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.
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
