Another penny drops when I consider our sex life, or more accurately, our non-existent sex life. I cast my mind back, trying to recall the last time we had sex. I think it might have been after the RolpheTech Christmas party when we were both so drunk that our mutual resentment drowned in an alcohol-fuelled frenzy on the sofa. But apart from a few half-hearted attempts on my part since that night, there hasn’t even been the slightest suggestion of sex, let alone the actual act. Perhaps Megan has found another, more appealing solution to her sexual needs?
Just as I toy with the idea of confronting Megan with my baseless accusations, I hear the front door slam shut. It looks like I’ll have to spend the evening stewing in my negative thoughts instead. This is one of those situations where my overly analytical mind is a curse. A tiny, inconsequential thought can catch fire in my head, and before I know it, my pernicious imagination has created a gloomy plot for me to live out. I recall one such scenario when I was sixteen — I thought I was having a brain haemorrhage, and I got my worried mother to make an emergency appointment at the doctor’s. As it transpired, the prognosis was a migraine, caused by staring at a computer screen for too many hours. There was nothing wrong with me apart from my wild imagination. I wish I could control it, but it seems to be the way my brain is wired.
I try to distract myself by steering the negative thoughts down a different path, one where my wife isn’t currently sat in her car and about to fellate another man. I light another mental fire by considering the more practical aspects of our marriage ending.
We made our final mortgage payment on the house a few months ago, so we’d each have a large chunk of cash to buy our own place. However, my occasional glance at the property section of the local paper suggests that even a one-bedroom flat would be beyond my budget; therefore I’d need to borrow at least £30,000. This raises another problem as obtaining a mortgage without a job is a non-starter. Even if I start a business, I'll need at least a year’s trading accounts before a mortgage company will consider a loan. My only option would be to rent for a year, which isn’t ideal as its dead money, plus property prices seem to be on an upward curve.
I shake my head and curse the lunacy of my thinking. Within ten minutes of seeing my wife dressed up to go out, I had mentally ended our marriage and started making contingency plans for my living arrangements. Trying to shake the negative thoughts from my mind, I head into the kitchen and make myself a coffee.
I return to my armchair and flick between the myriad of channels on the TV. I think back to the days where there were just four. We didn’t have the quantity of programmes back then, but I’m sure we had better quality. There is rarely anything on TV these days to pique my interest, and that’s certainly the case tonight. Inevitably, I settle on a film I’ve already seen. The rest of the evening is spent watching mindless American comedy shows, and the occasional dip into my franchise research. By eleven o’clock there’s no sign of Megan, so I take a shower and retire to bed.
After a fitful night’s sleep, I wake up earlier than usual. I get ready for work and twenty minutes later, I open the front door to another wet, miserable morning, courtesy of our bipolar British weather. I don’t know what time Megan came home last night and decided against asking her this morning. She was her usual moody self, which doesn’t seem quite right for somebody in the exciting first throes of a new relationship, clandestine or otherwise. Maybe I've misread the signs. Truth be told, I’ve got enough to deal with at the moment without over-analysing problems that may not exist beyond my fucked-up mind. If there was ever a right time to bury my head in the proverbial sand, this is it.
I arrive at RolpheTech and head for my office via the staff room to make myself a coffee. I settle into my office chair and soak up the silence. This is how I’ve started my working day since I became manager, but everything is different today, everything is pointless. Daily sales targets, staff rotas, stock orders, training schedules, product promotions — the planning of tasks that will never come to fruition. Given the choice, I’d rather Marcus shut the damn place down today. It has to be better than watching my colleagues go about their jobs like it’s just another working day. I flirt with the idea of telling them about their impending unemployment, but Brian’s warning pings into my mind and quickly douses that thought. If the takeover fails for any reason, I can kiss goodbye to my redundancy, and RolpheTech will face an even more uncertain future.
I’m just about to check my emails when there’s a knock on the office door.
“Morning Craig. I don’t suppose you’ve got five minutes free? I need to have a chat with you,” Lucy asks.
“Sure, grab a seat,” I reply.
Judging by her body language, we won't be having the same sort of chat as the one last week. Considering she’s been in a strange mood ever since, I’m just relieved she's actually talking to me at all.
Her eyes skip around the room for a moment before she notices the bruising on my neck.
“Jesus, Craig, what happened to your neck, are you okay?”
“Slight scuffle with somebody on Saturday night. It looks worse than it is, I’m fine.”
I’m not sure she’s convinced, but she pulls her attention back to the matter in hand.
“Right, I never thought I’d say this, and I’ve practised every way of saying it. All boils down to the same thing though, I’d like to hand in my notice.”
I didn’t see this coming.
“Really? Why?”
“I’ve been thinking about it for a while, but you know how it is, life just drifts by.”
“I don't know what to say, Lucy. Where are you going?”
“The reason I’ve been thinking about it for a while is because my sister has been nagging me to move down her way.”
Her sister owns a boutique hotel in Brighton, and I know that Lucy and her daughter spend the school holidays down there.
“What are you going to do for work?”
“Well, that’s actually the reason for moving. Her business is going well, and she’s just bought the adjoining house so she can expand the hotel. She needs help with the management side of things, and that’s where I come in.”
“But where are you going to live? Property prices in Brighton are ridiculously high, you know.”
“I’ve got that covered. There’s a detached annexe in the garden of the house Claire is buying, so I’m going to sell my place here and use the equity to buy it from her. It’ll help her with cash for the renovations, and it gives us a nice place to live that we can afford.”
This is both the best, and worst news I could have expected from our chat. The best news because it means that the branch closing won’t affect Lucy, but the worst news because I'm losing one of my few true friends. Ordinarily, I’d move heaven and earth to change her mind, but that’s not an option.
“When are you going?”
“I know my contract says I have to give four weeks’ notice, but if you’re able to do anything, I’d like to go as soon as possible. I’ve got a lot to organise, and there’s already interest in my house from a few potential buyers.”
Until this point, the prospect of our store closing was just words and thoughts. Nothing had actually happened, but the inevitability of it all has just crashed into my office alongside Lucy. Every fibre of my being wants to tell her to stay, but the reality is there’s nothing for her to stay for.
“Leave it with me, Lucy, and I’ll see what I can do,” I sigh.
She’ll have her answer soon enough, and it will be an answer that works in her favour. No notice period and an unexpected redundancy payment. At least she’ll derive some benefit from the store closing.
As I slump back in my chair, Lucy pulls an envelope from her pocket and drops it onto my desk.
“I know you need my resignation in writing, so there you go.”
I let the envelope sit where she dropped it, like picking it up would be a sign of acceptance. Lucy, perceptive as ever, spots that something is troubling m
e.
“Are you okay, Craig? Is there something you want to say?”
“No, not really, just a bit disappointed to know you’re leaving, that’s all.”
“But do you think it’s the right thing for me to do, leaving everything behind and moving on?”
She stares at me with expectant eyes, like I’m the right person to ask for career advice.
“I think you’re doing the right thing, Lucy,” I reluctantly confirm.
Her head drops.
“Okay, if you see no reason for me to stay, then I guess we’re done here,” she sighs.
Without another word, or even a glance in my direction, she gets up and leaves.
7
Yesterday afternoon brought better news than the morning. Once I’d got over the shock of Lucy’s resignation, I made a few calls to franchise operators, and set up two meetings for next week. Both of them spoke enthusiastically about their respective opportunities and said I was just the sort of person they’re looking to recruit. I don’t know how much of that was sales spiel, but they left me with the impression I was about to embark on an exciting new career. But before I have any meetings with potential franchise suitors, I’ve got a more pressing meeting scheduled with Marcus this morning. At least I can take comfort that this will hopefully be the last time I have to see his sneering face.
I have to admit that even though I know what Marcus is going to say, I’m still a little nervous. There is just something about him that spikes anxiety in me. As a distraction, I’ve been in my office since I arrived this morning, surreptitiously wading through years of accumulated junk and sorting my personal possessions for their inevitable trip home in a cardboard box. Amongst the detritus in one of my desk drawers, I unearth a photo taken at a Christmas party a few years ago. I’m sat on a chair with a stupid grin on my face. Lucy is sat on my lap, with her arm draped around my shoulder and looking a little tipsy. It was a great night, and a reminder that there’s a lot about this job I'll miss.
As I sit staring at the photo, Geoff charges in without knocking.
“Sorry boss, thought you’d want to know that Marcus has just pulled up in the car park.”
I look up at the clock, it’s only 9.40am. Marcus appears keen to have his moment.
“Thanks Geoff, tell him I’m up here.”
Geoff nods and disappears. I put the photo in my jacket pocket and quickly tidy up, so it’s not obvious that I’m already clearing out my desk. I then open a page of branch reports on the computer so it looks like I’m going about my job as usual. I take a long, deep breath and gather my thoughts. This is it.
Marcus appears in the doorway, looking dapper as ever in a navy blue suit, crisp white shirt, and lilac silk tie. There is no greeting offered as he closes the door behind him. He carefully lays his leather briefcase on my desk, placing his mobile phone and car keys on top. He then unbuttons his jacket, takes a seat, and casually crosses his legs.
“You’re early,” I say, just to break the uncomfortable silence.
“You know what they say, Pelling, early bird and all that. Let’s get down to business shall we?”
I’m slightly surprised that he hasn’t already launched into a tirade about Saturday night. His bottom lip looks a little swollen, and I’m sure I can see faint yellow bruising around his jawline. He also conveniently seems to have missed the hand-shaped, purple bruising around my neck. I guess it’s all irrelevant now, anyway. I suspect his ego feels more bruised than his face, which is why he hasn’t brought the subject up.
Marcus makes a slight adjustment to his tie and clears his throat.
“The reason I called this meeting is because I've been conducting a root and branch analysis of the business for the last six weeks, to identify ways we can improve profitability. I reported my conclusions to the board during a meeting on Monday, and part of my recommendations were for a limited amount of branch closures. I considered several factors when reaching my decision on which branches had to close, and I’m afraid to inform you that this branch is one of them.”
As I listen, I feel slightly unsettled. Not by what Marcus is actually saying, but the way it’s being delivered. His words sound scripted. After Saturday’s events, I thought he’d be delivering this news with unbound joy. Something isn’t right.
“God, that’s terrible news,” I reply, sounding just as wooden as Marcus.
“When will it close?”
“The last trading day will be Sunday. We’ll need the staff to remain for another week to assist with the closure, and then they’ll be free to seek other employment. The board have kindly agreed to pay them until the end of the month.”
“Okay, understood. What about redundancy packages for the staff who’ve been here for a while?”
“Anyone with more than two years’ service will receive a redundancy payment, together with their final pay at the end of the month.”
Marcus sits back in his chair and locks his hands behind his head. Then for the first time since he walked into my office, he displays some emotion, as a smile creeps across his face.
“Sorry Pelling, let me clarify that last statement. Anyone with two year service will receive a redundancy payment...except you. You're going to resign, and you’re going to do it now.”
He doesn’t say another word; he just sits there with an inane grin on his face. What the hell is he playing at?
“Why would I resign? If I do that, I forfeit my redundancy package. I’m not stupid and I’m certainly not going to resign.”
He remains silent for a moment; then he slowly pulls an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket, and drops it onto my desk. My name is printed on the front, and it’s marked ‘Private & Confidential’.
“What’s that?” I snap.
“It’s your letter of resignation, all ready for you to sign. Would you like to borrow my pen?”
“Forget it Marcus, I’m not resigning, so stop wasting your breath.”
“Fair enough, but you might want to take a look at the supplementary documents in that envelope, before you make any hasty decisions.”
I snatch the envelope from my desk and tear it open. There are three sheets of paper, the top one being my pre-prepared resignation letter, which I discard on the desk. The next sheet looks like a photocopied page from a RolpheTech job application form. The final sheet is a copy of my exam results from Heathland Secondary School. Noticing my puzzled expression, Marcus is more than happy to explain.
“I got chatting to a few people on Saturday evening at the reunion. Several of them remembered that you flunked your exams, which surprised them, considering what a studious little boffin you were. I have to admit I was puzzled why you were working here, rather than some software company with all the other nerds. Anyway, that got me thinking, so yesterday I managed to obtain a copy of your exam results, and I checked them against your original application form. You’re looking at copies of both.”
My mind flashes back to the moment twenty-six years ago, when I sat in this very room, completing my application form with Brian. After a few months of working at RolpheTech, I had assumed I’d got away with my falsified exam results, and my gamble had paid off.
“As you can see, there appears to be some discrepancy between the results you entered in the application form, and the results you actually achieved.”
My pulse begins to race, but I try to play it cool.
“Well done, you found out I exaggerated my exam results. So what?”
“I’m surprised nobody picked up on it at the time, but to answer your question, if you care to check your contract of employment, section six, clause two, you’ll see it clearly states that any deliberate falsification of information on the application form can result in immediate termination of your contract.”
“This is bullshit. If I have breached the terms of my contract why aren’t you sacking me? You’re trying to trick me into resigning,” I protest.
“It’s a valid point, Pelling, and if I ha
d my way, I’d sack you here and now. However, it appears you have some support on the board, and my recommendation to sack you wasn’t well received after your long service to the company. Allowing you to resign is considered a fair compromise. Either way though, you leave without a penny in redundancy pay. If you don’t believe me, I suggest you check with head office, they’ll confirm everything.”
I think back to my telephone conversation with Brian on Monday. He must have mentioned my name during his game of golf, so it might explain why a few board members were fighting my corner. But it makes no difference if I resign or I’m sacked — either way, my funding for the franchise is gone. I have no option now, other than to resort to my ludicrous backup plan.
I nervously pull my phone from my pocket and scroll through the image gallery to find the pictures of my bruised neck I took on Sunday morning. I place the phone on my desk and point at it.
“A few pictures of my neck after you attacked me on Saturday. Take a closer look,” I order, trying to sound more confident than I feel.
Marcus doesn’t even flinch, let alone look at the pictures. He just sits there, maintaining his smug expression.
“You say ‘attacked’? Are you referring to the altercation we had, in which I was violently punched in the face?”
“You know damn well I am. I want you to talk to the board and change their minds about my redundancy pay. If you don’t, I'll make a formal complaint about your assault. I think you’ll find that’s grounds for instant dismissal.”
“So let me get this right, basically you're blackmailing me?”
“Call it what you will, but I’m not leaving without my redundancy pay. Sort it out, or it’ll be your career on the line.”
The smile on his face grows wider as he reaches across and picks up his mobile phone, still sat on top of his briefcase on my desk. He flicks his finger across the screen a few times and then holds the phone aloft. Distant voices echo from the phone speaker, clear enough for me to recognise my own voice.
The '86 Fix: A 1980s Time Travel Novel Page 13
