?’
She shrugged. ‘Well, why does anyone become a management consultant?’
Arthur sat back.
Gwyneth was looking at him like the answer was obvious.
‘I genuinely don’t know.’
‘I think it was … the travel, the glamour … meeting new people …’ Gwyneth looked around the office.
‘Oh, yeah.’
Gwyneth flopped into a chair. ‘You know, I used to believe that, and now – look. Trapped in sunny Coventry.’
Suddenly, something in her face shifted. She looked like she was having an internal battle within herself. She glanced around as if she’d forgotten where she was, she looked at Arthur, she looked at the floor. Then, in almost a whisper, she leaned over and said, ‘Oh, God, sometimes I hate it.’ Then, she kind of shook herself. ‘Gosh, I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I didn’t mean that. It’s just, you know, sometimes I think maybe I should have become a vet after all.’
‘A vet. You wanted to be a vet?’
‘What’s so funny about that?’
Arthur looked at her immaculate suit. ‘Gwyneth, all you do is complain about dog slobber.’
‘That is not all I do.’
‘Have you any idea what the slobber ratio is like in being a vet? And not just dog slobber, either. Ohhh, no. Elephant slobber. Yuk. And have you ever seen a lizard slobber?’
She shrugged. ‘No. Have you?’
Arthur considered. ‘Well, no, but I’d bet it’s revolting, wouldn’t you?’
There it was again … almost a smile. ‘What kind of a lizard?’
‘Oh, geckos. They’re filthy.’
She nodded. ‘Or limpodos.’
‘You’re right. Even a gecko wouldn’t give house-room to a limpodo – bleargh!’
Arthur could have sworn she nearly giggled. Then she pulled herself together and stood up, nervously tugging on her immaculately ironed blouse.
‘Give me those papers,’ she said. ‘Not Sven’s, thank you.’
Arthur picked up Sven’s and started to read. On the page was a picture of a large neutron bomb with an arrow pointing downwards towards Coventry. Oh, very funny, Arthur thought to himself. He looked over to the outside area. Gwyneth was standing next to the coffee machine, leafing through the unexpected submission from the temp, which seemed mostly to concern the amount of temporary staff required for the new-look town (lots, apparently). It was the first indication that this project might be of some interest to people outside their own small circle.
‘Is that about the temps?’ yelled Arthur. ‘How many?’
‘Everybody,’ said Gwyneth, without looking up. ‘Everyone should do their job on a temporary basis so that anyone can just move on when they feel like it. Makes everyone a lot happier when they feel footloose and fancy free, and apparently happy people don’t litter.’
‘Is that true?’
‘There’s no evidence provided.’
‘I’d have thought you’d have been more likely to litter when you were happy – you know, tra la la, dum de dum; I’m so comfortable with myself today I don’t even care what I throw around, la la … Wouldn’t you think?’
‘I don’t litter.’
‘Well, there you are. You’re an unhappy non-vet, and you don’t litter, so maybe the theorem is true.’
‘I’m not unhappy.’
Silence fell as they skimmed through the other proposals.
‘Sven wants an internet connection on every park bench.’ Arthur examined it closely as Gwyneth wandered over to take a look.
‘Oh yes,’ said Gwyneth, ‘some other council tried that.’
‘What on earth for? So the flashers could get quicker access to their internet porn?’
‘No, to show their interconnectivity in the world. To let people get out, smell the roses, enjoy the trees. Work in different environments; experience nature.’
‘What happened?’
‘Oh, you know. There was a whole flasher internet porn incident and they discontinued it.’
‘Uh huh.’
They continued leafing.
‘Marcus has laid out how much money we can spend,’ said Arthur, holding up a densely typed wad of Excel spreadsheets.
‘How much?’
‘Well, judging by these calculations here … and this table over here …’
‘Yeah?’
‘God, hang on …’ He paused for a minute, his brow furrowing with concern. ‘Well, it seems to say here – no, it can’t be. It looks like absolutely nothing at all. In fact, he seems to have gone into the realm of imaginary negative numbers.’
Gwyneth squinted over at him. ‘Like how?’
‘Well, apparently if we did anything – anything at all, including moving from these seats, right now, we’d have to cull every lollipop lady within an eleven-mile radius.’
‘That can’t be right.’
‘God, but look at the figures. It adds up.’
‘We’ll get an extra budget. It’s been approved.’
‘It’s been spent.’ Arthur held up a second sheet. ‘It says here … “extraneous disbursements”. There you go. That’s our entire budget.’
‘Sixteen million pounds?’
‘Sixteen million pounds. I wonder what extraneous disbursements are?’
Gwyneth stared at the paper in disbelief. ‘So you bloody should.’
She picked up the phone. ‘Marcus?’
The voice on the other end was timid.
‘What the hell are these figures?’ She switched on the speaker phone.
‘Um … yes, I had a funny feeling those might come up,’ said Marcus.
‘Did you, now? Then what the hell are they?’
Marcus mumbled something incomprehensible.
‘What? Speak up, for God’s sake.’
Then he spoke up, and Arthur turned white.
‘I don’t understand,’ Arthur was saying for the sixth time, standing over Marcus’s desk. Marcus was cowering and concentrating on the paper in front of him.
‘How the hell can it cost sixteen million pounds to fix a photocopier?’
‘It was a weekend. Call-out charges.’
Oh, God. This place was disastrous. Gwyneth came
round into the grey car park and fished in her handbag for her car keys, with a half-hearted plan to go back to her main office and think this through. Across the motorway, the sun was setting over a field. If you could ignore the town, this really was a most beautiful part of the world. She looked back at the office.
Suddenly she remembered the look on Arthur’s face that morning when he’d got the photocopying bill and almost laughed. The way his soft brown hair had flipped over his face …
Oh no, she thought, fumbling with her key in the lock. No, no no no. She couldn’t possibly fancy the guy she was working with. She couldn’t. For a start, it was forbidden in company policy (until you reached director level, at which stage you could shag the pope and it would be discreetly ignored).
Not only that, it was obscenely unprofessional and Gwyneth was nothing if not a paradigm of professionalism.
‘I am a paradigm of professionalism,’ she said to herself, looking in her car mirror and trying to make it sound like a positive reinforcement statement.
Oh, but his hair’s so cute, she thought to herself.
No, no no no no no no, she also thought to herself.
But she wondered what would happen if the project got cancelled and there was nothing in the way.
Chapter Four
Fay shivered and pulled her coat further around her. The November air was chilly, even if it wasn’t raining this morning. She’d driven all the way from Birmingham, where she was staying with her mother. They spent most of their time together slagging off men – Fay had never known her father – and even the very concept of maleness. It wasn’t as much fun as it sounded. Fay could hear the vinegar creeping into her voice as they spoke.
Arthur hadn’t phoned since she’d left. Not even once. It wasn’t as though she expected vast bouquets watered with tears, although they wouldn’t have gone amiss. She didn’t require marching bands although how come, when Bono fell out with his wife, he’d recorded a single about how she was the sweetest thing he’d ever known and got all her favourite stars like Boyzone to be in the video and it worked and they had a baby – why couldn’t she have been going out with an international rock star instead of a bloody useless bloody town planner?
With Arthur there’d been nothing, absolutely nothing at all. It was as if he’d just popped out to take the video back. It was as if she was the video. How could he? How could he just waltz on so very bloody quickly? This wasn’t Men are from Mars, Woman are from Venus. This was ‘Men are From Mars, Arthur is an evil demon from the pits of HELL’.
There aren’t many places to go in Coventry if you’re single and not fourteen years old. That’s how Fay found herself in Cork’s wine bar, nursing a solitary glass of wine and trying to look as if she was engrossed in her copy of Red magazine. Why, she was wondering, does the time from Jackie to Red go so fast? Next stop Woman’s Own. She was reflecting on the fact that the age ranges of magazines appeared to be in alphabetical order when someone, who’d obviously been nursing slightly more than a simple glass of wine, heaved himself onto the next stool along.
‘In’t you,’ – he screwed up one of his eyes – ‘don’tcha know Arthur Pendleton?’
Fay regarded the rumpled chunky mess in front of her with some alarm. ‘Um, yes, but …’
‘’E’s a bastard.’
Fay looked closer.
‘Is me!’ he expostulated.
‘Rosh, you know! Arthur’s bloody boss. Well, Arthur’s bloody ex bloody boss, bloody bastard, bloody …’
Oh, yes. Fantastic.
‘Bloody ex-bastard,’ said Fay, allowing herself a tight little grin.
‘I recognize you … from the Christmas party … always fancied you …’
What were you doing in the stationery cupboard with that poor Cathy woman then, thought Fay, but decided not to mention it.
‘Yes, of course I remember,’ she said, using the brisk tone one reserves for children and drunks.
‘Do you know … he bloody sacked me … bastard.’
‘Me too,’ said Fay with a half-smile. ‘I know how you feel.’
‘Really?’ He moved forward across the stool.
‘Not that much.’ She promptly removed his hand from the top of her thigh, where he’d landed to steady himself.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Oh, go on.’
Fay arched her eyebrows, hoping he’d continue on over to the bar and forget he was ever talking to her. On the other hand, the article in Red was ‘Baby Massage With You, Your Baby and Your Ever-Loving Partner – First, pick your largest, sunniest reception room …’
‘You know,’ said Ross, trying to be conversational, ‘they’ve offered me the other job.’
‘What other job?’
‘His job. In Slough. Same deal. BUT! Only one city gets to be European City Culsha.’
She looked at him. ‘Slough’s a city?’
‘Yeah, it’s – it’s got an IKEA and six polyversities. Yeah.’
‘Oh. Right.’ But inside she was thinking that this might be rather interesting.
‘What do you do again?’ he said.
‘Personnel management.’
He pointed a beefy finger at her. ‘We NEED one of those.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Ross became momentarily distracted by a passing waitress. ‘Oh, she’s gorgeous, eh? I bet I could have her. I had this page three girl once. Well, I met this page three girl once …’
Fay sighed and went to finish her drink.
‘No, no, right, you’d be perfect for the job.’
‘What job?’
‘Coming to be in my team, thass wha job.’
‘What, you’d give me a job just because I hate Arthur Pendleton?’
‘Precishely.’
‘I’ll have a white wine spritzer, please.’
And that was how, a week later, she found herself on secondment from the recruitment firm (‘City of Culture’ her boss had twittered, ‘such an exciting opportunity for the firm … all those heads! … all that hunting!’) driving to start her first day’s work for Ross, a man whose tosspot qualities had been expounded on at such length and in such detail by Arthur, she was warming to him already.
There was a summons.
Arthur would be meeting the chairman for the first time, to have a discussion about the delicate financial situation.
He hadn’t been able to chat to Gwyneth before he’d left the night before. Weighing up the balance of the evidence, he reckoned she was going to grass him up. He sighed. Sixteen million quid, and he’d be back to where he started. Or worse: they might sack him. Or he’d go to prison, maybe. No, surely not prison. Still. Nowhere good.
Arthur looked at his forehead in the bathroom mirror. Was there more hair there or less? And where was the soap? By utter coincidence, ever since Fay had left he’d run out of soap, toilet roll, razorblades and clean towels.
That is a coincidence, he thought to himself. He stomped out of the bathroom to iron a shirt, and immediately forgot all about it when he realized he was going to have to be eating cooking chocolate for breakfast again. At least something good was happening.
There were a million other things to do. Or, of course, none, he reflected.
For the first time, realizing that he might lose this job, he became aware of how much he wanted to do it.
When he entered the main boardroom – distinguishable from the rest of the plastic grey building only by a singularly incongruous stag’s head attached to the wall – Gwyneth was already there in a pale grey trouser suit with a lilac coloured top. He didn’t know anything about women’s clothing, but he noticed there was a subtle difference in the suit she had on and the dumpy two-pieces Fay used to wear. He bet she smelled nice. Right before she grassed him up of course, the cow.
Gwyneth was sitting next to the chairman, so it looked like they were in it together already, Arthur thought glumly, taking a seat across the table.
There was another, younger man, sitting at one end, obviously there to take minutes. Nobody said good morning.
The chairman, Sir Eglamore, seemed an amiable enough old buff. He studied his notes, then glared at them incredulously.
‘Is this in shillings or – drat it, what are those blasted things called?’
His softly spoken PA leaned in. ‘Euros, sir.’
‘That’s right. Blast their eyes. That Tony Blair, you know. Should be hanged.’ He sneezed. ‘Who’s in charge of this affair, anyway?’
‘Me,’ said Arthur.
‘Ah, young Arthur, am I right?’
Arthur nodded, already surprised. Well, he was one up if the top brass could bother to find out his name.
Eglamore pulled his half-moon spectacles further down his long nose. ‘You’ve got a long way to go, then.’
Arthur nodded vehemently. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Not the best of starts, is it?’
‘No.’
‘Hrumph.’ Eglamore turned his attention to Gwyneth. Arthur looked at her curiously.
‘And we thought this was the best man for the job, did we?’
‘Um, yes.’
‘On the basis of …?’
‘Um.’ She looked embarrassed. ‘Many reasons, sir.’
Sir Eglamore made a noise like an angry horse. ‘Photocopier incident, wasn’t it?’
‘Um, yes.’
‘So what do you think now, hey?’
Gwyneth looked at Arthur, then straight at Sir Eglamore.
There was a pause. Then she said, ‘He’s still the best man for the job, sir.’
Both Sir Eglamore and Arthur’s eyebrows shot up in the air.
‘What’s that, what?’
‘And he fits candidate requirements.’
‘And accidentally losing sixteen million pounds is a candidate requirement, is it?’
‘It seemed the right thing to do at the time,’ said Arthur and Gwyneth simultaneously. Then they looked at each other.
Sir Eglamore studied his papers for what seemed like a month. Then he looked at them from under his craggy eyebrows.
‘Well, I don’t approve … but I don’t know how we can back out now. I’ve told all my friends at the – well, yes, you don’t need to know about that.’ He plumped up the papers on his desk, slightly embarrassed. ‘Of course, it won’t be happening again, you understand? Or even anything like it. I don’t know what all this modern fuss is with photocopiers, anyway. Just get a couple of the boys to copy them out by hand. Keeps them quiet and out of mischief.’