that poor Cathy woman then, thought Fay, but decided not to mention it.
‘Yes, of course I remember,’ she said, using the brisk tone one reserves for children and drunks.
‘Do you know … he bloody sacked me … bastard.’
‘Me too,’ said Fay with a half-smile. ‘I know how you feel.’
‘Really?’ He moved forward across the stool.
‘Not that much.’ She promptly removed his hand from the top of her thigh, where he’d landed to steady himself.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Oh, go on.’
Fay arched her eyebrows, hoping he’d continue on over to the bar and forget he was ever talking to her. On the other hand, the article in Red was ‘Baby Massage With You, Your Baby and Your Ever-Loving Partner – First, pick your largest, sunniest reception room …’
‘You know,’ said Ross, trying to be conversational, ‘they’ve offered me the other job.’
‘What other job?’
‘His job. In Slough. Same deal. BUT! Only one city gets to be European City Culsha.’
She looked at him. ‘Slough’s a city?’
‘Yeah, it’s – it’s got an IKEA and six polyversities. Yeah.’
‘Oh. Right.’ But inside she was thinking that this might be rather interesting.
‘What do you do again?’ he said.
‘Personnel management.’
He pointed a beefy finger at her. ‘We NEED one of those.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Ross became momentarily distracted by a passing waitress. ‘Oh, she’s gorgeous, eh? I bet I could have her. I had this page three girl once. Well, I met this page three girl once …’
Fay sighed and went to finish her drink.
‘No, no, right, you’d be perfect for the job.’
‘What job?’
‘Coming to be in my team, thass wha job.’
‘What, you’d give me a job just because I hate Arthur Pendleton?’
‘Precishely.’
‘I’ll have a white wine spritzer, please.’
And that was how, a week later, she found herself on secondment from the recruitment firm (‘City of Culture’ her boss had twittered, ‘such an exciting opportunity for the firm … all those heads! … all that hunting!’) driving to start her first day’s work for Ross, a man whose tosspot qualities had been expounded on at such length and in such detail by Arthur, she was warming to him already.
There was a summons.
Arthur would be meeting the chairman for the first time, to have a discussion about the delicate financial situation.
He hadn’t been able to chat to Gwyneth before he’d left the night before. Weighing up the balance of the evidence, he reckoned she was going to grass him up. He sighed. Sixteen million quid, and he’d be back to where he started. Or worse: they might sack him. Or he’d go to prison, maybe. No, surely not prison. Still. Nowhere good.
Arthur looked at his forehead in the bathroom mirror. Was there more hair there or less? And where was the soap? By utter coincidence, ever since Fay had left he’d run out of soap, toilet roll, razorblades and clean towels.
That is a coincidence, he thought to himself. He stomped out of the bathroom to iron a shirt, and immediately forgot all about it when he realized he was going to have to be eating cooking chocolate for breakfast again. At least something good was happening.
There were a million other things to do. Or, of course, none, he reflected.
For the first time, realizing that he might lose this job, he became aware of how much he wanted to do it.
When he entered the main boardroom – distinguishable from the rest of the plastic grey building only by a singularly incongruous stag’s head attached to the wall – Gwyneth was already there in a pale grey trouser suit with a lilac coloured top. He didn’t know anything about women’s clothing, but he noticed there was a subtle difference in the suit she had on and the dumpy two-pieces Fay used to wear. He bet she smelled nice. Right before she grassed him up of course, the cow.
Gwyneth was sitting next to the chairman, so it looked like they were in it together already, Arthur thought glumly, taking a seat across the table. There was another, younger man, sitting at one end, obviously there to take minutes. Nobody said good morning.
The chairman, Sir Eglamore, seemed an amiable enough old buff. He studied his notes, then glared at them incredulously.
‘Is this in shillings or – drat it, what are those blasted things called?’
His softly spoken PA leaned in. ‘Euros, sir.’
‘That’s right. Blast their eyes. That Tony Blair, you know. Should be hanged.’ He sneezed. ‘Who’s in charge of this affair, anyway?’
‘Me,’ said Arthur.
‘Ah, young Arthur, am I right?’
Arthur nodded, already surprised. Well, he was one up if the top brass could bother to find out his name.
Eglamore pulled his half-moon spectacles further down his long nose. ‘You’ve got a long way to go, then.’
Arthur nodded vehemently. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Not the best of starts, is it?’
‘No.’
‘Hrumph.’ Eglamore turned his attention to Gwyneth. Arthur looked at her curiously.
‘And we thought this was the best man for the job, did we?’
‘Um, yes.’
‘On the basis of …?’
‘Um.’ She looked embarrassed. ‘Many reasons, sir.’
Sir Eglamore made a noise like an angry horse. ‘Photocopier incident, wasn’t it?’
‘Um, yes.’
‘So what do you think now, hey?’
Gwyneth looked at Arthur, then straight at Sir Eglamore.
There was a pause. Then she said, ‘He’s still the best man for the job, sir.’
Both Sir Eglamore and Arthur’s
