by Sharn Hutton
Eric was squinting at him. “You didn’t force her,” he echoed in a small voice.
“You know, she was…” Spink gave a little wide eyed head jiggle.
Deborah was scowling. “A prostitute, is that what you mean?”
Spink raised his hands in confirmation.
“Didn’t you just say that you were married?”
Spink managed a small laugh, but could see that that had been a mistake. He swallowed hard.
She shook her head. “Mr Spink, Mango prides itself on impeccable ethics. To have a man of such public iniquity run our PR would be a disaster. Even if all the charges were unfounded, as you claim, the actions that you freely admit to are entirely at odds with this company’s principles.” Deborah folded her hands in her lap and leant back in the chair. “I’m sorry Mr Spink, but we can’t possible let you influence this company’s image.”
Spink ignored her and stayed focused on Eric. “We have a preliminary contract Eric,” he insisted with a forced smile, but Deborah was not easily put off.
“Letters of intent are not legally binding, Mr Spink, merely a courtesy. Now I think that…”
Spink slid off the chair and onto his feet. “Eric! Are you going to allow this woman to railroad you out of our agreement?”
Eric shook his head. “No.”
Spink flopped down into his seat, treating Deborah to a smug snarl. She turned to look at Eric with a curious expression, but he didn’t take his eyes from Spink.
“I am not a man who can be railroaded. Deborah is our VP of Communications and as such has unparalleled experience and knowledge of consumer focused public relations in our sector. Having said all that, I will not be railroaded by her because I completely agree.”
“Eric…” Spink heard the whine in his own voice.
Drinkwater got to his feet and the others followed suit. “This meeting is over Donald. See yourself out. I don’t want to call security.”
Spink watched open mouthed as his deal stalked out of the room. He couldn’t believe it. The blood rolled to a boil in his chest. Eric had abandoned him, allowed that woman to call the shots. Well if he ever needed anything from him, he could forget it. Spink scraped his papers together, shoved them into his tatty briefcase and stomped out into the long corridor.
It was a windowless stretch of corporate tunnel that would lead him from the inner sanctum and spit him out into public obscurity. He seethed with every step, hackles raised, snarling derision and loathing swirling in an internal monologue.
Screw Eric and the bimbo. He didn’t need them. He could always get another contract. He was Donald Spink. It was just a matter of time. Time. Three in the afternoon. VanDerhorn would not accept another delay. His membership at The Cranley was as good as cancelled. It felt colder in the corridor. Perhaps the door was open in reception. There would be no promise of money for the pawn shop today either. The Mouse was sure to scuttle back to mother. There was nothing he could do. Not enough time to find another contract before the close of play. He couldn’t make up the gap in revenue to catch Adler. That whore in Vegas had blown the deal. That stupid bitch had ruined his life.
Spink rounded the corner into the foyer. The moving shapes of irrelevant people shimmered in a red mist, their chatter drowned by the hiss of adrenalin in his ears. Not quite under Spink’s control, his legs walked on. The walls were looming, closing, drooping down on top of him. Throat dry, he reached the revolving glass door. Cold sweat dribbled from his armpits to soak the tight waistband of his trousers. He gripped the rail of the door with a shaking hand and spun with it out into the sharp unwelcoming air.
The wind whipped at his jacket, flapping and pestering as he stumbled across the concrete concourse toward the outer perimeter wall. Beyond its bounds, he leant hard against it and closed his eyes. Blood sank from his face and the inevitable realisation dawned: Adler had won the game and he had lost it all.
NINETY-FOUR
JERRY TOOK HIS SEAT, STUDIOUSLY AVOIDING EYE CONTACT WITH SPINK. He’d spent the last month making calls, honing contracts and signing up all the business that he could and now the challenge was over. He and Spink could do no more and by the end of this meeting they’d both know their fate.
Spink twitched by his side, picking at the seam of his trousers and dabbing at his forehead with a flaking tissue. He squatted in a stink of old smoke and sweat that wafted at Jerry with Spink’s every move. Jerry crossed his ankles and leant back in his chair to watch the door in an effort to get his nose out of range.
When Locksley finally strode in, he gave Jerry a wink before settling into his position behind the desk, all business.
“Gentlemen,” he said by way of greeting, “It’s been an interesting three months and today, finally, it all comes to an end.” Jerry sat forward, palms flat to his thighs.
“I’ve been watching you both,” Locksley continued, “Not just your turnover and contracts, but also your approach and activities. I’ve kept my eye on your diaries and your entries on the system; I’ve spoken to your colleagues and monitored your use of the company’s resources. It’s been very interesting, very interesting indeed.”
Jerry slid a look to Spink, who’d gone rather pale.
“If anything, Jerry, the number of accounts in your portfolio has gone down rather than up. Curious, isn’t it?” He flicked a questioning eyebrow to Spink, who tutted and shook his head.
“Nevertheless, you have managed to increase the turnover and potential quite dramatically.”
Thank God, Jerry thought: it had been touch and go.
“Several of your accounts, Jerry, longstanding small spenders, have doubled their activity, some more. You invested the time and now you’re reaping the rewards: picking up jobs that were slipping through the net before. It’s an approach that the more junior account handlers would benefit from understanding.” Locksley’s eyes crinkled into a smile and Jerry felt himself blush.
“Your portfolio, Spink, has behaved in quite a different way. The number of accounts has increased massively, yet their individual turnover is down on last year’s figures.” He glowered at Spink who didn’t move from his assumed pose of seriousness. “Of course, our accounts system records all the changes and shows me when details like ‘Account Handler’ are changed.”
Jerry felt his eyes widening. He hadn’t wanted to be a grass, but it looked like nothing got past Locksley: Spink was so busted.
A bead of sweat rolled down his cheek and he stuttered to life. “I-I was merely protecting the company’s interests,” he simpered. “I wanted to make sure our best customers were getting the care they deserved.”
“I really don’t think so,” snapped Locksley, “You skimmed the cream from the team for yourself.” He pulled a flat book from his drawer. “I took the liberty of picking up your diary this morning,” he said, brandishing the book. “There are no follow up meetings with switched clients. You’ve taken the turnover and left them to rot. You’d have to be superhuman to look after so many.” Locksley held Spink squirming in his steady gaze. “I’m very disappointed, Donald.”
“Spink, how could you?” said Jerry, biting back a smirk. Spink’s jaw flapped, but no words came out before Locksley was talking again.
“Your use of TEKCOM was rather unconventional, Jerry, but I’m glad we got you back alive.” Jerry was relieved to see a warm smile spread across Locksley’s face after the ice treatment he’d just given Spink.
“But it wasn’t all wasted. Mango Europe, by God! Bloody well done! Imagine what you’ll achieve next year, when you’re conscious the whole time!” He laughed loudly and Jerry joined in. The silence from the other visitor’s chair was exceeded only by the seething.
“The figures speak for themselves,” said Locksley, handing out paperwork. “I’m sorry, Donald, but it’s the end of the road for you. This challenge has revealed shocking business acumen and unscrupulous cheating. I’ll need you to clear your desk by the end of the day.” Locksley met Spink’s gaze with unw
avering authority, and the latter’s face contorted into a mask of fury.
“You can’t…”
“Gross misconduct, Spink. That will be all, now get out.” He waved toward the door. Spink dropped his heels to the floor and shoved back his chair. “You’ll regret this,” he growled then turned to glare at Jerry. “You’re nothing, Adler, a loser!” he spat.
“Not today,” said Jerry, breaking into a grin and Spink stomped growling from the room.
When Jerry looked back to Locksley, he was up on his feet.
“Well done, Jerry. I always knew you had it in you.” Locksley’s eyes shone with sincerity and he reached out his hand for Jerry to shake. “I’m offering you a place on the board, Jerry: Sales Director. We’ll double your basic and talk about commission, but I know you won’t be disappointed. What do you say?”
Jerry bit at his lip. “Actually, can I think about it?” he said, not quite able to get up out of his chair.
“Think about it?” said Locksley, still smiling, but taken aback.
“I know it seems mad, after everything that’s happened, but it occurs to me that there’s more important things in life than money.” Jerry shook his head and let out a small laugh. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
Locksley cocked his head to one side. “Near death experience put things in perspective, has it?”
“I suppose.”
“Well, I can understand that.” Locksley sighed and took a moment to look into Jerry’s eyes, before he spoke again. “I understand the ideal, believe me, but you’ll still need to work. Life can’t just be full of love and roses. Balance, Jerry, that’s the key.”
“Balance, yes.”
“You can’t get workshy.”
“No, no. I wouldn’t, sir. I just don’t want to sell my soul.”
“I see.” Locksley turned away to pace the length of the cupboards behind his desk, hands in pockets. Jerry’s eyes skipped behind him from frame to frame—snapshots of the man’s success. He stopped in front of the window and looked out at the sky. “We’ll make sure you max at forty hours per week. How’s that? Take things slow and let you settle in. Do you still like the industry? Does it get you fired up?” He turned to watch Jerry’s expression.
Jerry thought about the last few months, charging about, briefing the team and encouraging the younger members. He’d enjoyed the creativity and had never felt more at home. “Actually, yes, I really do.”
“Well there’s your answer. Come on, Jerry. What do you think? Are you my man for the job?”
Jerry pictured Rachel’s face, she’d be so happy if he could tell her he’d got it. He remembered the improvements he’d planned for their home and arrangements to be settled with Isabell. This was the step up he’d been working for and he knew he could handle it. His friend had taught him not to get lost in the system and he wouldn’t make the same mistake.
Jerry stood straighter and said in that moment what he knew was right. “Yes, Mr Locksley, I’m your man.”
~
After floating downstairs, Jerry wafted into the central office, to the heart of the team who buzzed with curiosity. Thumps and crashes permeated through the closed door of Spink’s office, punctuated by occasional loud swearing.
Jerry drifted into the centre of the room, drawing the gaze of the team now holding their breath, all still held in the tyranny of Spink. Their eyes tracked his progress and he looked back to them, one at a time, holding their uncertain gazes briefly before moving on.
In each face he saw hope and potential. Now that the bully had been defeated, the aftermath was obvious. With Jerry as their leader, this team, his team, could achieve great things. His smile grew.
Gemma was the first to speak. “So what happened? Did you do it?”
Jerry stopped to look at her directly, a slow nod becoming more emphatic. “Yes. Yes, I did it!” One of the juniors whooped, then another and a couple of people broke out into spontaneous applause and the rest joined in. Then they closed in around him, shaking his hand and patting him on the back. “Well done!”; “Nice one, Jerry—or should I say Mr Adler?”; “Brilliant!” They beamed and he beamed back. “When do you start?”
“Tomorrow. I start tomorrow!” The grin was uncontrollable now and he started to laugh.
That was when Spink’s door yanked open. “Gemma, get in here, I need you to carry this box,” he barked. The laughter cut dead and all eyes turned to the young girl caught in Spink’s snare. Blood rushed to her cheeks and she took a couple of steps forward, but then stopped. Jerry felt her conflict: she was just a kid, bullied by Spink, like they’d all been. She’d found it the hardest to fend him off. The eyes of the team were on her when she clenched her jaw and turned to face him. “I’m sorry, Mr Spink,” she said, polite to the last, “but I’m helping our new Sales Director move desk.”
NINETY-FIVE
THE TAN GUSSETED ENVELOPE WAS ONLY JUST BIG ENOUGH TO TAKE SPINK’S CANCELLED CONTRACT, the newspaper and the notes. Eric squeezed it back in, stuck Legal’s return label on the front and dropped it in his out tray. He was sending it back to its creator and the shredder.
At five o’clock sharp, Audrey swept past her boss’s desk to collect his mail, dropping it at Reception with a cheery wave as she went home for the weekend. Separated from its Royal Mail counterparts, the tan internal mail envelope slipped into a rough grey sack, where it squatted until eight p.m.
The internal mail boys worked the night shift, but weekends made for half a day, or night. Outbound bundles were ready to go by eleven, when vans arrived to whisk them away, direct to the other UK locations or HQ and the international mailroom.
The packet nestled in silent companionship with the others in the back of the van, bumping along the winding roads and gliding north on the M1. The journey was short, not far out of town to wind and bump again before coming to a stop. It was an unceremonious hoist and fling that changed its mode of transport from van to trolley, but off it trundled, none-the-less, under roller shutter screens and on into a lock up cage to wait out the weekend.
The early morning Monday crew were cheerful in their work. They whistled ditties to themselves, emptying sacks and separating departments. Internal mail got their very first attention, before Pat brought his heavy sacks that had to be classified at speed to make the morning round.
The pack sat flat while latecomers piled on top.
Envelope after envelope flapped and creaked into one of a hundred pigeon holes. The mail room boys tossed expert shots at Accounts and Sales and high-fived for a top shelf obscure Quality Manager, whose pitch hit home first time.
When all was done, the fat packet was zipped securely into the bag for Legal and rolled in darkness to the lift and up.
Coffee in hand, Penelope fetched her department’s morning mail bag from the seventh floor collection point and took it to her desk. She divided it between the people in the team and walked it round the final leg. She saved the patient tan gusset envelope until last. It was destined for the handsome new legal advisor that had joined the team last month in a hot flush of admiration.
She touched her hair and pressed her lips together to pink them up, before knocking on his door. “Your mail, sir.” She couldn’t help but blush. He lifted dark eyes from the document he was studying and extended his hand to take it from her.
“Oh hello, Penelope. Thank you,” said Adam Fox. Sight of the envelope triggering a smile of recognition. He knew exactly what it was.
NINETY-SIX
ADAM TAPPED OUT THE NOW FAMILIAR NUMBER for Jerry’s direct line and it barely managed half a ring. “Adam?” Jerry gasped down the line, “You are not going to believe what’s happening over here!”
Adam thought that he just might. “What’s that?”
“Spink’s clearing his office. I’m Sales Director from tomorrow. Locksley had me in first thing for the good news!” He put on his voice “Jerry, will you join me on my board. Holy shit, Adam! I’ve done it!”
Adam
blew out a laugh. “Jesus, is that what he sounds like?”
“God, I’m so relieved.” Jerry sniffed.
“Don’t start crying, you big girl.”
“I’m not. Shut up, tosser. Beer after work?”
Jerry had done it: won his new business fair and square and landed the promotion. He sounded pretty pleased with himself and Adam was relieved to hear it, happy for him, proud even. Lobbing a spanner into Spink’s works had been a gift, to make up for his misdemeanours. Jerry didn’t need to know.
Adam turned to gaze out of his new office window and admired the manicured gardens of Mango HQ: burgeoning sap-filled trees, ready to explode with the glory of spring and bulbs shooting enthusiastic spears up out of the ground. He savoured the morning sunshine that warmed his skin.
A movement in the corner of his eye drew Adam’s attention to the doorway, where Oona now leaned inside the frame. She wore a deep green asymmetrical dress that was one of his favourites and a watchful expression that made him feel inadequate.
“OK, well gotta go. Dog and Duck at eight? Great,” he mumbled. Not waiting for a reply, he threw the handset down into its cradle, rattling it from side to side, before finally using both hands to stop it still.
“Oona! Good to see you. How are you?” He scratched at a non-existent itch on the back of his head.
Oona folded her arms across her chest and raised an eyebrow. Black shining feathers of hair swished over her flawless complexion as she tilted her head. Green eyes considered him from six feet away and Adam’s mouth dried.
