Playing by the Rules

by Rosa Temple

  ‘This food is great, Mother.’ I turned to her and tilted my empty plate to her the way I did when I was little girl and wanted to be excused from the table.

  ‘Why did you call in caterers?’ Suma shouted across the table to Mother. ‘Can’t you cook?’

  ‘And can’t you mind your own bloody business?’ Mother shouted back.

  ‘No, I didn’t mean … I was only asking …’ Suma flapped.

  ‘Scarlett,’ Father put in. ‘Suma didn’t mean anything by it.’ And within seconds an all-out row ensued across the dinner table between Mother and Father. Suma was reduced to tears. Amber and Indigo kept on sipping wine and chatting, Ebony left the room and Anya stared hard at me. It should have been a dinner in my honour but it turned out to be an ugly slanging match. The caterers did their best to collect the starters and serve the main course while an all-out war of words was in full flow.

  After a while Amber implied that Father should have more decorum and not bring uninvited guests to dinner. Indigo implied that Mother should rise above it and be more welcoming. Suma dried her tears with a napkin and tried to stop her lip from trembling as she continued to apologise for trying to be honest. Ebony came back into the room to get her wine.

  ‘You people have lost the plot,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a call to make.’ She was on her mobile and out of the door again in seconds.

  Finally, there was a lull on the battlefield.

  ‘I’m in love,’ Anya suddenly said and stood up.

  ‘You see what you’ve done?’ Mother said to Father. ‘This poor girl has lost her parents and now she’s having a nervous breakdown.’ Mother patted Anya’s hand again.

  ‘It’s not my fault she’s having a nervous breakdown,’ said Father.

  Just then Suma burst into tears again.

  ‘I should go,’ said Anya.

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ I said and we both made our escape.

  Out on the street, it was still light at eight-thirty and I was still hungry.

  ‘Can we go to the pub around the corner?’ I asked Anya.

  ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

  And with all that in my wake, all I could wish for was that Anthony’s meeting with the finance department would be nothing like the scene that just took place in my mother’s dining room.

  Chapter 8

  I switched on the breakfast news for a weather check the following morning as I got ready for work. The bright and sunny August morning I’d woken up to the day before had been replaced by one that was cloudy and threatening rain. I kept missing the weather report as I flitted in and out of the room, half listening to the daily dramas being unleashed both at home and abroad: the wildfire being controlled in California, the explosions at a port in China, Sam Smith licking his waxwork double at Madame Tussauds in San Francisco and, front-page news at home, the politician about to be ousted from government. Despite the greyish morning, I chose my lucky open-toe shoes, in an attempt to ward off the impending drama at the office.

  Maybe the finance department would report to Anthony that, yes, the company was sunk and that my job would be gone in the blink of an eye and I’d never see Anthony again. I smarted at the possibility of Mother throwing a commiseration party, only this time I’d keep my big mouth shut and not insist that Father be there.

  Anthony was already in his office when I arrived. The meeting was at nine o’clock and I arrived at eight-thirty to do PA type things like make sure the coffee was brewed. I’d bought pastries on the way in to soften what might be a hard blow for Anthony, making sure there was a good supply of doughnuts as I remembered he liked those and not muffins.

  ‘Magenta, you’re brilliant,’ Anthony said from the doorway of the kitchen.

  ‘Just doing my job,’ I said.

  ‘Well let’s hope that after the meeting we both still have jobs.’

  ‘We will,’ I said trying to hide the doubt in my voice.

  ‘Would you like to sit in?’ he asked.

  ‘If you’d like me to, sure.’

  Over his shoulder I noticed the other members of staff arrive. They were grim-faced. I looked at the plate of pastries I’d taken time to arrange and hoped to goodness that along with the open-toe shoes, they’d do their magic and keep me in a job.

  A little while later I walked into Anthony’s office with my tray of refreshments, straining under the weight of cups, a coffee pot and enough baked goods to anchor a small boat. In a room that seemed ominously grey and heavy with bad news, Anthony, who had taken off his jacket, sprang to his feet to help me.

  ‘Please, Magenta. Let me.’ He put the tray down on his desk. I eyed up Graham and Thelma from finance and crossed my fingers in my head but the financial forecast didn’t sound good when Thelma, a thickset, fifty-something with wiry hair, talked Anthony through the sales figures and projections. Anthony nodded a lot and looked at me once in a while and I tried to smile and look encouraging. I’d looked at some of these reports on my first day but the numbers that had looked pretty neat in boxed-off rows on a spreadsheet took on a different light once Thelma explained their significance.

  ‘So,’ Anthony said when Thelma had finished. ‘From what I can see and by what you’re saying, this company could go under in about six months?’

  Thelma blushed and nodded. ‘The thing is,’ she said, ‘we did warn Arthur about this last year but your father was, what shall I say, very optimistic and he wouldn’t take our advice.’

  ‘Which was?’ said Anthony.

  ‘Either he sold up or downsized.’

  ‘But wouldn’t that mean cutting jobs?’ Anthony’s frown grew ever deeper as the meeting progressed.

  ‘It would.’ Thelma shuffled in her chair. ‘And I think that was the part Arthur didn’t want to face.’

  Anthony slumped in his chair and rubbed his forehead. ‘So he retired and left it to me. As if I’d be any better.’ His voice was quiet and my heart went out to him. I raised my hand and wriggled in my seat.

  ‘Do … do you want to go to the toilet, Magenta?’ Anthony asked after I’d waved my hand for a few seconds.

  ‘No. Not at all,’ I said though it was partly true. ‘It’s just that I have this idea. It’s not a solid idea; it’s just something I’ve seen in a film. Well more than one actually.’

  ‘Look, we really need to focus on this,’ Graham said. ‘We can always talk films later.’ He tutted.

  ‘No, no, no,’ I insisted, looking at Anthony. ‘You see, whenever there’s a crisis at Head Office, someone from the company always flies out to where the workers are to make cuts and then they discover that there was a way to turn things around after all and everyone ends up keeping their jobs.’

  ‘Was Renée Zellweger in that?’ Thelma asked.

  ‘Maybe,’ I said and turned back to Anthony. ‘Why don’t you fly out and look at the factory and maybe something will come to you.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Anthony said. ‘But the factory is in East London so I think we could take a cab.’

  ‘We?’ I said.

  ‘Well you’re my PA. Set it all up, Magenta, and let’s go. We don’t have time to lose.’

  Anthony’s little boy lost turned into little boy who’d just hit the neighbour’s apple tree with his catapult and came up with toffee apples. Sadly, Graham and Thelma left the office shaking their heads as if they thought we were just as delusional as Arthur Shearman. Thankfully they took the cloud of doom and gloom with them.

  Meanwhile, Anthony and I grinned at each other with what was probably naïve enthusiasm. I kept on giving Anthony encouraging smiles and he tried not to let his smile slip. In the back of my mind I had a vision in which we’d take a trip to the factory, meet the workers and quickly realise there was no happy ending. All was lost. This was closely followed by a vision of me trying to sell heather outside a tube station in last season’s shoes and a Burberry scarf (any season) around my shoulders.

  Just two days later A
nthony and I sat in the back of a taxi on the way to the factory of A Shearman Leather Designs. The building was old, on two floors and set in an industrial estate that housed various other factories, lorries, bare-chested men and the smell of steak and ale pies.

  ‘This is it,’ said Anthony. ‘Fingers crossed there’ll be something we can salvage from this … this …’ He looked at the factory with a frown and I couldn’t hide the one on my brow because the factory looked close to collapsing. I took a deep breath.

  ‘Come on, Anthony. We can do this,’ I said and started marching eagerly towards the open door. Just inside it was a man with ancient lines on his face. I say ancient because his face looked more than old and I was sure each line could tell a story. He sat at a desk in a small and dim corridor, reading a newspaper. His reading glasses sat at an angle on the tip of a rather bulbous nose and he squinted to see in the faint light. Anthony cleared his throat.

  ‘If you’re looking for Go-Karting Kings,’ the man said without looking up, ‘they packed up and moved out Kent way.’ He licked his thumb and turned a page in his newspaper.

  I was wearing Prada. Did I look like I wanted to jump in a go-kart? I stepped forward and introduced myself.

  ‘I’m PA to Anthony Shearman: Magenta Bright.’ I held out my hand. The old man creased his brow as he looked over the top of his glasses at me and at my hand. He took his glasses off, slowly, folded his paper, slowly, and eased himself, slowly, off the chair. He shook my hand with a sweaty palm.

  ‘PA to Anthony Shearman,’ he said with tea breath. He pushed his bulbous nose close to my face to see me properly. ‘You don’t mean old Shearman’s son? The young chap who doesn’t know a thing about the business?’ He put his hands in his pockets and blundered on. ‘Don’t know what old Shearman was thinking. This place is going to the dogs. I don’t know what he thinks his arty-farty son can do that he couldn’t.’

  I turned to let Anthony edge his way forward so the old man could focus in on him. Anthony shook the old man’s hand.

  ‘Hi. I’m Anthony Shearman, the arty-farty son who doesn’t know a thing about the business.’ They shook hands and I stared at my feet.

  ‘You haven’t come to tell us we’re out of a job have you?’ the old man asked.

  ‘I hope not,’ said Anthony with a smile. ‘I’ve come to learn what I can about the business. I’ve come to see what I can do to stop this place going to the dogs, as you put it. Could you show me to the general manager, Donald Carter?’

  ‘If you say so.’ The old man opened an inner door and we were both hit by the sound of machines whirring and stamping and the overwhelming smell of leather. ‘That’s him. Over there. Grumpy-looking bastard with a stick up his arse.’ The old man pointed then disappeared back to the corridor and his newspaper.

  Donald Carter had been looking over the shoulder of one of the machine operatives. After a second or so of hovering by the door he spotted us and rushed over. This time I let Anthony introduce us.

  ‘Mr Shearman, it’s a pleasure,’ said Donald. ‘I’m so glad you could pay us a visit. Should we talk in my office?’ He was about forty, sandy-haired, wearing a formal shirt with the sleeves rolled up and cargo trousers. He walked us to his office in the far corner of the factory floor without any trace of a stick up any of his orifices.

  Before we crowded into the box room of an office, I’d had a good look around at what was happening on the factory floor. There were at least ten workers, mostly middle-aged females, at various stations busy with the production of what looked like wallets and belts. I saw a row of finished goods by the back wall where a woman was operating a packaging machine.

  ‘The man on the front desk painted quite a picture of doom and gloom,’ Anthony said, moving a large crate so he could sit down.

  ‘Oh, you mean my dad?’ said Donald. ‘Don’t worry about him. He retired years ago and doesn’t have anything better to do with his time but to come here and cause me grief.’

  Anthony and I looked at each other. Donald held up his hands.

  ‘He isn’t on the payroll, don’t worry. He just does our teas and coffees and pops out to buy milk and things. That’s not a problem is it?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Anthony who composed himself before he got down to the nitty-gritty. ‘We all know we have a problem and I’ve come here to see how we go about fixing it.’

  A long tour of A Shearman Leather Designs ensued. Donald was amazing at talking us through operations but at the end of the tour, and having met and spoken to all the operatives, Anthony and Donald were still scratching their heads. Like the old man said, the company was going to the dogs. The problem was, we bought in the most expensive leather and made high-end men’s products. When people stopped coming to the retail outlet in Regent Street, A Shearman went online and the shop closed down. Someone was paid a fortune to set up a snazzy online catalogue but still sales were falling. The prices were just so high and not at all competitive from what I could see.

  All too soon the dream I had of turning up at the factory and hitting on a solution to our downfall seemed nothing more than a romantic fantasy. We were sunk but no one said it aloud.

  In contrast to the visit, the sun was bright when we left the factory. We had all shaken hands and Anthony had said he would go away and do some brainstorming, crunch some numbers and come back to Donald with a way forward. I knew better than anyone that Anthony had no idea how to number-crunch and that any brainstorming he did would probably end up as a lot of doodling on a piece of paper, which he might just finish off with some watercolours.

  ‘I can’t believe I’ll be out of a job soon,’ I said to Anthony in the taxi back to the West End.

  ‘Magenta, don’t give up on us. Let’s just go away and think.’

  And that’s what we did. Back at the office, with Cassandra constantly poking her head around the door, Anthony and I paced backwards and forwards and tried to think of ideas. By about five-thirty we were exhausted and hungry. We gave up the pacing and decided to sit down and stare at the floor.

  ‘Do you fancy some lunch?’ Anthony asked as the door downstairs closed when the last of the staff left for the evening.

  ‘I think you mean dinner,’ I said. ‘And yes, please, I’m starving.’

  We walked to the first restaurant we came to, a small Italian place close to Park Lane. It was deserted because of the early hour. We had a choice of any seat in the house and chose a table by the window. I was too tired to even lift my menu but one look at how deflated Anthony was and I knew I had to do something to cheer him up.

  ‘My older sister, Amber, she’s in marketing,’ I said brightly, trying to cover up the growl in my tummy. ‘She’s always talking about changing markets and knowing your demographic.’

  Anthony just stared at me.

  ‘I think what it means,’ I went on, ‘is you have to know who you’re selling to and you have to know what they want. If they don’t know what they want you have to convince them that what you’re selling is the thing they could never live without.’

  ‘Sounds good but let’s face it, Magenta, I really don’t know who we’re selling to. I looked at all the products and catalogues and I know I wouldn’t buy any of them. I mean, I wear a suit to work but I never owned one before I started working here. I wouldn’t need anything from my company and I’m not sure why anyone would.’

  I stared out of the window, clutching for a response to Anthony’s negative comeback.

  ‘Look,’ I said, clicking my fingers, ‘I have a friend, my best friend, actually, and she’s a model. People give her things for free so when consumers see her pictured with them in a magazine or something they all rush out and buy them. Like shoes and handbags and things.’

  ‘Well I don’t know any models and especially not any male ones. We sell to men, remember? Maybe they’re more discerning.’

  ‘Maybe. Or maybe we’re not selling to the right men.’ I raised an encouraging forefinge
r.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Anthony asked.

  ‘We sell belts, wallets, briefcases but who to? Maybe those men want a different style; maybe they want something cheaper. All our products are for the older man. Why don’t we see if we can tap into a younger market?’ I could feel an idea taking form.

  Anthony sat back and scratched his brow.

  ‘You know you might have something there, Magenta. Is there any way we can research this?’

  ‘We’d have to hire people, Anthony. I don’t know what your father did before but we don’t have anyone who can effectively lead us in marketing techniques or advertising come to that.’

  ‘True,’ he said.

  ‘I could talk to my sister, Amber – she’d know,’ I enthused. ‘The family business is thriving so she must be doing something right.’

  Anthony studied me for a moment, making me as self-conscious as hell. His eyes had lost the dimness and look of despondence. Now they were questioning, piercing discs of melting chocolate that looked to be stripping me of my silk, short-sleeved blouse and slipping the bra strap off my shoulder.

  ‘You’re a puzzle, Magenta,’ he said.

  ‘I am?’ I sat up and back, realising that his stare had been luring me closer to him across the table.

  ‘Well there you are, a well-spoken, well-educated girl from a well-to-do family whose business is making lots of money and you’re here, working as a PA in a company that’s sinking. Why? What’s your story?’

  ‘My story?’ I asked him. He nodded and put his elbows on the table. ‘My story is a long one. Very long.’

  ‘We’ve got time.’

  Someone had said those exact words to me once before. Someone had looked at me with that same intensity as Anthony had. Hugo. Ten years ago, when we’d fallen in love within hours of knowing each other and spent three days in his flat talking about our future. It seemed ridiculous now to think about all those in-depth talks between me and Hugo. Our relationship had been doomed from the start. The same could be said about anything happening between me and Anthony, even though we were sat there looking like a couple having in-depth talks. Reality check: a Magenta and Anthony future was even less likely because there was another woman involved. Inez. Inez with the massive rock on her ring finger.