When things started sliding Wilkin went with what he knew: up the pressure, tighten the belts, and put the magnifying glass up to any perceived weakness. Iain happened to be the prime target. Wilkin sank Rottweiler teeth to the bone. Finger pointing and private rows became public. As Chief Financial Officer, Iain Christianson was responsible for cash management, its equity and liabilities. His job was making the tough calls on resources, and as far as Wilkin was concerned Iain didn’t know the meaning of tough.
The personal grievance that Iain pursued was direct: work-place bullying. Wilkin used his position as Iain’s superior as a platform for systematic blame for the company’s problems. Wilkin was called before the board. His defence failed to impress. The board knew Hawthorne had driven Christianson too hard but they had to support Hawthorne because he was the best CEO material they had. They were searching for a way to discipline him without risking losing him and didn’t come up with a strategy because suddenly they had bigger issues on their hands. Christianson’s departure opened a floodgate of discontent and business was suffering. Chargeable hours were down 30 per cent on the previous year, a major account had sacked them, and several others were shaky. The board had to take action fast. Secret conversations about sacking Wilkin concluded he was too valuable to lose. However, cuts must be made, jobs must go. Support staff, junior consultants, maybe some middle management. They had considered the cost of redundancy and decided it was a better option than the risk of salaries. Board decisions were made round the almost century-old oak boardroom table. Wilkin flayed into the concept punch drunk. Redundancies would be a direct reflection of his failure. His position must be defended. He heard conversation silence when he came into a room and chat change when he turned up at the water dispenser. He knew they were blaming him; he didn’t have to hear what they had been saying. How could they be so blind! Warning smoke had been seeping from the company for months and now the flames were licking he was not taking the rap as the arsonist.
“I won’t do it.” Wilkin’s face twists in defiance. “It will cost more to pay out redundancies than to keep people working.” He is on his feet. He wants to take his jacket off, but that would signal stress. He is better than that. There will be no show of fear from this battler. “You can sit in your million dollar homes and fire the guys in the trenches — but if you think I’m going to do the firing you obviously don’t know me.”
Ralph Stopforth had seen it all before. He had stood in Wilkin’s shoes some 15 years earlier and made pretty much the same speech. Feigning concern for the workers was ‘CEO one-hundred-and-one per cent.’ Once Wilkin had cared about the little people at SUS but that was ancient history. The now Wilkin cared only for his own job and was at his best dealing with the cut-throat world of corporate takeovers and IP disputes. The bigger the Goliath the faster his slingshot swung. The little people were minions. Ralph is at ease with the scenario. He doesn’t judge Wilkin for posturing, he admires it — a good tactic that half the board will lap up. Ralph knows what has to be done. He composes the conversation he will have when Wilkin runs out of steam.
Wilkin paces the perimeter of the boardroom table demanding justice for the workers. Some of the seated lower their heads, not wanting to catch Wilkin’s eye, or anyone’s for that matter. Others follow his every move with wolf focus.
Wilkin’s oratory takes him a full lap. He stands behind his own chair and eyeballs Ralph. “If there are people who don’t deserve to be in this company I will drive them out. They will leave with their tails dragging behind them. But, I won’t be paying a cent of my money, or yours. There will be no redundancies.” He spits the words softly then walks toward the large window. He moves so slowly some tighten, wondering if he is really losing it, slipping into a trance or something. Placing a hand high on the heavy frame he looks at his beloved city. The gothic lines of the museum and the old university rise to his gaze. He breathes in the stone blocks and slate tiles, filling his soul with dark resolve. What storms have these stones weathered? He is of this city; he too is stone. With his back to his audience Wilkin plants his closing kicker. “If anyone doesn’t like my course of action, I suggest they step down from the board, or step into my job … Good luck to you.”
Hands stroke chins, eyes meet and roll, feet shuffle. The room feels degrees warmer than five minutes earlier. Ralph’s chair makes a cracking sound as he heaves his body from its confines. “It’s what I like to see, when the going gets tough the tough get going, that’s why …” For a moment Wilkin thinks he is going to be sacked in front of the entire board. His mind leaps to the law suit where he takes Smith, Upson and Stopforth for everything they have. Ralph continues, “That’s why you’re a magnificent leader, Wilkin … magnificent. Let’s take a break, gentlemen. We’ve done enough for today. I need to discuss something with the sheriff before he shoots all the deputies.”
His single sentence of levity relaxes the 12 men around the table. Ralph is on to it, everyone is grateful to pretend all is well. Ralph puts an arm on Wilkin’s and says quietly, “Let’s take a walk son.” It isn’t a request. Ralph leads past the lifts to the staircase. Wilkin knows this tactic, the stairs are the most unused space in the building. “Listen to me, Wilkin. Don’t speak, just listen.” His voice is low, punching at kidney level. “You are going to announce seven redundancies on Monday. And you are going to front a press conference acknowledging the challenging economic circumstances we are facing and swear your commitment to taking this company back to the top.”
Wilkin whips his face toward the old man to protest. Ralph raises a finger. “Those are the public things, Wilkin. We know the public things are easy compared to the private issues of life.” His underlining of private sends a chill down Wilkin’s neck. “I will help you with Iain Christianson,” he confides. “Company money will get rid of that one. But you, Wilkin, are going to spend your own money to get rid of that other dirty little problem that has got you so off your game.” Wilkin has no idea what Ralph is talking about. He searches but can find no words.
Ralph extracts an envelope from the vast interior of his double-breasted suit and takes a photo from the envelope. Wilkin’s image frozen to matt-print is emerging from Amber’s motel. It could be any motel. Anyone can have legitimate reason for leaving a motel. Ralph savours the moment, knowing Wilkin is on edge and thinking there is nothing to hang on him. “I have a second photo.” The second is the back view of a man in shirt and socks — it could be any man but facing the camera is a beautiful young woman wearing nothing but a frilly apron, cap, and high heels. “A very interesting note came with these,” informs Ralph, with expansive camaraderie.
Wilkin’s blood supply evacuates his head and arms. Sweat replaces the chill down his back. He needs to sit. He grabs the balustrade rail. “Chin up, Wilkin, old boy. I will help you, but you are going to get this sorted quietly and quickly. There WILL NOT be any little bastards in the Smith, Upson and Stopforth nursery.” In a normal tone he adds, “Just big bastards … like me.” He pats Wilkin on the back. It nearly knocks him over. “Seven jobs go, Iain’s PG goes, and that whore’s unborn baby goes. And for God’s sake, Wilkin, lighten up. You’re casting a shadow way bigger than your problems.” Ralph turns, ready to leave, and throws over his shoulder, “Maureen and I are coming for dinner, soon. Invite some other members of the board. I haven’t seen Jennifer for too long. She is an asset, Wilkin. Maureen adores her, so do the board, use her. Let’s do it next week. Set it up.” Ralph strides with the delicacy of a large man and the pace of a junior executive. Wilkin can hardly breathe. Ralph feels the best he’s felt in years — this is what being chairman is all about. Five minutes later he is driving his Nordic gold Porsche Carrera beside the Avon and singing along to Frank Sinatra. “I did it myyyyyyyy way.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
25 — Acts
Tuesday, 22 September
Jen studies herself carefully in the full-length mirror in their bedroom. Yes, she is looking good. Perhaps the ‘glow�
� theory has truth in it: cheeks carrying slightly more colour, eyes brighter, hair glossy. She appraises her neat boobs and nipped waist. The top she is wearing is slightly gathered under the bust. Jen catches up the fullness with her manicured fingers, pulls it out from her body and turns to observe her profile. The reflected smile sparkles with anticipated delight.
But Wilkin has been so edgy of late Jen hasn’t felt able to share her fantastic news. She has this amazing, wonderful growing secret that only she knows. Jen wants to smile all the time but what if she loses it? Wilkin wouldn’t be able to cope. No, tempted though she is, she needs to be 100 per cent sure all is well. This week Wilkin is so depressed Jen is becoming seriously worried. She longs to share the fabulous secret and cheer him but has made a pact with herself that she will tell no one until she has missed two periods. After church Sunday morning is the time she has planned for the announcement. Church gives Wilkin space to unwind. She hopes the service will be to his taste.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Ben sits hunched over his laptop. Wilkin Hawthorne fills the screen. He looks so damn smug – but that could all change. Giving the incriminating photos to his dad had been strangely satisfying. He'd felt a hint of something pleasant – maybe camaraderie, maybe affection? Ben speculates that his father was relieved to know his son was interested in women, even if this one was a prostitute. Or, was he merely happy to have some dirt on Hawthorne? Charming as he could be, the old man is a scheming bastard, any leverage is an asset to him. Ben stares at The Cheat; disgust surges from within. Hopefully Dad will do his worst.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Gary is showering. He’s quite a good-looking bloke, Amber decides, and wonders why he doesn’t have a girlfriend. Perhaps he does, perhaps he’s one of those types who likes paying for it, makes him feel ‘a man of the world’. He has persuaded two of his workmates to become occasional clients. She can see Gary as a stirrer, someone who is able to convince others to do what he wants. John and Ron with their shifty eyes and nervous giggles are typical yes men, young and silly, in her opinion. But everyone’s money has the same value and if these labourers want to pay for being ‘worldly’ it is OK by her.
But how much longer will she be able to do this?
Gary emerges from the shower, flings, “See ya,” over his shoulder and exits.
“See ya,” Amber replies, and adds to herself, not for much longer. She runs her hands over her swelling abdomen and turns side-on to the mirror in the bedroom. Almost five months. Yes, baby’s presence is obvious. It is amazing the clients aren’t commenting, shows how unobservant men are. Another couple of weeks and her foray into self-employment will be over. She will not risk harming Baby.
No matter who the father is, a child is precious. How could Arthur think she would dispose of a child, casually get rid of Baby? What an ignorant prick he is! Has he no clues on anything? She was 18 weeks when he appeared at the motel, saying he must speak to her.
An abortion at this stage! Arthur suddenly decides the child is an inconvenience to him. She was so angry it took her time to marshal suitable words. Which was just as well, she grimly acknowledges. Her instinct had been to hurl the wads of cash at his arrogant head. The man is vile, a beast, why not take his money?
She had protested enough to make him think she was for real and then said she had been wondering how she would cope, so perhaps this was an answer. He had moved as if to hug her. A surge of energy had her on her feet pushing him away. “Get away! My one condition is I never set eyes on you again, you cheating pervert.”
The words didn’t hit home. Arthur had simply looked relieved, and old. “Deal,” he had said and went.
Now, revisiting the incident two weeks later, Kat wonders what could have made Arthur part with so much cash. It is a total change of attitude. In their previous ‘conversation of necessity’ he appeared reconciled to paying maintenance.
Tap-tap, Ben’s knock interrupts her thoughts. “Hello, Ben. Nice to see you,” she says and realises it is.
“How are you, Amber?” His eyes move to her stomach.
Good God, Ben of all people! Bookworm Ben actually notices things.
“I’m fine, thanks, Ben. Shall we get down to business?”
“No, I only wanted to talk.” He moves awkwardly from one foot to the other, then sits. “I don’t think you should be doing this.”
“What I do is my concern. I don’t pass judgement on your actions.”
“I know, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean …” He is lost in embarrassment. “Of course what you do is your concern. I just worry about you, Amber. I made the appointment but now I don’t want to. Can’t we just talk? I’ll pay of course.”
Damn bloody right you’ll pay, she thinks and shrugging her shoulders says, “Are you enjoying the mid-term break?”
“To be honest,” responds Ben, settling down on the sofa, “I’m not. I am oppressed by the realisation that I should be gainfully employed. Adult life requires being a contributor, not merely a consumer.”
“So why aren’t you working?”
“Being in the fortunate position of not having to earn an income, and with education being something I relish, it seemed reasonable to keep studying … but this is my last year of being an academic loafer.”
Amber selects the armchair. It’s easier to rise from. “What’s brought this on?”
“Eventually I must cease being a student, but my father has confirmed the urgency. He retired at the end of last year and now he languishes round the house between inconsequential rounds of golf and hands of bridge. He has lost the drive he used to have. When he had an active role at Smith, Upson and Stopforth he was a man with purpose. He moved decisively and had things on his mind. When I was a youngster I used to wish my Dad had time to do things with me. A busy father didn’t bother my sisters, they liked doing girly things with Mother, but me, I would have liked a father with time to spare. Now he has all the time in the world and there’s no zest in him. Director Smith is merely Mr Smith, retired. I haven’t even begun a career: life could pass me by.”
“What do you want to do? What can you do?”
“I do have qualifications.” He sounds offended. “I’m a doctor.”
“A doctor? You!”
“Not a medical doctor, a doctor of science. I intend finding employment at a university in England.”
“What would you teach?”
“I have neither the inclination nor temperament required for teaching. My intention is to pursue a career in research and roam Europe during the holidays. My leisure desire is to systematically and intimately explore European architecture through the lens of a camera.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
“I’m surprised by how independent these women of Acts are,” offers Kat, as the trio share their customary Tuesday cuppa. “Lydia is apparently in business by herself and doing very nicely with her big house and servants. I guess there’s always been money in the rag trade.”
Sarai smiles. “Yes, good grooming adds to the world’s many delights. I’m not a follower of fashion myself but I appreciate quality and choose carefully.”
She really does, thinks Jen, realising the velvet gown Sarai is wearing is purple for a purpose — Lydia traded in purple dye.
“Most of the women mentioned in Acts are well-to-do, achieving women,” responds Sarai. “Marital status is not an issue in this book. Where early Christian groups meet in houses the given name of the householder is usually female — Mary of Jerusalem, Tabitha, Lydia, Phoebe, Chloe. Then there is Priscilla and Aquila. She is named first. They’re an interesting couple: operating a tent-making business together and sharing a preaching-teaching mission.”
“Husband and wife businesses are so tragically suburban” groans Kat.
“Well,” Jen’s face lights with the look of one about to divulge a secret. “Actually, I have my own tragically-fabulous suburban news. We are in business of sorts.” She has their full attention. “I’ve been dying to tell you this, but I wan
ted to be absolutely sure. I’m two months pregnant.”
“How wonderful,” both women respond. Kat jumps up and hugs her. “Oh Jen, this is fantastic news.” She pulls Jen to her feet and twirls her in a congratulatory circle, “We’ll be able to share the whole baby thing and walk pushchairs together!”
“I was sure it would happen, Jen,” smiles Sarai, “So sure that I have made gifts for both of you. I completed the one for Kat in August but by then I sensed another pregnancy and decided to wait for this moment.” She reaches into the bottom drawer of her desk and pulls out two iridescent packages tied with opaque ribbon. “With my love,” she says, handing the blue-tagged parcel to Jen and the pink-tagged to Kat.
How could she possibly know thinks Jen as she tugs the ribbon, then becomes lost in admiration for what is revealed. Rounded hills rise from padded stitching and range across an embroidered picture. Each cluster forms the recumbent shape of a pregnant female. The merest suggestion of an infant appears snuggled in a valley. Jen’s picture is created from tawny gold fabrics and stitched with dark-brown thread. Kat’s is similar but done in bush greens. The pictures are fabric framed and ready to hang from a looped silken cord.
“Pregnant earth pictures,” Sarai explains as they express their thanks. “First embroidery I’ve done in years. Now put them in your bags and I’ll find us some Turkish Delight.”
This time she opens the top drawer, extracts a round wooden box, and twists off the lid. Kat, entranced by the contents, reaches for a sweet. But Jen is captivated by the lid. The rimmed disk is tastefully decorated with a pokerwork sketch of Hagia Sophia. Significant? questions an inner signal. Jen has been to Istanbul. It was one of the European capitals she visited with a girlfriend during the brief OE she took after graduating. Hagia Sophia, her mind echoes, the Church of Holy Wisdom, remarkable for its architecture, over time both a Byzantine church and an Ottoman mosque.
League of Lilith, The: A thriller with soul Page 30