Working It Out. Alex George
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that he found rather aggravating.
‘Ere,’ said Derek, beckoning Johnathan forward.
Johnathan approached the desk. Derek leaned forward conspiratorially.
‘D’ you see what happened this weekend?’ he asked.
‘What?’ said Johnathan.
‘Those poofters,’ said Derek.
‘What?’ said Johnathan.
‘Them little arse-bandits.’
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Johnathan. He could feel his enthusiasm for the challenges of the day wane, as if Derek was sucking it out of him like a leech.
‘You know. Faggots.’
‘Homosexuals?’ suggested Johnathan.
‘Yeah.’ Derek sat back, satisfied.
‘What about them?’ asked Johnathan after a pause.
‘Well, they’re all queer, aren’t they?’ said Derek reasonably.
‘Derek, what’s your point?’
‘My point is, my point is, right, that another one of them got beaten up in Soho this weekend. There’s been a series of attacks.’
‘Really?’
Derek nodded. ‘Yeah. Quite right too. About bloody time if you ask me. They’re just getting what they deserve. This bloke had his arm broken in three places. I know the technique.’ Derek grimaced, serious. ‘We used a similar method in Cambodia.’ He paused for effect. Johnathan sighed. ‘Course, you’ll have to take my word for that. I’ve said too much already.’ Derek sat back in his chair and pretended to look contrite.
‘Was there anything else?’ asked Johnathan.
‘No, son, that’s it. Just thought you should know. Be informed. Ear to the ground. Reconnaissance is the key to success. Just watch those benders. Nothing’s safe when they’re around.’
‘Well, thanks for that. As edifying as ever,’ said Johnathan, picking up his briefcase and marvelling that nobody had ever complained about Derek. His rather reactionary approach to a whole range of matters would have even the most radical right-wing policy think-tank quivering in excited apprehension.
Johnathan wandered along to his office and followed the usual routine. Put down briefcase on desk. Open briefcase. Stare inside morosely. (It is empty.) Shut briefcase. Sigh, with feeling. Hang jacket on back of chair. Ask: what am I doing here?
Johnathan wandered out of his room and peered around the next corner towards the secretarial pool. His heart sank. Charlotte was at her desk, bolt upright, typing furiously.
Charlotte had been Johnathan’s secretary for five months. In that time they had barely exchanged a word more than was absolutely necessary for their professional relationship to survive. This was not for want of trying on Johnathan’s part, but Charlotte was unwilling to be drawn into conversation about anything at all. And yet she did her job with an unnerving efficiency. She was never late. She never forgot anything. She never made mistakes. She never smiled.
Charlotte was also the thinnest person Johnathan had ever seen. All she ever ate was a small plastic tub of green salad (without dressing), which she brought in every morning and would pick at throughout the day. She looked like an under-nourished Giacometti sculpture. Her hair was always scraped fiercely back into a flaccid pony-tail, which Johnathan had thought accounted for the permanently sardonic look she wore, her eyebrows forever hoisted towards the heavens. It had soon become apparent though that their sky-bound appearance had nothing to do with her hair. Charlotte looked witheringly cynical because she was witheringly cynical. She had a fantastically low opinion of lawyers.
Johnathan and Charlotte were now embarked upon a bitter war of attrition. Charlotte was always sullen, taciturn and grossly unhelpful, but typed like the wind.
As Johnathan approached her desk that morning, Charlotte did not take her eyes off the screen. Johnathan looked at where her hands should have been. All he saw was a blur of motion over the keyboard.
‘Good morning,’ he said.
The blur of motion got blurrier.
‘Any messages?’ said Johnathan.
Charlotte sneered silently.
‘Right. No. Good. I’ll just have a quick look in my in tray, I think.’ In the tray were a glossy pamphlet from the Law Society offering beneficial rates for life assurance policies, and various internal memos. ‘No, nothing,’ he reported, and turned to retreat to his office.
‘Can you take those with you?’ said Charlotte.
‘Take what?’ asked Johnathan.
‘The stuff in your tray. I don’t want it cluttering up my desk.’
‘Well I don’t really want it cluttering up mine either.’
Charlotte glared at him. ‘Right.’ She picked up the tray and emptied its contents into the waste-paper basket.
‘Oh brilliant, thanks,’ said Johnathan, wondering whether the stuff about the life assurance would have been worth reading. He returned to his office and slumped in his chair, exhausted before work had even begun. He wanted to think hard about how best to implement his proposed life change, but first he had some work to do.
Johnathan began to think about his meeting that morning. His client was a gruff industrialist from Halifax who, over the last twenty-five years, had built up a profitable business making plastic children’s dolls, known for their vacuous expressions and improbably proportioned torsos. The gruff industrialist had decided that he had made more money than he would ever be able to spend before he died, and so had decided to retire and sell the business to a massive American corporation, Dolls and Guise Inc.
Johnathan was being supervised on the matter by one of the firm’s partners, a man called Gerald Buchanan. ‘Supervised’ in this context meant that once a week Gerald would wander into Johnathan’s room for thirty seconds in between a lunch appointment and a game of golf to see what was going on. Exceptionally, Gerald had decided to come to the meeting this morning. His golf game had probably been cancelled, Johnathan reasoned.
While Johnathan was aimlessly reading the file, Gerald put his head around the door. As always he gave a strong impression of unruffled calm. He wore a pristine dark blue double-breasted suit with a loud chalk stripe running through it, a crisp white shirt and a pink silk tie which was tied with an enormous knot. His pungent aftershave filled the room.
‘Are the Yanks here yet?’ asked Gerald. He spoke in a languid, self-satisfied drawl which betrayed a life of pampered opulence.
Johnathan looked at his watch. ‘Not yet. They should be here in about ten minutes.’
‘Good,’ said Gerald. ‘I’m just off for a dump, so if they arrive while I’m gone just go ahead and start without me.’
‘OK,’ said Johnathan, wondering how long he was anticipating spending on the toilet.
As soon as Gerald had left, Johnathan’s telephone rang. It was Derek.
‘I’ve got a bunch of Americans in reception for you,’ he said, in the sort of tone which sounded as if he was announcing an outbreak of scabies.
‘A bunch?’ said Johnathan. ‘What do you call a bunch?’
There was a brief pause while Derek did a quick head count. ‘I reckon about five or six,’ he said.
‘God. OK, tell them I’m on my way.’
Johnathan gathered up his papers and set off to the reception area, which was filled with the low nasal drone of transatlantic accents, as people huddled together in small groups talking urgently. As he approached, a short tubby man in a shiny light grey suit waved at him heartily.