by Jenny Colgan
It was a sunny morning, and she needed to think. The party had definitely been peculiar. Rafe had been blushing, and so sweet, but Arthur … He had been cold and stand-offish to her after the joust, even when everyone else had been celebrating. Could she have been wrong about him? Could he be interested in her after all? Oh God, there was so much work to do; she couldn’t waste all this time dithering between a man who could ride, with a very cute tush, and someone – someone she couldn’t work out at all. He seemed … There was something almost other-worldly about him, sometimes, in the way he looked at her, as if he understood her on some deep level.
Which was rubbish, she thought to herself. Given the chances he’s missed already. Grragh! She tried to think of something else. It wasn’t easy.
They had the meeting date, finally. Arthur had spent all day on the phone, apologizing to the Mediaeval Knights company, desperately trying to get the European commission on the phone, and begging Howard not to write a horrible piece for the newspaper (to no avail: Howard had listened carefully to everything Arthur had to say, nodded, agreed with the difficulty of his position and filed ‘City of Culture Pretenders Steal Horse, Run Rampage’).
Gwyneth smiled to herself, remembering Arthur’s expression at that one, and she was pleased she felt tender towards him like that. She moved onwards, not noticing the solitary figure of Fay, meandering along the opposite bank, half sick of shadows and trailing her hands through the willows.
Lynne blinked. She had reappeared as unpredict ably as ever, muttering crossly about something which sounded like ‘Mongolian lion-birds’, and looking more dishevelled than ever.
‘He won a joust?’
‘That’s bad, isn’t it?’
Lynne shook her head. ‘No, no. We just see this quite a lot. Some traditions seem to work themselves out through the generations … I wouldn’t worry about it.’
‘But, I mean … What’s causing it?’
Lynne shrugged. ‘Oh, you know – the mystic forces.’
‘Oh, those mystic forces.’
Arthur chewed the side of his mouth.
‘Ah,’ said Lynne. ‘You’re chewing the Gwyneth side of your mouth.’
‘I’m what?’
‘What’s troubling you?’
‘Nothing. Well, only that I thought we were … I thought we were really getting somewhere. But not when someone would MUCH rather give scarves to other people.’
‘How were you getting somewhere?’
‘I don’t know! I put my arm around her for a whole flight!’
‘Cool beans,’ said Lynne.
‘Cool beans? Do you even know what that expression means?’
Lynne looked almost embarrassed. ‘We shall forget that instance. I have trouble with this sarcasm standard.’
‘No kidding,’ said Arthur.
‘Indeed, I am not kidding. Have you talked to her?’
‘What? What is it with you therapists and talking all the time?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Lynne. She ferreted around on her shelves and finally came up with an enormous, leatherbound hard-backed tome. Blowing the dust off the cover, she slowly opened it. Arthur leaned over until he could see the spine. It was called Thye Moderne Art and Methode of Psychologie, as Pracktised by Humans.
‘Here,’ said Lynne, pointing to page one. In beautiful ornate print it said:
Instructions on the aforementioned pracktice
Pretende to Listen at all times.
Suggest they talke unto each other.
There was nothing else on the page. Nor, as she turned over, on any of the other pages. The book was totally blank.
‘I see,’ said Arthur.
‘I suggest,’ said Lynne, drawing herself up proudly, ‘you talk to each other!’
‘You utter bloody buggering bastard!’ Arthur was screaming into the telephone as Gwyneth walked into the room.
‘It’s okay!’ said Arthur. ‘They’d already hung up on me.’
‘That is okay,’ said Marcus. ‘Um, what is it?’
‘Nothing! Only, apparently, the letters of invitation to attend the presentation went out to everyone at the same time, two weeks ago.’
‘So how come we didn’t get one?’
‘Exactly! Do you think there’s a mole in here?’
‘Just a smelly dog,’ said Marcus. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. Didn’t you have that dodgy newspaperman in?’
‘It wouldn’t have been him,’ said Arthur. ‘It was him, wasn’t it?’
Sandwiches leaped up from where he’d been sleeping in the corner and sauntered out of the office, a determined cast to his paws.
‘Okay, everyone.’ Arthur stood up. ‘Staff meeting! Three o’clock. And I want us all ready with strategy.’
There was some muttering round the room. Gwyneth sat down quietly.
‘OKAY?’
Everyone sat round the conference table studiously staring at their notepads. Rafe had a livid bruise running down his hand from where he’d slid down his horse. The restaurant management had been very good about it, considering the black rider had resigned on the spot, the queen was having convulsions and even the horses had decided to show their excitement by crapping extensively all over the floor and a little too close to Arthur’s chicken for comfort. Bar takings had trebled and Ross and his henchmen had filtered out the back door.
The work was bearing down on them at a rate of knots. It was a week until Christmas, then January twenty-sixth was the date sent to them on the replacement form. The E.C. papers were due to be handed in on Friday. They would have half an hour to present their case in London, as Ross had hinted, rather than Brussels as they’d first imagined; then they had to hang around in case there were supplementary questions, then … Well, then they’d find out. And either start the biggest job in the world, or – well, Arthur didn’t like to think about the alternative to doing that. He wanted to find a moment to talk to Gwyneth, but there never seemed to be a spare minute. He thought he’d spotted her looking at him, but he didn’t really trust his own instincts in that department these days.
‘Right, everyone. Okay. We have a big meeting to prepare for.’
‘Why? Is something happening? said Sven.
Arthur shot him a look. ‘I realize that we’re all meant to have an equal voice around this table, but I’m tempted to rescind the privilege.’
‘You can try,’ said Sven. ‘And fai—’
‘OKAY,’ Arthur repeated loudly. ‘Presentation. We only have half an hour. We have to decide what to say and in what order. We’re all going except Cathy.’
‘Public speaking gives me asthma,’ she said, looking as cheery about this fact as she always did about anything else.
‘Well, we’ve got that brilliant maze model,’ said Marcus.
‘Um,’ said Sven.
‘Yes, that’s a good idea,’ said Gwyneth, taking notes. ‘It’s so beautiful. You can relate to it immediately. Ooh, could we have a model of the town? With the maze as the centrepiece? I know it would be big, but …’
‘Um,’ said Sven again.
‘Are you waiting your turn to say something?’ said Arthur. ‘I approve.’
‘No,’ said Sven. He looked slightly red. ‘The thing is …’
‘Where is the maze model?’ said Rafe suddenly. ‘I thought we usually had it out, in here.’
Sven cricked his neck.
‘Okay, what?’ said Arthur.
‘Sandwiches ate the maze,’ said Sven quickly in a small voice.
‘No,’ said Gwyneth. ‘That thing was art.’
‘And looked like dinner.’
‘It looked – and smelled – like a bunch of cardboard HEDGES!’
‘I’m sorry, okay?’
‘Where is he?’ said Gwyneth.
‘I think it’s probably too late to give him trouble now,’ said Arthur.
‘Well, he’s not stupid. He’s not even here. He’s probably lurking behind the door.’
‘Okay, no
maze,’ said Arthur. ‘That’s a shame. A model would have been a good idea, but it would have been difficult to carry to London anyway.’
‘What about computer modelling?’ said Marcus thoughtfully. ‘You know, take some pictures of Coventry, then stick our stuff on top so it looks like a real photograph?’
‘Brilliant,’ said Arthur. ‘I’ve no idea how that might work, but it sounds good to me.’
‘What if they decide that the photographs are good enough on their own and we don’t have to build anything?’ said Gwyneth. ‘Sorry. Silly question.’
‘How are we doing on the lighting, Rafe?’ asked Arthur.
‘Really well!’ said Rafe, looking surprised. ‘It’s mostly old ladies who live on those streets, and do you know, they’ve all been really nice and friendly to us!’
Cathy and Gwyneth swapped a look.
‘Really,’ said Arthur. ‘That’s nice. Well done.’
‘I spoke to Johann,’ said Sven. ‘Everything’s going to be fine. No problem. It’s all to do with density, you see.’
‘What?’ said Marcus. ‘Like how dense your dog is when he eats the plans?’
The returning Sandwiches’s nose had just become visible behind the door. It suddenly disappeared.
‘No! It’s all hi-tech physics stuff you wouldn’t understand.’
‘I might understand it,’ said Marcus. ‘Try me.’
‘La la la,’ said Sven. ‘Arthur, do you think they might like me to sing a Danish song at the presentation?’
‘Definitely not,’ said Arthur. ‘Right. And we’ve got our jugglers – and doesn’t that knight want to set up outdoor jousting with you, Rafe?’
‘Probably not on the ice, though, eh?’ said Gwyneth.
‘No, of course not.’
‘In the park,’ said Rafe. ‘If people want. We could have a whole mediaeval fayre day, get people to dress up. We could raise money for – I don’t know, a kidney machine charity or something.’
‘I like the sound of that,’ said Arthur, making a note. ‘I’ll tell Howard.’
‘Oh, don’t speak to him!’ said Gwyneth. ‘He twists everything.’
‘I’m wearing him down by becoming his friend,’ said Arthur. ‘He’ll feel bad about writing horrible stories about us sooner or later.’
‘Yes, that’s how journalists work,’ said Gwyneth.
‘Okay, so we’ll have the pictures – do you think … Hmm. I wonder.’
‘What?’
‘Do you think we should take the jesters? They could juggle and make music just as … you know, entertainment for the judges. It’ll make us stand out.’
‘As rank amateurs,’ said Gwyneth. ‘Why not just get Sven to sing his bacon song? It’s gimmicky.’
‘Yes, but it’ll give a flavour of what we’re trying to achieve.’
‘Yeah. Um, Arthur, this isn’t Pop Idol.’
‘So, you all think we should just go in and be totally boring and give them a boring presentation?’ Arthur’s feelings were hurt.
‘But you don’t want them to think we’re frivolous, do you …’ offered Cathy tentatively. She was knitting a reindeer jumper.
‘Cathy’s right,’ said Gwyneth. ‘We need to go in suited and booted. Dressed to the nines. No smiling. We’ve got to show them we mean business, that we’re not just a bunch of wastrels who like music and can’t keep their mugs out of the papers. That’s my official consultancy position.’
‘They’ll never fall for it,’ said Arthur. ‘You really think they’ll be convinced by Sven in a suit?’
‘Yeah,’ said Sven. ‘Plus, a tie constricts my singing voice.’
‘I don’t care,’ said Gwyneth. ‘And no dogs.’
Sandwiches’s nose had just become visible behind the door. It suddenly disappeared
‘So we’re trying to pretend we’re people we’re not,’ said Arthur, before Sven could object.
‘That’s called working in an office.’ Gwyneth was clipped. ‘It’s called being in a job.’
They stared at each other.
Can’t she see I worship her? thought Arthur.
Why is he such a WIMP? thought Gwyneth.
‘That’s crap,’ said Arthur intelligently.
‘No, it’s not!’ said Gwyneth. ‘If everyone behaved how they wanted to in an office … well, we’d all be Sven …’
‘And the problem is?’ said Sven.
‘I just don’t see why we have to jump through even more hoops than we already do,’ grumbled Arthur.
‘Really? I thought you loved hoops,’ said Gwyneth. And they glared at each other, whilst the rest of the room watched them closely.
‘She’s … she drives me crazy,’ said Arthur to Kay, as they sat enjoying a beer after Christmas dinner at their dad’s. ‘She is so annoying. She has to be right all the time.’
Kay nodded. He was extremely laid-back compared to his nervy half-brother, and was already showing the benefits of the good life in Australia, in particular a tan and paunch combo and an ability to grumble almost endlessly about how rubbish Britain was.
‘Well, just phone her up and tell her how you feel. You know, that you love her.’
‘I don’t love her!’
‘Yes, that’s why you’ve stopped talking about her for … Not At All since I got here.’
‘And, oh yes,’ said Arthur, ignoring him, ‘just phone her up, blah blah blah, “Hi Gwyneth, here’s my innermost feelings, O professional working colleague”.’
‘You’re always like this,’ said Kay. ‘A complete coward. And ponce.’
‘I am not.’
‘Yes, you are. Fay was exactly the same. Had to do all the running because poor little Arthur didn’t want to talk about it.’
‘That’s bollocks! Just cos I don’t want to go on Trisha about it and use lots of Kleenex about relationships. It’s pathetic.’
‘I’m telling you, mate. Girls dig that kind of stuff.’
‘Do they?’ said Arthur, glumly. He changed the subject. ‘Kay, when I was a kid, right – was there anything funny about me?’
‘What do you mean? All of you. You were a complete nutter.’
‘I don’t mean like that. I mean … anything that made me stand out from other kids?’
‘Yeah,’ said Kay.
‘What?’ said Arthur, leaning forward.
‘You were a complete dick.’
‘Well, dear,’ said her mum, efficiently drying up straight after dinner. Gwyneth was nominally helping, but actually taking a chance for a quick heart to heart without her four brothers and sisters bursting in.
‘What are you looking for really? He sounds lovely.’
‘He is.’
‘So?’ Her mum kept drying up. She worried about her fiercely independent daughter sometimes. She had a wilful, cutting streak that made it hard to compromise and settle down. Seemed to come with the territory of being a perfectionist.
‘Mmm,’ said Gwyneth. ‘I’m just not sure it’s right, you know? It’s not professional. Plus, there’s this other guy.’
‘You always hide behind “professional” when you don’t want to do something,’ pointed out her mother. ‘And there’ll always be another guy.’
‘Mmm. Grrr!’
‘So what’s wrong with him?’
‘Nothing, really. In fact …’ And her face softened. ‘Did I tell you he killed a wolf?’
‘You told everyone,’ said her mother. ‘But I actually believed you.’
‘And he has such a sweet smile, and …’
‘There you go,’ said her mother. ‘Why don’t you call him?’
Gwyneth winced. ‘I hate calling guys.’
‘Happy Single Christmas,’ said her mother.
‘Hey,’ she said on the phone. ‘Alright?’
Arthur couldn’t have expressed how pleased he was to hear her voice.
They met at hers, in the eyrie of the old house. There wasn’t much talking.
‘We should talk,’ said Arthur.
‘Let’s not,’ said Gwyneth.
And she walked over to him, the house so cold they could see their breath in front of their faces.
‘Let me …’ she breathed.
‘No …’ He scarcely knew what he was saying, as he took in the feel of her, the smell of her, the way her lips felt on his. He was overwhelmed; transported.
‘Is riding a horse as much fun as that?’ he said afterwards.
‘Not since I was thirteen,’ she said. ‘No. Of course not.’
He laughed and pulled her close.
‘Good Christmas? Good Christmas?’ Cathy was asking everyone cheerily as they filed back into the office. Outside the weather was a steel grey, and the motorway and the sky had blended to the same colour, so the cars looked like they were flying over the bypass. It was bitterly cold, but the offices were terribly overheated, meaning everyone permanently looked a bit dry and crispy round the edges.
‘How was your Christmas, Cathy?’ asked Rafe, breezing in, tanned and healthy-looking from skiing. He looked edible.
‘It was fantastic,’ said Cathy. ‘The boys got lots of computer games and Peter got to go to the pub a lot, so I think it worked out really well all round.’
‘Excellent. What about you, tempy?’
‘I threw up fifteen times and copped off fourteen times.’
‘Great! What a shame for the last guy, missing out on all the vomit …’
Sven and Sandwiches wandered in.
‘Good Christmas?’
‘It was good,’ said Sven. ‘Although a lot of tinsel disappeared for some reason.’
Sandwiches burped loudly.
‘I wonder how the happy couple got on?’ said Marcus slyly. The others looked at each other. The obvious – that Arthur and Gwyneth appeared to be having some kind of relationship – had never been mentioned before.
Rafe went quiet. ‘None of our business, I expect.’
‘Ooh, I think it’s lovely,’ said Cathy.
‘Lovely,’ said Sven, snorting. ‘You won’t be saying that when there’s unidentified stains all over your stationery cupboard.’
‘Don’t be nasty,’ said Cathy.