Читать книгу Working Wonders - Jenny Colgan - Страница 7

‘I think I’d maybe … I’d quite like to come in and see you.’

Lynne regarded the strange purple-eyed apparition peering round her doorway coolly. Arthur had driven in at five miles an hour.

‘Can you see?’

‘Ha ha. Is this a good time?’

‘Time …’ mused Lynne. ‘What a funny question. All times are exactly the same.’

She stared out of the window. Today she was wearing six layers of different colours of brown. They floated all over her chair. One layer looked like it might be made out of a piece of sacking.

‘Er, yes they are,’ averred Arthur. ‘Except you know, they’re not. When you’re doing something or, you know, waiting for black eyes to heal.’

‘Is that what those are? I thought you were turning into a panda. I saw that happen once …’

Arthur threw up his hands in defeat. ‘Fine, I’ll come back later.’

‘No, no, come in.’

Arthur mooched in and slouched onto the sofa. There was an expectant silence.

‘Well?’ said Lynne.

‘I don’t know … Can you give me some therapy or something?’

‘What, just like that?’

Arthur shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Jolly good,’ said Lynne. ‘Right. You get confused between umbrellas and your penis.’

‘I do not!’

They both looked out of Lynne’s windows, where it was raining.

‘Just as well,’ said Arthur.

‘Quite,’ said Lynne. ‘Well, you get that kind of thing with off the peg therapy.’

Arthur sighed. Lynne peered over her spectacles.

‘Do you want to talk about it or do you want me to psychically guess that Ross took a swing at you and you’ve split up with your girlfriend?’

‘That’s creepy,’ said Arthur. ‘Well, what do you recommend, seeing as I’m supposed to be starting the most difficult job of my career this morning and I look like George Dubya eating a pretzel.’

‘Talk to your girlfriend,’ said Lynne. ‘That’s probably better than talking to me.’

‘What! That’s the most useless advice I’ve ever heard! You’re the worst therapist ever!’

‘What do you want me to say? Well done for betraying your girlfriend?’

‘I didn’t betray her. She bloody said that too. It’s not like I did anything.’

But his face gave him away.

‘Well, exactly. You should have done something. You should have split up with her years ago.’

‘Okay, well, thank you Germaine Greer but I happen to completely disagree. All she ever had to do was ask, then she did ask and I told her.’

Lynne shook her head. ‘You’re going to regret that.’

‘What? I thought I could say anything in here!’

‘Not what you said. What you did.’

‘Yes, I’m sure I will regret it, if I lose the sight in one eye.’

They were quiet. Arthur was seething. This was a hard time for him, goddammit. Didn’t he deserve a bit of sympathy?

‘You’ll be late,’ said Lynne.

The huge cubicle room was not just quiet, it was completely, utterly silent. It was hard to believe there was anyone in there at all. From the second Arthur stepped through the door, heads disappeared into files, up close against computer screens, probably even in some cases straight under the desks, using the ‘if he can’t see me he can’t fire me’ technique. Arthur went forward gingerly.

‘Hello!’ he said as usual to the grumpy temp at the front of the office. But instead of grinning and giving him some cheeky answer, she looked up, startled.

‘Er, hello Mr Pendleton.’

He squinted at her. ‘Um …’ Of course he still couldn’t remember her name. ‘You don’t have to call me Mr Pendleton.’

She looked at him. ‘What, do you want me to go back to calling you “Not Too Much of a Wanker”?’

From somewhere he could be sure he heard a very quiet giggle.

‘No, I stay away from my Native American name when I’m working,’ he said, heading past her.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I just didn’t recognize you with your sunglasses on.’

‘I’m not wearing … oh, forget it.’

He was conscious of her eyes on him as he started to make his way through the maze. And everyone else’s, for that matter. As he was nearly at his desk, he realized with a cold shock of horror that of course this wouldn’t be his desk any more – he’d be expected to go to Ross’s old office. But he was already too far along in the opposite direction. Oh crap. He felt his face go puce and the back of his collar felt damp. He decided to try and pretend that he was just on his way to pick up a few things and actually said, ‘Huh, just going to pick up a few things,’ tentatively out loud as he was going along, feeling more and more that he should just carry a sign saying ‘Dickhead! Hate me forever!’

Of course, as usual, the smell hit him first. No. Of all the cruel tricks to play on him. Sandwiches was sitting lugubriously in his chair – or rather, what had been his chair – stinking the place out and looking up at him with a mildly quizzical air. He was wearing one of Arthur’s ties. Sven was nowhere to be seen.

‘Sven!’ Arthur yelled, breaking the silence in the room.

The fat blond head raised itself incrementally over the partition, like a Wot! cartoon. ‘Oh … Hi, Arthur!’ he said, with elaborate unconcern.

‘Sven, you know how we had that talk the other day about who was the boss?’

Sven nodded.

‘And I couldn’t ask you to remove your dog?’

‘Uh huh.’

‘Remove the fucking dog.’

Cathy put her head round the cubicle. ‘Arthur … Mr Pendleton … Hello!’

‘Hi, Cathy. You don’t need to call me Mr anything.’

Cathy came round the side of the partition. ‘Um … Arthur …’

‘Yes?’

‘Um, it was just … Well, I spoke to the girls in the typing pool and … well, we just wondered if there was any way we could keep Sandwiches. You know, for therapeutic value.’

‘What? What’s therapeutic about a methane machine who eats staplers?’

Sandwiches obligingly spat out the stapler he’d been attempting to maul. A long trail of drool still connected him to it, and he regarded it closely.

‘We thought,’ Cathy shrugged, ‘seeing as you’ll have a new office, you won’t be near enough to smell him.’

Arthur shook his head. ‘You’re telling me you actually want that thing in here?’

Sven regarded the scene carefully.

Cathy snapped her fingers. Sandwiches took a careful glance at Arthur to make sure he was watching, then shuffled on his stubby legs off the chair and rounded the partition – his bottom disappearing last, like the slinky dog in Toy Story. Arthur stood back so he could see. Sandwiches was fawning up against Cathy’s legs, rubbing his head and giving his best pathetic dog eyes. Cathy leaned down and scratched his head.

‘It’s more affection than I get from my husband,’ she said, trying to laugh, although the statement was so obviously true it was painful. She knelt down and gave the dog a scratch.

‘Happy workers, innit?’ said Sven. ‘Lowers aggression in the office and all that.’

Well, he’d rather got him there. More aggression in the office was something he could definitely do without for the moment.

Arthur sighed and looked at Sven. ‘Will you change what he eats? So he doesn’t fart so much?’

‘Charcoal biscuits only,’ said Sven solemnly. Sandwiches coughed and deposited four loose staples on the carpet. Cathy rubbed him as if he’d done something clever and unwrapped him a Fox’s glacier mint.

‘Oh God,’ said Arthur. ‘My first executive decision and I’ve let the place be overrun by wild animals.’ He headed off towards Ross’s old domain.

‘Marcus, I believe you’re goin’ to have to set up a new expense account,’ he could hear Sven say, grandly.

Ross’s office still smelled of him – Lynx deodorant, sweaty hair and air freshener. Even the boss’s windows didn’t open. Arthur paced around the room, picking things up and putting them down again. There was a long, standard issue pine desk facing the door right in the middle of the room – Ross liked to play the part of Blofeld, and sit with his back to the hapless visitor in his office (it didn’t matter what they’d done: the fact that they were in a room with Ross at all already made them pretty hapless). He hadn’t even left time to pick up his personal possessions. Arthur looked at them now, vowing to pack them up and send them on to Slough. On the desk there was the framed picture of Ross, trying to smile, with the very attractive woman he called his girlfriend scowling. Arthur wondered idly if this was his girlfriend or some woman he’d sidled up to at a motor trade fair. There was also a model of his car (a ridiculously over-customized silver-blue Audi that positively screamed ‘dickwad’.) Well, maybe he wouldn’t return all the stuff. On a whim he threw the model in the air and kicked it as it came back down to earth. The plastic shattered with a satisfying noise. He caught the main part of the chassis with his foot and kicked it into the air again. It flew across the desk and knocked the framed photograph onto the floor. Goal!

‘Oh, whoops!’ he said out loud.

‘You know, your destructive skills weren’t the only reason we hired you,’ said the cool voice.

Gwyneth, wearing a peppermint-green suit, was cool and unruffled-looking. She had been standing in the corner behind the door and was now pretending to examine the files against the far wall.

‘Oh!’ said Arthur in a high-pitched voice, which annoyed him. He cast around for some excuse for wilful destruction of somebody else’s property, but couldn’t come up with one. He tried to change the subject. ‘Nice … breakfast?’ he asked, then winced at the pathetic question.

Gwyneth looked to the side. ‘I don’t eat breakfast,’ she said.

‘No, of course not, otherwise how would you keep your slim …’ Oh God, he said to himself, shape up, you’re starting to sound like Vic Reeves.

‘Well.’ She turned and stepped forward to confront him. ‘Your first day. Welcome.’

‘Thanks,’ said Arthur, mumbling and looking at the floor.

‘What did you have for breakfast? Or rather …’ She looked at his bruised face. ‘What had you?’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Arthur, pawing his face. ‘Um …’ Well, he wasn’t going to get into this. ‘Did it myself … You know, to even things up. Don’t you think it looks better?’

Rather than answering him, Gwyneth snapped her fingers and a scared-looking secretary marched in, carrying three tons of files. The secretary dropped them onto the table with an exhausted sigh.

‘Thanks, Miriam. You can go home now.’

‘That doesn’t seem bad for a day’s work,’ mused Arthur. It was still nine thirty.

‘Night shift,’ snapped Gwyneth. ‘Efficiency drive.’

‘Of course,’ said Arthur, sitting down gingerly.

‘Okay. Here we have financial projections, budgetary restraints, minutes from the working party, the futures committee, the town council, the planning board, the county council, the department of the environment – oh, here’s the white paper. Over here are the application guidelines, the tendering process, the likelihood graphs. Plus studies from Glasgow, Manchester, Amsterdam, Prague and Budapest. I wouldn’t bother with that last one, depending on how good your Hungarian is …’

‘Bit rusty, actually.’

‘Fine.’

She eyed him over the wall of paper that now divided them.

‘Why don’t you get started?’

‘Sure,’ said Arthur, as if having to read fourteen thousand pages of the most mind-numbing information ever committed to paper was exactly the kind of thing he’d been dreaming about all these years.

‘Ehem, what will you be doing exactly?’

Gwyneth stared at him. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘I think it’s best if you call a team meeting. Then we can outline all our roles. I’m going to be working on the bid with you. Get your best people.’

Arthur stared at the pile of papers. He picked some up. He smelled them. He did not have a clue what to do with them. But, casting around, he noticed one thing – he had an intercom!

He reached over and pressed a button. As soon as he started speaking, his voice boomed right back at him – he could hear it out on the main floor. Oh, this was cool. Resisting the immediate temptation to sing ‘Angels’, he coughed – nearly bursting the eardrums of anyone on the floor – and leaned forward to the speaker. Who were his best people? He chose to make a management decision and simply ask anyone he knew.

‘Er … Hello, everyone. This is Arthur … Um, could I see … Sven, Cathy … er … Gwyneth …’

‘I’m only in here,’ said Gwyneth, crossly opening the connecting door.

‘Marcus … Marcus … Um, if I think of anyone else I’ll say in a minute.’ There was a long pause. ‘Um, sorry. Can you come and see me in the conference room, please?’

With trepidation, they filed in.

‘Sit down, everyone.’

The group bustled around, looking at the table.

‘Anywhere special you want us to sit?’ asked Gwyneth.

Arthur looked up, startled. ‘No, of course not. Sit wherever you like.’

They seated themselves around Marcus, the finance director, whom they found safe, being the only person in the office who knew how to add up. He lived in a world of fake friendship and promises, as girls gave him lascivious winks if he promised to help them out with their expenses, and many pints were bought for him round about the March mark. Sandwiches sat at the end of the table.

Looking round the room for the first time, Arthur realized, suddenly, that he didn’t care in the slightest. Whatever he did, this was it now. He was in charge. He was the boss. They were going to like him or – well, who liked their boss? Forget it. They were going to hate him, but they might respect him or they might not. He took a deep breath and began.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘Things have changed a bit round here.’

Yes, that was obvious enough. He decided just to get down to it.

‘Okay … team. Here’s what we’re going to be doing.’

He revealed the graphic overhead just as Gwyneth had done, and tried to garner the same level of dramatic enthusiasm.

‘Our new project,’ he announced, ‘is to take Coventry all the way to becoming European City of Culture!’

There was dead silence round the table.

‘What’s that then?’ said Marcus.

‘Ehem … It’s whatever you want it to be,’ said Arthur. ‘We’re going to create the city of our imagination!’

Gwyneth coughed discreetly.

‘Within certain highly defined boundaries, of course.’

‘It’s an urban rejuvenation project,’ said Gwyneth. Immediately, the eyelids of the entire room began to droop.

‘This … I cannot imagine the amount of money it would take to transform Coventry,’ said Marcus, wonderingly. ‘All of it?’

‘It’s to bring out the beauty of the city, make it a tourist attraction. Show its true colours.’

‘Those being what – grey, grey and dark-grey?’ joined in Sven.

‘What’s the slogan going to be?’ added Marcus. ‘“Coventry’s Crappily Better”?’

‘Come to Coventry … if you’re a cu—’

‘Is anyone else really missing Ross?’ said Cathy.

‘Yes, yes, okay, okay, calm down,’ said Arthur, the tips of his ears going red. This wasn’t starting well.

‘Gwyneth and I …’ This felt very odd to be saying, almost like ‘my wife and I’. ‘Gwyneth and I think you are the best team to take the project forward. I know it seems a huge, huge mountain to climb, but I really think we are in with a chance.’

The room went silent as they all looked at him.

‘Any questions?’

‘Yes, one. Very important,’ said Marcus. ‘Are we going to get access to those executive snacks?’

‘Tea,’ said Gwyneth brightly. ‘Let’s all take a break for tea.’ And smiling like a primary school teacher, she hustled everyone out of the room towards a table which had been set up specially – with chocolate biscuits. The group fell on them with gusto. Gwyneth came back into the room, where Arthur was still standing.

‘They’re … they’re absolutely dreadful,’ she said, her face like thunder.

‘What?’ said Arthur. This woman was completely incomprehensible. ‘What is?’

‘Your so-called staff.’ She practically spat. ‘Is that bunch of work-shy cynics the best this office can do?’

‘That lot?’ Arthur looked at them. ‘But you’ve just given them all chocolate biscuits.’ He sat down. ‘I don’t think that will work particularly well as staff aversion training. Here – annoy Gwyneth. Have a biscuit!’

‘They’re like a bunch of children. And that Sven – he’s just a pig!’

‘Yeah, he is a pig,’ agreed Arthur. ‘A strange, ugly pig with superior logistical ability.’

‘For a man or a pig? That’s an important distinction.’

‘Go easy on him, Gwyneth – do you know he’s never had sex? ’Fessed up to the temp at the Christmas party, poor bastard. He’s a virgin.’

‘I’m not surprised.’ She shuddered. ‘Can you imagine …’

‘No,’ said Arthur quickly, trying very hard not to think about sex and Gwyneth in the same context at all.

‘And you’re meant to be leading this bunch of reprobates – look at them. They’re slagging you off right now.’

‘They are not,’ said Arthur, looking out of the door nonetheless.

Sven was holding up his chocolate biscuit plate and saying, ‘Please sir, I’m little orphan Arthur. Please can I have a European City of Culture?’

The others were laughing.

‘I’m never going to get them to do anything, am I?’ said Arthur.

‘You just have to get tough with them.’

‘That will never work.’

Gwyneth turned round and stalked into the open area outside the meeting room. She stood before them with her hands on her hips.

‘Right, you’ve had your chocolate biscuits. Now fuck off, and Arthur wants two-page memos from each of you on your preliminary ideas for the bid, on his desk, Friday morning. Here are copies of the guidelines, budget not an issue, just brainstorm.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Marcus, and the rest of them shuffled off obediently.

Gwyneth turned round again to Arthur, who tried not to show how impressed he was. God, but this woman was annoying.

Arthur was stretched over the empty bed, one of the few pieces of furniture Fay had left behind. It still smelled, faintly, of her conditioner. There was a long brown hair lying across the pillow. He picked it up. It felt for a moment like a trap – like she had left it there to see if her bed would be disturbed; to see what would happen.

Later, he was dreaming of horses again. He was pounding over the land. It was winter again, and the frosted wind caught against his throat. This time, he wasn’t alone. He looked down and realized his arm was around a girl. She was cowering into him and holding him tight, but oddly, he felt no emotion towards her. Suddenly he realized it was Gwyneth. Her fair hair was blowing over the cowl of her cloak. He groaned once, in his sleep, and turned over.

‘I can’t believe they’re actually all here,’ said Gwyneth that Friday. ‘And they’re all pretty much legible. Sven’s has something on it …’

‘I think that’s dog slobber,’ said Arthur.

‘Oh, God,’ said Gwyneth, dropping it as if it were acid. Arthur watched her, remembering the fragile creature he had held in his dream three nights before, not this smartly dressed efficiency machine standing before him.

‘Why do you do this?’ he asked suddenly.

‘What? Pick up pieces of paper typed by dogs with dirty paws? I have absolutely no idea, I assure you.’

‘No, I mean, your job. How did you get into it?’

Gwyneth looked at him. ‘Well, at university, I spent my summers working for …’

‘I don’t mean your job interview answer. Just … why?’

She shrugged. ‘Well, why does anyone become a management consultant?’

Arthur sat back.

Gwyneth was looking at him like the answer was obvious.

‘I genuinely don’t know.’

‘I think it was … the travel, the glamour … meeting new people …’ Gwyneth looked around the office.

‘Oh, yeah.’

Gwyneth flopped into a chair. ‘You know, I used to believe that, and now – look. Trapped in sunny Coventry.’

Suddenly, something in her face shifted. She looked like she was having an internal battle within herself. She glanced around as if she’d forgotten where she was, she looked at Arthur, she looked at the floor. Then, in almost a whisper, she leaned over and said, ‘Oh, God, sometimes I hate it.’ Then, she kind of shook herself. ‘Gosh, I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I didn’t mean that. It’s just, you know, sometimes I think maybe I should have become a vet after all.’

‘A vet. You wanted to be a vet?’

‘What’s so funny about that?’

Arthur looked at her immaculate suit. ‘Gwyneth, all you do is complain about dog slobber.’

‘That is not all I do.’

‘Have you any idea what the slobber ratio is like in being a vet? And not just dog slobber, either. Ohhh, no. Elephant slobber. Yuk. And have you ever seen a lizard slobber?’

She shrugged. ‘No. Have you?’

Arthur considered. ‘Well, no, but I’d bet it’s revolting, wouldn’t you?’

There it was again … almost a smile. ‘What kind of a lizard?’

‘Oh, geckos. They’re filthy.’

She nodded. ‘Or limpodos.’

‘You’re right. Even a gecko wouldn’t give house-room to a limpodo – bleargh!’

Arthur could have sworn she nearly giggled. Then she pulled herself together and stood up, nervously tugging on her immaculately ironed blouse.

‘Give me those papers,’ she said. ‘Not Sven’s, thank you.’

Arthur picked up Sven’s and started to read. On the page was a picture of a large neutron bomb with an arrow pointing downwards towards Coventry. Oh, very funny, Arthur thought to himself. He looked over to the outside area. Gwyneth was standing next to the coffee machine, leafing through the unexpected submission from the temp, which seemed mostly to concern the amount of temporary staff required for the new-look town (lots, apparently). It was the first indication that this project might be of some interest to people outside their own small circle.

‘Is that about the temps?’ yelled Arthur. ‘How many?’

‘Everybody,’ said Gwyneth, without looking up. ‘Everyone should do their job on a temporary basis so that anyone can just move on when they feel like it. Makes everyone a lot happier when they feel footloose and fancy free, and apparently happy people don’t litter.’

‘Is that true?’

‘There’s no evidence provided.’

‘I’d have thought you’d have been more likely to litter when you were happy – you know, tra la la, dum de dum; I’m so comfortable with myself today I don’t even care what I throw around, la la … Wouldn’t you think?’

‘I don’t litter.’

‘Well, there you are. You’re an unhappy non-vet, and you don’t litter, so maybe the theorem is true.’

‘I’m not unhappy.’

Silence fell as they skimmed through the other proposals.

‘Sven wants an internet connection on every park bench.’ Arthur examined it closely as Gwyneth wandered over to take a look.

‘Oh yes,’ said Gwyneth, ‘some other council tried that.’

‘What on earth for? So the flashers could get quicker access to their internet porn?’

‘No, 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.