‘Meeting in twenty minutes!’ Ann said as she entered Clare’s office with a big bunch of files an hour later, her nose wrinkling slightly as she took in the ‘old shoe’ smell that refused to leave. ‘Nigel and Will to lead it, apparently.’
The two women exchanged a look.
‘Fabulous.’
‘Thought you’d be pleased!’ Ann smiled. ‘It’s more of a training session, apparently.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes. Goal setting and motivation.’
‘Right.’
Ann’s face creased again. ‘What’s that smell?’
‘Nothing, I don’t think. Ancient shoes?’
‘Yeah, it smells like a locker room in here. Can’t you open the—’ Ann stopped, remembering that for an office that was meant to have all the mod cons, Clare’s new ‘work cupboard’ had rather a shortage of windows. ‘God, I’m sorry Clare.’
‘All these years, waiting to be promoted to the corner office, eh,’ Clare smiled, blinking away the tears which threatened to come once again.
‘You have to say something.’
‘I know.’
Half an hour later Clare was sitting in the meeting room, with a steaming mug of coffee. She’d actually arrived first, taking advantage of the large table and wall of windows to make a call and top up her no-doubt rapidly declining vitamin D levels. Others had arrived in dribs and drabs and there were now eighteen of them there in total: two other conveyancers who worked solely on residential properties; Ann and three other secretaries, and an assortment of people from litigation and criminal law whom she rarely saw. They nodded hellos and exchanged basic news about family. ‘Do wish your husband well done for me, won’t you,’ said Brian, the semi-retired head of criminal. ‘Bloody good show, the other night. Who knew street lights were such complex machines?’
‘Thank you,’ she said.
Then the door opened, hitting the wall opposite with a bang. In the doorway stood Nigel and Will, side by side, both clutching clipboards. There was an awkward moment when they both tried to get through the door at the same time, collided, then spent longer than was absolutely necessary trying to wave each other through. ‘After you!’, ‘No, no, after you!’
In the end, Nigel walked in, and stood with his legs so widely spread apart that Clare wondered whether Will was going to skid through the gap and strike a pose. But instead, Will stood by his side, legs also in a bizarrely wide stance.
‘Good morning,’ Nigel said, looking round his staff with a benign smile. ‘Lovely to see you all here.’
‘Yes,’ Will said, graciously, as if he was also employing and paying all of them, ‘thank you so much for coming.’
Ann caught Clare’s eye for a brief second and they glanced away to avoid giggling. They’d made that mistake in a training session before when asked to act out a ‘difficult client’ scene during some customer relations training. ‘I don’t think people usually find this sort of thing funny,’ Nigel had remarked crossly, as the two of them had clutched each other, shaking with laughter.
‘You may wonder,’ Nigel continued, ‘why we’ve called this meeting. Well, as some of you know, Will and I have been working closely together for the past few weeks and we’d finally like to roll out our plans to the rest of the firm.’
‘Yes,’ Will said, stepping forward. ‘Nigel and I have been exploring the philosophy of Hans Hankerton, the world-renowned motivational coach.’ He held up an enormous book with the picture of a smiling, moustachioed man on the front. The man was standing in a prayer position, looking up at money which appeared to be falling from the heavens. ‘His philosophy is that we should all look to ourselves before we look to our business – look at what motivates us, what makes us feel good, powerful at work … Basically make ourselves more corporately sexy.’ The last two words were emphasised by finger quotes.
Corporately sexy?
Nigel, to whom the word ‘sexy’ had never been applied before, stepped forward. ‘Being corporately sexy,’ he said, with no flicker of a smile, ‘is being self-assured, attractive in business – and just as confidence might attract a new partner in a discotheque, so corporate sexiness should lead to new business connections.’
Ann was staring at her pad, face fixed, cheeks flushed. She looked up, caught Clare’s eye and mouthed the word discotheque, her shoulders shaking.
Clare looked at her boss with a mixture of amusement and despair. ‘But how?’ she said. ‘Why?’
‘Of course,’ Will stepped in, ‘Nigel and I are much further along the path to corporate sexiness than the rest of you – we’ve been working together on this for some time now. So please don’t feel bad if you don’t reach our level for a while. But we’d like to introduce you to some of the basic principles this morning.’
‘Lesson one,’ Nigel said, stepping forward again. ‘Power stance.’ The stepping forward was proving difficult in the small space they had at the front of the room. Evidently, wherever they’d rehearsed had been more spacious. Nigel’s crotch was now only inches from Brian’s face.
The two widened their legs even further, until Clare worried that they might drop into the splits.
‘Power stance is one of the core pillars of corporate sexiness,’ explained Will. ‘At the Mann Company, we stand erect, we stand proud; others see us as powerful, masterful, dominant. Standing this way send a message to your subconscious that you’re strong and ready for action!’
‘Could you all stand up, please,’ Nigel continued.
Reluctantly, the staff got to their feet, glancing at each other.
‘Now the distance recommended between feet is one metre thirty,’ Nigel said. ‘As you can see,’ he continued, proudly, ‘I’ve recently achieved this, and Will here has even clocked up one metre forty-five.’ He began a small round of applause and a few joined in, dutifully.
‘Feel free,’ Will added, to take off your trousers or hitch up your skirts to release your legs for the exercise. Really, Nigel and I didn’t get where we are today without shedding our inhibitions and allowing free movement.’
‘Indeed we didn’t,’ nodded Nigel.
‘In fact, while we may remain outwardly clothed on this occasion, I’m sure Nigel won’t mind me sharing with you that we’ve both elected to go pant-free today to limit restriction.’
Will turned and picked up a series of long rulers. ‘If you could take one of these and lay it on the floor in front of you, then place your feet at either end. That’s it, that’s it … and if any of you are feeling particularly corporately sexy, do feel free to stretch a little further.’
Gradually, as if humouring a madman, the staff acquiesced. Some making it to a metre, some further. Mike, the IT guy from the fourth floor, ripped off his trousers with the ease of a hen night stripper, revealing a pair of Batman boxer shorts.
‘That’s it! That’s it!’ cried Nigel enthusiastically, as if cheering on a school football team. ‘Look at you all, I couldn’t be prouder.’
‘Now for the mantra,’ Will said, opening the book for reference. ‘I have power, I AM power … I have power, I AM power,’ he looked up and nodded at them.
‘I have power,’ they chanted obediently, ‘I AM power.’
‘And as you’re chanting,’ Will said, dropping out of the chant and letting them continue, ‘try to push your legs just a little bit further. Imagine the muscles stretching – feel your own strength!’
Clare glanced at her watch. Half an hour until the Jones’s would expect the keys to their newbuild. She’d give it another five. She stood, her feet neatly at each end of the ruler, and waited for the meeting to end.
‘Aaannnddd relaxxx,’ finished Will finally, stepping into a more normal pose. ‘Well done everyone! Give yourself a round of applause!’ He tucked the book under his arm and led the clapping.
After a brief self-congratulatory clap, the
y all sank gratefully back into their seats; Mike, rather reluctantly, pulled his trousers back on.
Nigel remained standing at the front of the room, his face a little flushed. Will looked at him for a second. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll stay in the stance.’
‘That’s dedication, sir.’
‘Thank you. Anyway, we’re looking to hold these sessions every Thursday morning, with a couple of after-work events for those who are interested. Details to follow.’
‘We really think,’ added Will, ‘that this could be good for the firm. Great for our image, great for our clients.’
‘Quite right,’ Nigel added. ‘Let’s draw this to a close now, shall we?’ His voice sounded slightly strained. Perhaps, Clare thought, he’d finally seen that Will had stepped over the line – acting as if he was their boss; telling Nigel what to do.
‘Meeting concluded,’ Will said. ‘Go out and be sexy! Corporately sexy, I mean,’ he added hastily, just in case any of them had been about to throw themselves onto the next warm body that walked through the door.
Nigel remained in situ, nodding to them as they went past. ‘Thank you,’ he said, still in the strange, rather hoarse voice. ‘Thank you. Have a good day.’
Clare was the last one out of the room, and as she went to close the door she heard Will say, ‘Well I think that went well, don’t you?’
To which Nigel gasped, his voice an urgent whisper, ‘For God’s sake, Will. Help me. Something’s gone horribly wrong.’
Chapter Eighteen
Clare stayed half an hour later than planned at work, before leaving and grabbing a sandwich from the small garage en route to the church hall Dan now referred to as ‘the dance studio.’ She ate it while driving, feeling almost rebellious and expecting to be ticked off by Claudia at any moment.
Once parked, she got out of the car and brushed the crumbs of cheese and pickle from her lap. She’d changed into tracksuit bottoms and a hoody in the staff toilets before she left, feigning a trip to the gym. The joggers were old and now had pickle stains on the thighs. But they would do.
Walking up to the small building, Clare felt more than a little bit nervous. She was holding the crumpled piece of paper with her original poem written on it and felt incredibly self-conscious about what she was about to do. Glancing about her furtively, she pulled open the door and stepped inside.
The crew – all thirteen of them – were mid-rehearsal and there was some pretty mind-blowing back-flipping going on. Music pounded out of a tiny Bluetooth speaker on one of the windowsills and all the boys seemed completely lost in the moment. As the music ended in a pounding crescendo, the boys dropped into the splits, except for little Henri, who did some sort of elaborate flip from the back of the troupe to the front, landing on his knees with his arms outstretched.
In the silence that followed, Clare clapped eagerly, feeling a bit like a parent at a school play or an over-enthusiastic teacher. ‘Well done,’ she said. ‘That was great.’
‘Brilliant - thanks!’ Dan said, striding from the back of the group and, for some reason, shaking her hand.
‘I can’t believe you think you need me,’ she said, trying to picture herself through their eyes. The oldest member of the group was thirteen – she was nearly three times his age. She must seem geriatric to them.
‘I’m so glad you made it,’ Dan said.
‘Me too,’ Clare said. And for once, she was telling the truth. Sure she was nervous, but she also had a feeling that it was going to be fun.
Dan’s sister Nadia had sent over a wig and sunglasses as part of her disguise and Clare tried them on for the rehearsal. The wig was itchy and the glasses made it hard to see at times – but she had to admit when she looked in the mirror she didn’t look like herself.
‘She’ll come and help you with it all properly before we do it for real,’ Dan said. ‘It’s just to give an idea, you know?’
As she tried to learn the simple side-stepping dance routine that the troupe had worked out for her, Clare felt less confident about their readiness. The boys would be devastated if they didn’t get in; but although she had rhythm in her words, her legs were refusing to cooperate. Next to the lithe, fit boys she felt old and clunky.
‘It’s great,’ Dan said enthusiastically, as she stepped slightly out of time. ‘Now let’s go from the top. Put the whole thing together.’
‘OK!’ she said, feeling anything but.
‘And you know it now, right? You can manage without the paper?’
‘I think so.’ She put the crumpled poem in her pocket, feeling more nervous than she should by rights. ‘Dan, are you sure this is going to work?’
‘I know it is,’ he said, with such confidence she was taken aback.
‘But won’t having a … gimmick – a humorous sort of rapper – make the whole thing look a bit … well, silly?’
‘Humorous?’
‘Yeah, you know – Martha B., the middle-aged rapper. Livin’ it large,’ she said, striking a pose. ‘Doesn’t it make it all a bit, well, novelty?’
‘I think you’re better than you think you are,’ he said, walking over and putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She felt a shiver of electricity as his eyes looked deeply into hers.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Do you think I’d ask you to be part of this if I thought it would be a joke? That the boys would get laughed at? That you would?’
‘Well, I thought …’
‘Clare, I don’t think the judges want us to be a novelty act at all. I think they saw something. And I’ve watched you now; heard you. I think you’ve got something.’
‘You do?’ She enjoyed performing more than she thought, sure. But being told she was good at it by someone who seemed almost impossibly cool? She hadn’t expected that. ‘But it’s not even a rap really,’ she said. ‘It’s a poem.’
‘Look, I’ll record it on my phone. So you can watch back. See what you’re really like.’ He brandished his phone, thumb hovering over ‘record’.
‘I’m not sure …’ She would probably die of embarrassment. But his smile was so wide, so somehow hopeful and innocent that she nodded. ‘OK.’
After an hour or so of missteps and rhythmic lines she told them she had to go. The kids would be wondering where she was. Plus, she had to admit, although she was getting a feel for the dance moves, her leg muscles were screaming in protest. Despite all this, she also felt a new determination. If she was intended to be genuine talent rather than a gimmick, she knew she could do better.
‘I’ll get something new written,’ she said before walking out. ‘Something that will appeal to people more.’
‘You think?’
‘Yeah,’ she said. After all, if she was going to do this, she was going to do the best she could.
The blazing lights at Clare’s house practically illuminated the whole street as she arrived home. And as she stepped inside, Toby bounced up to her like an excited puppy.
‘You’ll never guess!’ he said with no acknowledgement that she was home two hours later than usual and was wearing what appeared to be a pair of dance shoes. ‘Something amazing has happened!’
‘What?’ she said, a little impatiently, as she hung her coat up. ‘Your friend Matt’s been abducted by aliens again?’
That brought him up short; a look of horror flashed briefly over his features. ‘Oh … I didn’t – did I mention that at Hatty’s?’
‘Forget it, forget it.’ It was too cruel. ‘Go on, what happened?’
‘Rumour has it,’ he said, soon shedding his horror at the kind of madness he might have revealed at the dinner party, ‘that the studio is looking to mix things up a bit. Move a couple of people around, commission some new shows. Tap into new talent.’
‘Yeah?’
‘And someone let me know, you know, on the quiet, that m
y name might be on a list somewhere!’
‘Wow,’ she said, hearing the uncertainty in her own voice. ‘That’s great!’ Because it was great, wasn’t it? It was just, since he had started to work at the TV centre, spent more time away, got preoccupied with work, they’d grown apart a bit. She felt it – did he?
‘Don’t you see?’ – he clutched one of Clare’s hands in both of his – ‘This could be it! This could be my chance!’
Clare looked at the excited man-child on the end of her arm and couldn’t help smiling a bit. His enthusiasm was infectious. When had she last felt that way about work? she wondered, thinking of her tiny new office. Maybe it wasn’t Toby’s enthusiasm or career goals creating her feeling of being disconnected – maybe it was just that his success had made her reflect on her own situation and see how side-lined she was.
Then she thought about the thirteen boys. Her rap. The competition. Giving them a chance to maybe hit the big time. She felt the corners of her lips turn up a little in spite of herself. She’d watched the performance back on Dan’s phone and had actually felt quite proud. It wasn’t bad at all. ‘Actually, I’ve got my own news,’ she said.
‘Oh yes?’ he said. ‘That Camberwaddle fellow gave you some more business?’ He turned and began to walk to the kitchen.
‘No,’ she said, feeling suddenly enraged at his apparent indifference. ‘I’m part of a rapping dance troupe destined for national fame.’
‘What?’ he said, turning back as he went into the kitchen. ‘A rapping what?’
‘Dance troupe.’
‘Right!’ he said, nodding and grinning as if she’d told him a joke he didn’t quite understand, or he was patronising someone who’d lost more than a few of their marbles. ‘Yeah, me too! Heh.’
‘Seriously …’
‘What?’ he turned, only half hearing.
‘Oh, never mind,’ she snapped, suddenly angry.
Perfect on Paper Page 11
