Читать книгу ELVIS SAILS AGAIN - DAVID J CHRISTOPHER - Страница 3

"Want my chips, Elvis? I'm on an input control regime."

"You mean a diet. How many is that this year?"

"We don't refer to it as a diet, so very passé," Naomi replied. "Anyway, don't be so negative, where's your positivity now? Do you want them, or shall I put them in that bin?"

"Chuck them over here then. Can't see good food go to waste, even if it does end up on my waist."

Elvis laughed at his own joke.

"You can't blame my chips for that lot," said Naomi stabbing her index finger into his flabby stomach.

Naomi had tried to order the "Homemade Lasagna and Chunky Chips" but without the chips.

"You can't, not going to happen," said the tattooed waitress. "I don't have a button for lasagna without chips. Look."

She shoved her hand-held device under Naomi's nose to prove her point.

"Anyway, the chef won't have time to deal with individual dietary requirements. Lunch time is our busiest time of day you know. Perhaps you should have come earlier?"

"Remind me why we come here," said Elvis. "Is it the warm welcome or the willingness to go the extra mile that attracts you?"

"I love the feel of this place," Naomi told him, "the fire, the beams, the horse brasses."

"Oh yes, very period," replied Elvis looking at the plastic surroundings. "I bet they cook the food on open fires out the back too."

An hour later, Elvis tried and failed to stifle a yawn. He gazed over the balding head of the man sitting opposite. He regretted his earlier choice of lunch and reminisced for the days when he could eat as much and as often as he wanted without feeling so bloated and lethargic. The man who sat before him, unlike Elvis, was thin to the point of angular. Bernard was the company's long serving accountant.

"Nice tank top," Elvis told him.

"Thank you. It was a present from Angela last Christmas," he replied.

"Orange suits you. Not many can get away with it."

As everyone in the office was required to wear civvies to work, Bernard, like his colleagues, was banned from wearing a suit. For him, this made his choice of clothes for each day more difficult. He rejected out of hand Elvis's mantra, regurgitated from one of his favourite business gurus, that wearing a suit constricted a person's originality and creativity.

"I don't think an accountant needs originality or creativity," he told Elvis but to no avail. His M&S suits remained in his wardrobe gathering dust.

Worse, today was "Jeans Friday" in aid of some telethon or other. He had bought a pair from Asda solely for these occasions. With them he sported a buttoned up blue shirt, brown tie and the bright orange tank top commented on by Elvis.

As Bernard summarised the month's performance, Elvis was staring at the photograph on the wall behind him. Taken in the early 1980's, Naomi and he were sitting on the stern of a 32-foot sailing boat called "Invincible." They both wore carefree grins, looking tanned and relaxed with their arms around each other. Elvis remembered the photo well. It had been taken at Lefkas in Greece, on the town quay. He with his long flowing bleached blond locks, her with her Lady Di style bob. Both wore figure hugging T shirts branded with the name of their fledgling company.

Bernard droned on. Elvis' attention flicked to the large mirror on his office wall. He instinctively held in his stomach and stretched his neck in an attempt to flatten out at least one of his treble chins. The beard that he had grown in an attempt to cover them was grey as was his thinning hair.

"For goodness sake, get a haircut," Naomi told him regularly. "A grey ponytail does not in any sense of the word make you look young."

"I bet no one has ever said that to Willie Nelson."

"Well they should have done."

"But I've worn my hair this way since I was fourteen," Elvis justified.

"And you probably got around on a chopper bike too, dabbing on a sherbet dip, but it doesn't mean you should do it now," she told him.

Today, whilst Bernard wore Asda, Elvis was squeezed into Boss Jeans.

"Just because you can do them up does not mean that they fit you Elvis," Naomi warned. "They're not supposed to be hipsters."

His Armani shirt was tucked into the jeans, and it was all held in place by a broad leather belt with an enormous buckle. On his feet he wore his beloved highly polished cowboy boots. Inside them, monogrammed socks. Elvis could not avoid the truth reflected in the mirror. He made a mental note that he really should get to the gym a little more often than he had managed in the months since Naomi had bought him membership.

"But it's not my fault," he said to himself, "it's the sedentary lifestyle I have to lead, not to mention all the marketing events where they practically force feed you vol au vents and Danish pastries. No, if I want to change my physique, I will simply have to change the way I work."

At that moment there was a knock at the door.

"Come," called Elvis pompously, holding up a flabby hand to Bernard to stop him in mid flow.

"Hi Elvis," he insisted that all his employees called him by his first name, which he was proud of, even if he had been ribbed mercilessly at school. Was it his fault his mother was a huge fan of the King of Rock and Roll? He might have been a Buddy, a Chuck, or worse a Cliff.

"Just to remind you that appraisals are starting at 3pm."

The speaker was Moira, his office manager, a trim woman in her 40s.

"Oh joy of joys," he said ironically, "well, I think we are nearly done here, aren't we Bernard?"

Bernard gave an inward sigh.

"Yes, I guess we are, though I'd like to chat about one or two staffing ideas for Greece. We are two flotilla reps down. Zack and Jaimie have eloped together and there isn't a budget to replace them."

"No problemo," said Elvis. "Tomorrow okay? Say after lunch, 3pm? Moira, give me a few minutes and then wheel in the first one will you?"

"Elvis, I do hope you've had a chance to look through the forms for Jill's 360 degrees feedback forum. I know she's put a lot of effort into this year's appraisal."

"I doubt it," Elvis muttered. He loathed the process of listening to his employees for an hour at a time declare how brilliantly they had performed last year, how essential they were to the business, and the biggest hoot of all, what their objectives were for the coming 12 months. He smiled as he recalled that these always involved going on expensive courses, and never being more productive through spending less time on Facebook or eBay. Still, it was his role to spend the next three hours looking interested so as to not come across as de-motivational. He had better start by looking at the forms.

"Five minutes should be enough," he said.

Moira looked skyward, passed the sheets to him, and then left the room with Bernard.

Elvis put the appraisal form to one side. Instead of reading it, he got up and went to the mirror. He checked himself thoroughly, first his front and then his back. He sighed. There was no avoiding it, he concluded miserably, there was definitely work to be done. Then he peered searchingly at the reflection of his puffy face. He focused on the hairs growing out of his nose and tried unsuccessfully to pull them out with two fingers. He winced with pain and not for the first time rued that his nose and ears were the only areas of his body hair that remained jet black.

Three hours later, Elvis' spirits had not improved. The afternoon had panned out exactly as he thought it would. All three appraisees duly thought their last year's performance had been exemplary. All three, thought that any problems in the company must be down to the management. All three, true to form, thought their performances would be enhanced by the company sending them on various courses.

"Ready for home darling?" Naomi asked as she opened the door.

"Too bloody right," replied Elvis. "I've had the most extraordinarily dull afternoon. You?"

"Good thanks, I've been chatting through some changes to our online marketing strategy with Neil, the IT guy."

"Sounds fascinating," said Elvis unenthusiastically.

"It was actually, you don't understand that side of things."

This was true. Elvis was a complete ignoramus when it came to the internet. He neither Tweeted nor Facebooked nor FaceTimed nor Instagrammed. In fact, he had no idea what those things were beyond believing that his colleagues spent far too much company time engaging in them. The only time he used the internet was to order his custom-made cowboy boots from the US, and Moira helped him with that.

Elvis looked at his wife of 30 years. He glanced sideways at the photo on the wall and couldn't help comparing the woman before him with the younger version.

"How come you look so much better than I do?" he asked her. "Look at that photo. You've hardly changed, but me, well, look."

He stood up and twirled around.

She paused before answering.

"We all get older dear, and, well, you've got rounder too. Perhaps you could try a little more exercise and a little less alcohol? Maybe you need a hobby. Why don't you come down to the tennis club on Sunday? They're always looking for new members."

"Can't stand tennis. Rugby's my game. As for beer, I hardly touch the stuff," he replied grumpily.

"I don't think enjoying hospitality at Twickenham counts as exercise nor watching the Five Nations on TV, and don't tell me, you've only got to look at a pint of bitter and the pounds pile on. Anyway, come on, time for dinner."

Elvis's spirits rose.

"Thank God, at least it's Thursday."

Thursday was their Indian takeaway night. The same every week. Chicken Madras for him, Korma for her. Pilau rice between them, though Elvis got the lion's share. Sag aloo, because Elvis recognised the need for a balanced diet, and Keema Nan to fill any remaining gap.

An hour later, at home, Elvis became aware of a nagging pain in his chest. He said nothing to Naomi assuming that it would disappear whilst he drank his habitual bottle of red wine after the meal. But the pain did not subside instead, if anything, it intensified, and he was feeling sweaty too.

When he was convinced he had pains up his arms as well, he spoke.

"I'm not feeling too brilliant," he told Naomi.

"Why doesn't that surprise me? Next door's Doberman savours his food more than you do. The way you bolt it down you'd think you were expecting the alpha male to come and take it from you."

"I am the alpha male around here," retorted Elvis defensively, holding in his stomach to prove the point.

"Of course you are dear."

"Although I'm really feeling quite poorly Naomi."

"Don't tell me," she said. "You think you're having a heart attack."