by Joel Willans
‘He says he’s willing to have a look at a proposal.’
‘We both know what that means.’
‘You have to give me a chance to put something on paper for him.’
‘You’ve had plenty of chances. If you’d have taken them when they were offered, things might be different.’
‘It was nothing personal, Miranda. I have a girlfriend. I love her and I want to marry her,’ I say trying to appeal to her heart.
She laughs. ‘I was after a quick snog, not a diamond ring.’
Tom struts back to the table, sniffling. Miranda stares in his direction. He smiles back.
‘That’s better,’ he says, clapping his hands together. ‘Food arrived yet? Once, when I was lunching at the Oxo Tower, it took nearly an hour for my starter to arrive. I’m a patient kinda guy, but that’s just taking the piss. Do you know what I mean, fella?’
Before giving me the chance to answer, he turns to Miranda. ‘I bet they wouldn’t dare do that to a beautiful lady like you, not in a million years. I’m normally really into the Oxo Tower, it’s got incredible views, and the…’
I switch off. His visit to the toilet appears to have given him a sudden burst of energy. I strongly suspect this is down to chemical stimulation. Miranda obviously has similar beliefs, as she is now held rapt by Tom’s babbling, probably hoping he will sort her out later. Not that she needs sorting out if she can wait a few hours. Handily, we have our very own in-house dealer, ‘Charlie’ Peters. He’s meant to work on admin, but most of his Excel spreadsheets concentrate on who owes him what. He’s the most popular man in the building.
Ever since I’ve been saving for Salla’s ring, I’ve reined in my urges, which is probably good for me and for her. She says there’s nothing more tedious on the planet than an Englishman with a head full of Colombian marching powder. Listening to Tom, I totally understand where she’s coming from.
The starters arrive, and true to form, mine is so small it takes me only two mouthfuls to empty my large white plate. Tom hasn’t stopped talking long enough to eat his. Miranda pushes her food around, seemingly gripped by Tom’s latest topic of conversation, the injustices of the football play-off system.
The thought of him getting wasted while wrecking my life makes my heart beat faster and my neck sweat. I undo my tie and down the rest of my wine. When Tom announces that he doesn’t know what’s wrong with his bladder but needs to go to the gents again, I give him a few seconds head start, take a deep breath and get up to follow him.
‘Where you going?’ Miranda says.
‘I need the loo, too.’
‘I hope that’s all you need.’
I ignore her and make my way to the toilet. The marble, black wood theme makes me feel like I’ve just walked back into the 80s. Only one cubicle is closed. I enter the one next door, stand on the toilet seat and poke my head over the partition. Tom is busy chopping up two fat white lines with his gold card. I duck back down and pull out my mobile. My hand shakes a little as I turn on the camera. I sneak my head back over and film Tom rolling up a twenty quid note and snorting the lines. When he’s finished, he flicks his head as if in a shampoo advert, only to freeze half way when his eyes catch mine.
‘What the fuck are you doing, fella?’ he says, dusting the toilet seat in panic.
‘Just admiring your technique.’
He gives a nervous laugh. ‘What’s with the phone?’
I jump off the toilet seat. My heart’s pumping faster than ever, but I feel good. I bounce on my toes. ‘Sorry, I’ve got no choice. I filmed you. I need money to marry my girlfriend and you’re getting in my way.’
Tom steams out of the cubicle and squares up to me.
‘I hope you’re not threatening me, fella.’
‘I’m just telling you how it is. I need you to book an ad campaign in my magazine.’
‘And what if I don’t.’
I wave my phone. ‘You know how easily videos go viral these days,’ I say and walk out.
When I sit down, Miranda scrutinises my eyes. Tom returns to the table frowning. He glares at me and bangs his knife on the plate.
‘Where the fuck is that lady boy?’ he says.
‘Who are you talking about?’ Miranda asks.
‘The idiot French queer we have as a waiter.’
‘He’s not an idiot. He’s a nice guy just trying to do his job. And what do you need him for anyway? You’ve not even finished your starter yet,’ I say.
Tom gulps the rest of his Châteauneuf du Pape. ‘Maybe not, but I’ve finished my drink.’
Unsurprisingly, the meal goes downhill after that. Tom gets increasingly agitated and Miranda, arriving at the conclusion that Tom won’t be offering her a pick me up, gets increasingly bored. We don’t bother with dessert, much to the relief of our waiter, who’s become the brunt of Tom’s anger. When I pay, I apologise and give him a large tip.
Miranda demands another cab despite the office being a mere five minutes walk. While she waits inside, I shake hands with Tom. He squeezes my palm hard.
‘I want a booking for twenty-four BMW pages in Cool Car Lovers by the end of the day,’ I say.
‘Nobody blackmails Tom Harcourt,’ he says, pumping my hand harder.
‘I’m sorry, really I am. But I have no other choice.’
I watch him stride up the street. It’s a relief when he disappears from sight. The adrenaline rush I felt earlier has disappeared. Now I just feel a little drunk and a bit stupid. Miranda, on the other hand, looks like she spent lunchtime watching paint dry. She doesn’t say anything until the cab drops us off at the office.
‘Well, that was an utter waste of time.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’
‘You screwed it up, Eliot. Something of a forte of yours, isn’t it.’
I shrug, suddenly feeling too tired to argue.
‘You know I’ve been told to reduce my headcount, don’t you,’ she sighs. ‘Not something I enjoy. In fact, I hate it. But if it’s not you then it’s going to be someone else.’
‘What! You’re sacking me?’
‘No. I’m recommending you for redundancy. Chris makes the final decision.’ She squeezes my arm. ‘It’s nothing personal. You just screwed up with one of our biggest accounts, that’s all.’
When I get back to my desk, I bash out an email to Tom telling him he’s got an hour to make his decision. I wonder how long it will take for him to respond. He could still call my bluff, in which case I’d be screwed. Despite my bravado at lunch, I could never follow through with my threat. Salla says that the salesman thing is like a suit of armour, which I use to hide my real feelings from the outside world.
‘In Finland men try to protect themselves from getting hurt by saying too little. In England men do it by saying too much,’ she says. ‘Both ways are stupid.’
She’s probably right. She often is. Whatever the answer, destroying a stranger’s life really isn’t my style. I go for a walk around the office to calm my nerves. It’s then I see through the glass wall that Miranda is in our MD’s office. They’re deep in conversation. Chris looks taut, as if he could spring at me any minute. I scuttle away, thinking how I’m going to tell Salla I’m unemployed.
It’s getting to the time in the afternoon when people are readying themselves to leave for home. There’s not the same buzz fizzling through the air as when everyone’s charged on caffeine and optimism. We’re always told that mornings are prime selling time, which suggests to me that afternoons are not. When I sit down, Darren’s at his desk.
‘Tom Harcourt rang,’ he says.
‘Why didn’t you get me?’
‘I didn’t know where you were.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said to tell you to go fuck yourself.’
‘Yeah, very good, funny man. What did he really say?’
‘Look, I even wrote it down.’ He holds up a post it note. ‘He said he’s sending you an email. Meeting clearly didn’t go g
reat then.’
‘I’ve had better.’ I slump in my chair. I have a strange hollow sensation in my stomach. I stare at my desk. It’s a mess. I’ve never been the most organised person, but now I find myself eager for some order in my space. I grab a pile of papers and stuff them into my drawer. The sight of the wooden surface makes me feel a bit better, so I clear away some more. Darren asks me if I’m all right.
Before I can answer, my phone rings. It’s Miranda.
‘Can I see you in Chris’s office? We’d like a word.’
Just as I get up, I see that Tom’s email’s arrived. I go to click it open, when Miranda sticks her head out of the door and bawls at me to hurry. The whole office stops what they’re doing. Every head turns in my direction. I feel as if I’m walking the plank in front of a football crowd. It’s a relief when she closes the glass door.
‘Afternoon Eliot, take a seat,’ Chris says without looking up.
I slide into the chair.
‘I hear you went to see Zoom today,’ he says, finally lifting his head.
‘Yeah,’ I say, unable to form a more complex sentence.
‘I hear it didn’t go very well.’
‘I wouldn’t necessarily say that. Tom has agreed to look at a proposal for the luxury car supplement.’
‘And that’s good enough, is it? BMW is a world-renowned brand. Do you know what it does to the reputation of Cool Car Lovers when we fail to carry a single page of their advertising?’
‘It doesn’t look very good,’ I say.
‘Too damn right it doesn’t!’
‘Your Sales Director tells me we used to have market share on BMW, before you took it over.’
‘That’s not fair. I’ve only had it for…’
‘Life’s not fair. She also tells me you have an attitude problem. We haven’t got room for slackers in this company. Are you a slacker, Eliot?’
‘No, I’m not. I work as hard as anyone here, including my Sales Director.’
I expect this final act of courage to be the end.
‘Prove it,’ Miranda says. ‘Get your sales sheet for the month.’
I’m so surprised by this reprieve that I thank her. Word must have got out already because when I walk back through the office, sixty pairs of eyes follow me. I ignore them and begin rummaging round my desk. Then I remember Tom’s email.
‘You are a fucking arsehole,’ it says. ‘However, having gone through the circulation figures and analysed the editorial, I’ve come to the conclusion that Cool Car Lovers represents a better proposition for my client. Consequently, I’ve decided to book twenty-four exclusive pages in your magazine. I expect premium positions.’
I lick my lips as I click open the attachment. It’s an order form worth one hundred and thirty eight thousand pounds. I bang the keys of my calculator. The little numbers tell me I’ve just earned over four and a half thousand pounds in commission. Enough to buy Salla the biggest ring I can find. I lean back in my chair and raise my arms aloft in silent celebration.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Darren says. ‘Too much vino at lunchtime?’
‘No. Well, maybe a little,’ I savour the moment for a few more seconds, and print off the order form before returning to Chris’s office.
‘Let’s have a look, then,’ he says.
‘Sorry, I couldn’t find my folder.’
‘This is exactly what I mean by attitude,’ Miranda says. ‘You ask him to do one simple thing and he screws it up.’
‘Would you call twenty-four exclusive pages a screw up?’
‘What?’ she says. ‘You wouldn’t know twenty-four pages if they came up and slapped you in the face.’
‘Miranda, please. This is not a playground,’ Chris says and takes the sheet of paper off me. His expression doesn’t change as he reads it. ‘Well, I must say, I’m impressed. It seems your meeting wasn’t quite the disaster I was led to believe. We’ve never got exclusive business from BMW before. This obviously makes the rest of our conversation pointless. If you wouldn’t mind, I now need to have a word with your Sales Director alone. I’ll be announcing your success to the rest of the company tomorrow morning. Excellent work, Eliot. Keep it up.’
I thank Chris and strut out, flashing Miranda a smile as I go. She looks away and starts fidgeting with her pen. Darren’s nowhere in sight when I get back to my desk, so I put my hands behind my head and wallow in the warm glow of success. They say fortune favours the brave, and I congratulate myself on proving this proverb correct. I think about my talents being broadcast to the entire sales team tomorrow, a sales team that’s probably expecting to hear about my imminent departure. I can’t stop smiling.
I try to remember the last time I was bigged up in public. It was more than half a lifetime ago, when I was eleven and had come third in the county cross-country championship. It dawns on me that there’s no way tomorrow will be the same. Not because I haven’t done something worthy of praise. In our world, twenty-four exclusive BMW pages is the equivalent of an Olympic gold in cross-country. It’s the manner of my victory. When I came third in that race, I ran so hard I thought I’d die, but getting these pages was nothing to do with skill or hard work.
I ponder that thought for what seems like a very long time. I try to imagine what Salla would say if I tell her what I’ve done today. I see her eyes looking at the floor, at her hands, anywhere but at me. She will kiss me, maybe, but I doubt she’ll say a word. Sometimes, she’s told me before, she thinks it’s better to keep quiet.
I pull my keyboard closer and, with one finger, start to type. I feel like I’m writing a love letter to a girl I’ve lusted after for ages, yet never had the courage to tell. However, the email address is Miranda’s and the title is ‘Letter of resignation’. I hesitate for a second longer, enjoying the prickle of excitement, then click send.
For some reason I expect something to happen immediately. A fanfare or an eruption of fireworks, but all I see are people getting their stuff together and drifting out of the office. I look at my watch, it’s five thirty-four. The working day’s been over for four minutes and I’m still here. I switch my computer off and grab my bag. If I run, I might still get the six twelve from Vauxhall, but I’m tired of running. Instead, I amble through the office and out onto the street, all the time wondering whether the ring I buy her or the news I’ve packed my job in will make Salla smile more. Whatever the answer, one thing is for sure. Tomorrow I’ll be spending ten extra minutes in bed with her rather than trimming my goatee.
Five Reasons For Leaving
Oliver pressed his forehead against the window pane. Snow was falling so hard that all he could see was the soft orange fizz of the road lamps and the white-grey shadows of people on the street below. Three sixteen and already dark. He wondered if there was any place more depressing to have found a note entitled ‘Five reasons for leaving’ and came up as blank as the sky.
It wasn’t just that the darkness hoarded the days in winter, it was how it sucked your energy away, sponging off you like some dodgy friend you know will never pay you back. That was one reason he’d kept the TV on since Sanna left. It was a constant source of light and sound, even if he had no idea what the sound meant.
He drew a heart in the condensation and watched it dribble away as the flakes got fatter and fell faster. Snow used to be something to get excited about. It used to mean a day off work, or power cuts or snowball fighting till your arms ached. Now it meant he was miles away from home, and he had a decision to make.
Perhaps he should turn the TV off and put on some of his favourite tunes. They always helped him think better, but his CDs were already packed. He kicked his rucksack. It was nearly full, yet it still wasn’t much for over a year up here on top of the world. He kicked the bag again, harder. It represented defeat. It represented going back to London life loveless, with an engagement ring he’d never show and a song he’d never sing. It meant being proved wrong and his mum and dad and his mates being proved right. You can’t live
up there. You’ll hate it. You’ll freeze to death. You’ll never learn the lingo. You’ll never get a job. You’ll regret leaving the band forever.
He walked over to the table, where the note lay like a glove slapped around his face and then left as a challenge. Five reasons, he presumed, in no particular order. If he could truthfully refute them he’d go and ask her to marry him. That’s what he’d decided when he’d first discovered the empty apartment, one day, eight hours and forty-three minutes earlier.
He sat down and stared at the lights Sanna had strung up for Christmas. They were not very festive. Yellow bathtub ducks with lipstick-red grins never made him feel merry. No doubt if his friends had visited him (which they hadn’t, not once, despite their promises) they would have asked him if it was some bizarre Nordic tradition, like the ice-hole fishing or mushroom hunting or sweating to death in the sauna.
No, he would have told them, Sanna just loves ducks. She collects them. There are fluffy ones in the bed, ones that stick to the fridge, teapot ducks with a spout for a beak. Oliver didn’t mind ducks. He’d even bought her one when they first met. Pulled it out in the World’s End in Camden, over a pint of Stella. Pink and yellow china with big painted eyelashes.
‘Here you go. I saw this on the market, and I thought, that has Sanna written all over it.’ He held it aloft, presenting it for her inspection. ‘What do you think?’
‘You, Oliver Crane,’ she said, wiping froth from her top lip, ‘have an eye for ducks.’
‘That’s not all he’s got an eye for, sweetheart,’ the barman said, winking.
‘No,’ Oliver said, deadpan. ‘I have an eye for swans, too.’
She laughed for the first time, and he knew even then he wanted to hear that sound over and over again.
Yeah, ducks were his way to her heart. One way. Yet despite indulging her, he apparently didn’t like them with a sufficient passion. How did he know this? It was the first of her five reasons for leaving him. Not the most kicking-in-the-gut reason, not by a long shot. But it was still the first. ‘You hate my ducks’ there in black and white as if she were three rather than thirty-three.
