Nigel is my boss. He gets quite stressed when people are late, or dont do things in an orderly fashion. I know this because once he nearly cried when I messed up his desk a bit by accident. I was doing some work on one of his projects while he was away, and Im not the most organized person if Im completely honest. I mean, neat piles on deskswhats that all about? I like everything where I can see it, and if that means that every so often bits of paper get lost, well, thats hardly my fault, is it? When Nigel got back and realized Id completely decimated his filing system, he started off angry, but then I swear I saw a tear in his eye. Ive been trying really hard to be tidy ever since.
Nigel and I work in publishing. Usually, when I tell people what I do, I leave it at that, because then it sounds like I could be working with literary geniuses and brilliant novels. But you may as well know the truth. I work at Leary Publishing, and we produce loose-leaf handbooks and CD-ROMs for accountants. Lawyers, too, sometimes. I research new product launches and spend time talking to accountants about their business needs. So really, David and I are made for each other.
Recently, though, things have been looking up a bit. To start with, weve got a new divisional director, Guy Jackson, who keeps calling Nigel into meetings, which means he isnt breathing down my neck.
The other thing I have discovered to my amazement is that if you know a little bit about what youre working on, its actually easier. Its not like Ive been swotting up or anything, but weve kind of got this Sunday-morning ritual going where David brings me breakfast in bed and then tries to read the business section of theTelegraph . I ask him stupid questions about the headlines just to get his attention, and he explains each story in detail, demonstrating each point by kissing or prodding my stomach as I giggle and snuggle into his chest. This generally lasts for about ten minutes and then the newspaper gets chucked to the floor and we shag each others brains out, spraying crumbs all over the bed linen.
But it works. Last week I actually had a conversation with Guy in the lift about risk management following Enron. I sort of dried up after telling him I thought risk management was important, but thats okay because he went into overdrive saying how great it would be to launch a CD-ROM on the very subject. Nigel was livid, of course, because he didnt think of it first, but I just explained to him that being creative is a talent and you either have it or you dont. He didnt like that very much either.
I decide to ignore Nigels youre late look and head for my desk. You just wont believe the bloody Tube, I begin, looking for a sympathetic audience in Denise, our administrative assistant. Denise, however, is on the phone with her long-suffering husband explaining that she has looked up rising damp on the Internet, and the work hes done over the weekend is never going to clear up the problem. Nigel clears his throat.
I have no doubt that you have a perfectly thought-out excuse for your tardiness this morning, he beginsWhy alwaystardiness ? Why cant he ever just use the wordlate like normal people?but this is the third time in a ten-day period, and Im afraid Im going to have to file a report for personnel.
Nigel loves filing reports. If you ever want to get round him on something, you just write a report, with lots of figures and a few words like strategic game plan or cross-fertilization. He salivates over it, files it, and you can pretty much do what you want for the rest of the day.
So, good weekend? I ask brightly. Nigel nods and looks a bit sheepish. I suddenly remember. Ah! Was it this weekend? Nigel quickly looks over to Denise to check that she cant hear. I lower my voice. So, was it good?
Nigel, like me, doesnt really want to be working at Leary Publishing. Actually, Nigel doesnt really want to be working in publishing at all. He kind of wants to save the world, but Im never sure quite how he intends to do it. Nigel is a conspiracy theory nut. He thinks the government is watching us, he thinks things like the landing on the moon didnt happen, and he thinks the majority of popular culture is a ploy to take our minds off the real issues and whats actually going on. I havent managed to establish exactly what the real issues are, but Nigel spends hours and hours in Internet chat rooms and reading bizarre newsletters that debate the latest methods they are using to throw us all off the scent. If you ever want to have a laugh, you just call him up and make a clicking noise down the phone. He starts thinking his phone is being tapped and he totally freaks outsweating and everything.
So anyway, this weekend he went to a conventionof X Files nuts, paranoid freaks, computer nerds, and anyone else without anything to do, sitting round talking about security and freedom and stuff. I know this because two weeks ago, when creeping up on Nigel, I saw a brochure for the convention, and it was called Between Security and FreedomDrawing the Battle Lines. Nigel only told me what it was because I threatened to tell everyone about it if he didnt.
It was an immensely enjoyable weekend, Nigel whispers, trying to sound utterly professional but obviously full of the joys of spring. There were people there from all over the world. The power base is growing, you know. And evidence of conspiracies is mounting up.
Great! I always try to extend my chats with Nigel because then I can postpone doing any work for a bit longer. Plus, if I get him thinking about security, he may forget about filing a report on my lateness. So, meet anyone nice?
I have a theory that Nigel is only obsessed with conspiracies because its been so long since he last had sex. If he ever has, that is. Ive never heard him take a personal call at work, and he never mentions a single friend who isnt part of the network. He doesnt even try to talk to anyone at the Christmas party, and I dont think hes ever had a girlfriendwhich means hes stuck in a bit of a catch-22. I mean, whos going to want to go out with someone whos such a freak? And if he doesnt get laid, hell never realize that there is a whole world outside the Internet.
Its best not to talk too much to people, says Nigel. You never know whos listening or watching. But the network is certainly growing. He looks down as if worried hes said too much, then looks at his watch. Georgie, I think it is time that you commenced your work. It is now nine-thirty, and as you well know, the working day begins at nine.
Denise, who has finished her phone call, rolls her eyes at me and I go back to my desk and switch on my computer.
Im staring out the window onto the street below. It is now eleven-thirty and so far all I have managed to do is respond to a few e-mails and write the heading for a questionnaire Im supposed to be writing. The questionnaire is meant to judge the popularity and success of Learys latest pensions newsletter. Nigel told me on Friday that we are probably going to bin the newsletter because its proving very expensive and we dont have enough subscribers. So what Guy wants is a report demonstrating that it was a stupid idea in the first place (it originated in the marketing department, so none of us really care if it works or not) and should be scrapped.
I type: How would you describe Pensions Bulletin: crap, really crap, or abysmal?
I highlight the line and delete. Surely there are better things I could be spending my time on? But I suspect that whatever I turned my hand to today, I would be pretty useless. Since Saturday I have been going over and over again in my head my chance encounter with Mike. The smart car, the smart clothes, the fact that I was wearing my least flattering pair of jeans . . . and David. He was really edgy, even after watching EastEnders and the Antiques Roadshow. And then he suddenly got up, made a quick phone call, and said he had to go to the office. I mean, David does sometimes work on the weekends, but to go to the office on a Sunday night has to be desperate by anyones standards.
Really, I should be worried about David and wanting to reassure him that Im totally over Mike. But instead Im daydreaming about Mike. Im imagining bumping into him again, without David, and driving off in his car.
He is a total bastard and you are well rid of him,
I type carefully, and then type it again. You love David, I type, and highlight it in red. I picture David sitting at his desk. (Ive never seen his desk, but imagine an accounting office somewhere full of Nigels in dark suits, staring at computer screens full of figures.) Hes looking very serious, with those little lines above his eyes that appear when hes concentrating. I love it when David brings his laptop round to my flat on weekends and tries to work. He sits there intensely, going through e-mails and figures, and I sit there doing everything I can to divert him. I consider it a challenge when he says he has to work. Just how easy will it be for me to get his attention? Of course I always succeed pretty quickly. He pretends to get cross, then he gives me his crinkly smile and puts down the lid of his laptop with a sigh. Come to think of it, maybe thats why he ends up going to the office on a Sunday.
Suddenly the phone rings and jolts me out of my reverie. Georgie Beauchamp I answer on autopilot.
You kept your name then? Oh my God! Its Mike! Okay, stay calm.
David and I are not married, I retort, adding a yet for good measure.
You must be so happy together, so much in common, he continues.
Is there a point to this nice little chitchat? I sound stern, and am pleased. This is a lot better than standing in the rain without an umbrella.
It was nice seeing you the other day.
Well. I realize I dont have anywhere to go with this particular statement. I am certainly not ready to say it was nice seeing him, tooespecially as it was very far from nice.
I thought it would be nice to see you properly.
Properly as in without clothes? I wonder, and then get annoyed with myself. Honestly, this guy has been a complete shithead and Im being utterly pathetic and wondering if he still fancies me.
I wonder if he does still fancy me.
Youre a shithead.
Ah. Yes, youre right. A total shithead. But a shithead who would love to buy you a slap-up lunch if youd let him.
A slap-up lunch? Mike, since when are you able to cobble together enough money for that? And the car . . . surely you arent actually a success, are you?
Am I flirting? It feels like Im flirting. I am a bad person.
I cant deny it: I have money. Actually, Im a huge success. Im in business. Meet me and we can call it a business lunch.
Why is it that even when Im cross with Mike he makes me smile and forget what it is that made me cross in the first place? Its always been the same: our arguments always blew over really quickly; neither of us could ever be bothered staying pissed off. David on the other hand takes things to heart much more. It took days and days to convince him that I wasnt serious when I said I would be forced to leave him for Elvis Presley if he came back to life. And once I turned up at his place three hours after Id said I would and he went absolutely mad. He actually shouted at me for about twenty minutes about how I need to take my safety a lot more seriously! Having said that, he was very apologetic the next day and said it was all his fault (I never followed the logic on that one, but who was I to disagree). And the following week he got me a mobile phone so that I could call him if I was ever late again. Nigel was beside himself when he saw itapparently its some super phone that transmits at its own special frequency and you can only get one if youre some hotshot spy or something. David got it from one of his clientsI suppose there are benefits to being an accountant after all.
So will you meet me for lunch?
Something tells me that I should say no, but before I can give myself time to think I find myself saying yes.
And David wont mind?
David has nothing to mind. We are having a business lunch.
Of course we are. Okay, be at The Place at one.
Maybe, I tease, and put the phone down. I can feel that my cheeks are hot and I try to casually turn back to my computer.
So who was that thengot a new admirer have you? asks Denise.
Admirer? No! No, its just an old friend, very oldnot him, I mean weve known each other for ages; were just, you know, catching up over lunch, its nothing!
She is looking at me oddly. I was only joking, she ventures. Youre with David, arent you?
I turn back to my computer to get on with some work, but my mind is buzzing. Lunch with Mike? I dont have much time. Itll take me twenty minutes to get to the restaurant, which means Ive got about an hour to put on some makeup, and rehearse all the incredibly smart things Im going to say about my fabulous life.
Before I can start to bullet-point the exciting things I can talk about (my new curtain rail is all I can think of right now, and Im not sure thats really going to make Mike realize he was stupid to leave me), Nigel walks over to me.
I hate it when Nigel comes over to my desk. He kind of leans over so he can see exactly what Im doing, which is generally surfing on the Internet or writing e-mails to my friends, and then he makes some sarcastic remark about how hes assuming Ill be staying late that evening to catch up on all my work. So whenever I see him moving in my direction, I always jump up and get to his desk before he can get to mine. One time we did actually collide, which wasnt a very pleasant experience, but I say you take the rough with the smooth.
But this time Im too preoccupied with Mike to notice Nigel slithering over, and before I know it hes about two inches away from me. Luckily, I am at least looking at my research report. Unluckily, I have so far managed only to type the heading.
Looks like youll be working over lunch, if thats all youve done this morning, Nigel smirks. I smile lamely.
Actually, Nigel, I was wondering if I could take a slightly longer lunch today. Im trying to sound assertive, but Im not sure its working. We published a CD-ROM once on business communications skills and it said that to be assertive you need to look people straight in the eye and never deviate from your message. But I hate looking Nigel in the eye. Hes got such thick glasses its difficult to properly see his eyes through the glare, and hes generally got a huge spot somewhere on his face and I always end up looking at that instead.
That will be quite impossible, says Nigel flatly. Weve got far too much work on.
Okay, this isnt going to be as easy as I thought.
But Ive got a hospital appointment at one, and Ive really got to go, I wail. Ive simply got to make lunch with Mike. And while it said on the CD-ROM that you should never make an excuse (that weakens your position, apparently), Im not deviating too much from my overriding message of needing to go early.
A hospital appointment? For what?
I pretend to look embarrassed. Womens stuff, I whisper.
Nigel moves back quickly.
Very well. You may leave at twelve-thirty, but I expect you to be back at your desk by two oclock on the dot.
Thank the Lord. I check that Ive got my lipstick and mascara in my purse and go to the Ladies to get ready.
The Place is a very smart restaurant in Kensington. I have only been there once before, for a meal with my mother, who took me there to inform me that she was getting married. I didnt know about her break up from husband number three, and apparently nor did he (yet), but this didnt worry her unduly. My mother is the most unlikely man-eater. I mean, she looks her age (fifty-six), reads theDaily Mail , and thinks bikinis are vulgar. But she certainly knows how to make men fall at her feet. She left Dad when I was just five, and the two of us moved in with Brett, an American businessman who had a huge apartment in Grosvenor Square in London. That lasted about three years; she then decided she wanted a house and Brett preferred apartments, so that was the end of that. She met, and married, Stan, who was sweet but a bit old for my liking. (Brett and I used to go roller-skating in Hyde Park, but Stans idea of an active day was walking over to a bench and sitting down on it. When you are eight and full of energy, sitting on a benc
h is not exactly a good day out.) Stan had a big house in Dulwich Village and we lived there for a good five years, until my mother met William, who owned an antiques shop in Kensington and kept giving her antiques until she agreed to move in with him. We lived above the shop in Kensington Church Street, which was great because it was the perfect place to meet boys and thats all I really cared about then. Candy lived round the corner and we soon started hanging out together (whenever she was home from her smart boarding school, which seemed to be a lot; Ive never understood why the more expensive the school, the shorter the amount of time you have to stay there) with the sole intention of attracting attention from the opposite sex. My mother never married William, and the day I went off to university she told me about a new love, Stephen. Stephen became husband number threehe was in mergers and acquisitions and my mother got heavily into throwing dinner parties and being a corporate wife. Not for long, though. She came to stay with me my final year and complained that she never saw Stephenmergers and acquisitions were too time consuming for her liking and she missed having someone around in the evenings. I think in the end she sent Stephen a fax when he was on some business trip or other telling him it was over. And then she met me for lunch, at The Place.
Mike is waiting for me at the bar, champagne bottle in hand.
So, Mr. Business Executive, I say, accepting a glass from him and brushing his hand with mine. Accidentally? On purpose? Im not sure. You seem to be doing very well for yourself. Are you going to tell me where all this money is coming from, or are you going to do your usual trick of ordering everything on the menu and then asking at the end if I can put it on my credit card until your money comes through?
Ah, now theres a gamble for you! Mike winks.
I let him lead me to our table, and study the menu.
The sole is very good, Mike murmurs, picking up the wine list.
Does this business meeting have an agenda?
When in Rome Page 2