by Mark White
Eventually he looked up from his desk and stared out of the glass-wall of his office into the main open-plan working area. His eyes immediately found Sam, who was busy talking to one of the web-designers by the coffee machine.
Best friend? he thought. What kind of best friend can’t keep his damn mouth shut when asked? Tom’s eyes narrowed and his lips tightened as a thought occurred to him; a dark thought that would go at least some way to repairing his bruised ego.
‘I’ll teach them,’ he whispered, his eyes remaining fixed on Sam as he spoke. ‘I’ll teach them what happens when you fuck with Tom Jackson.’
CHAPTER NINE
Sam sat at the long, mahogany table in the Boardroom and listened intently to Tom as he delivered his presentation to the three grey-suited executives from Pilko. It was hard not to admire his boss’s style: the man was a born salesman; as gifted with the spoken word as Sam was with his pen. The executives appeared to hang on his every word, nodding their approval at his ideas and laughing at the occasional well-timed joke. The presentation, along with the work behind it, was almost entirely down to Sam, but the glory and respect would be Tom’s alone. That’s why it was Tom who reaped the rewards - the money, the seniority, the respect of his peers – while Sam had to be content with standing humbly on the side-line, knowing that he was the man responsible for the hard graft behind the success. In the early days this had bugged the hell out of him, but as time went by he had come to accept that life’s rewards don’t necessarily always go to those who most deserve them, but to those who shout the loudest. At least he could sleep easily at night, safe in the knowledge that his conscience was clear and his soul unsold.
‘So you see, gentlemen,’ Tom said, his presentation drawing to a close. ‘If Pilko decides – as I’m confident it will - to run with our bold, cutting-edge marketing strategy, there is every reason to believe that its future will be every bit as bright as its glorious past. Thanks for listening, and feel free to fire ahead with any questions.’
A prolonged round of applause from the men in suits rounded off Tom’s speech, which he accepted with a feigned modesty that Sam had seen a thousand times before. Questions followed, all directed at Tom, even though the man knew next to nothing about the technical aspects of the design or the important details that Sam would have been far better able to explain. Hands were shaken, jokes were shared, promises were made; all the signs of a positive outcome were in place, and if nothing else, Sam knew that he’d delivered a good job that he could be proud of. Sure, Gabby had helped in her own way, but Sam had edited pretty much everything she’d given him to a greater or lesser extent. Of course that was to be expected: he’d honed his craft over many years and had the perfectionist’s eye for detail; but even he had to admit to being somewhat impressed by the quality of her work. He’d told her as much too. Unlike Tom, he was always happy to give credit where credit was due.
As soon as the Pilko men left, Tom went to the drinks cabinet and helped himself to a large whisky and water. Sam watched him as he took a sip, longing for a taste. He knew he couldn’t – of course he couldn’t – but that didn’t stop him from wanting to. Fifteen years without a drink, and still the unquenchable thirst remained. It always would, especially when there was cause for celebration.
‘Sure I can’t tempt you?’ Tom asked, swirling the brown liquid invitingly around his glass.
‘Fuck off, Tom,’ Sam replied, infuriated that his so-called friend still refused to accept the fact that he was an alcoholic. According to Tom, Sam didn’t have a genuine drink problem. Okay, so maybe there had been occasions when he’d drank more than was good for him, but didn’t everybody? Sam couldn’t blame his friend for thinking that way; after all, he didn’t know the half of it. He didn’t know about the dark times. Nobody did.
Tom set his glass down on the table and sat down. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry. That was way out of order.’
‘Yes, it bloody well was. Bang out of order.’
‘How long has it been?’
‘Fifteen years next month.’
‘Wow, how quickly the years pass, eh?’
‘Yep.’
Tom leant back in his chair, placed his hands behind his head and smiled at Sam. ‘Looks like we’ve sealed the deal, Sammy-boy.’
‘Looks that way. That was a great pitch you gave, Tom. Vintage Jackson magic.’
‘Like taking candy from a kid. But I couldn’t have done it without you, Sam. Not to mention your sexy assistant.’
‘You mean Gabby?’
‘Who else?’
‘Actually she’s very good. Still a little rough around the edges, but there’s no doubting her potential. Seems keen too. Very keen.’
‘The vitality of youth, eh?’
‘Something like that.’
‘A great pair of tits doesn’t do any harm, either.’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘I would,’ Tom replied with a conceited smirk.
‘So, what next?’ asked Sam, uncomfortable with the subject. ‘I guess a celebration is called for.’
‘Afraid not.’
‘How come? It’s traditional for the sales director to splash the cash on his team whenever we land a big deal.’
Tom took a long swig of his whisky and got up to pour himself another. ‘The firm can’t afford it, Sam. We’re as good as broke.’
‘But what about Pilko?’
‘Don’t you understand? We can’t run a multi-service design agency in the centre of London on a single fucking pork-pie account!’
‘Alright, Tom, calm down. We’ve got other work on, haven’t we?’
‘Yes, but nothing major. Just bits and pieces, that’s all. Hardly enough to keep the fucking lights on.’
‘Well, maybe if we-’
‘Sam,’ Tom said, interrupting him in mid-sentence. ‘I need to talk to you.’ Payback time.
‘Talk to me? What about?’
‘You remember me mentioning last week about the Board wanting me to pull together an options appraisal for how we can go about reducing our costs until things improve?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘Well,’ Tom said, taking a deep breath before continuing, ‘I went over it with them yesterday, and I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.’
‘What is it?’
‘They – the Board, that is – went over everything in detail, and they’ve decided that we need to focus more of our resources on generating new business. I believe budget reallocation is the official management term.’
Sam nodded. ‘I suppose that makes sense,’ he said, oblivious to what was coming. ‘Speculate to accumulate, and all that.’
‘Yes, well, that’s what they thought too.’
‘So what’s the bad news?’
‘Can’t you work it out, Sam? If we’re going to invest in our sales team, the money has to come from somewhere.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Do I have to spell it out for you?’
Sam’s face visibly blanched as the hammer struck home. ‘You mean…?’
‘Afraid so. The cuts are falling on the design teams. The Board believe that we should adopt a business model where we focus more on sales and outsource some of the creative work to other agencies. They reckon it will reduce the risk and allow us to generate more income.’
‘When you say The Board, do you mean you too? Have they made this decision based on your recommendations?’
‘Not entirely, but yes, I had a hand in this. I think it’s for the best.’
‘Why? Because you’re the fucking Sales Director?’
‘No need to swear, Sam.’
‘Oh come on! We’re supposed to be a creative design agency: how are we supposed to create anything without any fucking designers?’
‘Like I said, there are hundreds of freelance designers queuing up at our door who’ll be only too happy to help out when we need them, and what’s more, we only pay them when we’ve got the work. At the minute we’ve got a w
hole heap of salaries to pay to people who have bugger-all to do with their time. It doesn’t make good business sense.’
‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Tom, but perhaps if you were to stop screwing the interns and get out there and try to win more business, then maybe we wouldn’t be in this predicament in the first place.’
‘I’m going to ignore that comment, but I suppose it does make what I have to tell you slightly more palatable.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I never thought I would say this to you, Sam, but you’re one of the people we’ve decided to let go. Chapman’s Design Agency no longer requires your services.’
Sam felt the air being sucked from his lungs. ‘Let me go?’ he whispered, struggling to take it in. ‘But…but I’ve just won you the Pilko account? You said it yourself…I’m the best copywriter this place has ever had.’
Tom shrugged his shoulders and held up his hands in a sorry buddy, I’d love to help but it’s out of my hands kind of way. ‘I won’t deny you’re good at you’re job, but we need to cut costs, and you’re expensive.’
‘I think you’ll find the word is experienced, not expensive. Anyway, what a load of bullshit. I make my salary ten times over with the quality of my work. How are you going to replace me?’
‘Well – and please don’t take this the wrong way – we’re going to replace you with Gabby.’
‘Gabby! You’re not being serious, are you? She’s barely out of school.’
‘She’s talented, Sam. You said so yourself. And more importantly, she’s cheap. It’s a simple trade.’
‘A simple trade? Do you even have the faintest idea of how good I am?’
‘It’s not my decision.’
‘But you’re supposed to be my friend!’
‘I am your friend, Sam. That’s why this is so hard for me. I feel awful having to be the one to tell you that you’re no longer needed here.’ Twist the knife, twist the knife, I fucked you’re wife and now I’m gonna fuck your life!
‘There must be something you can do to persuade them to keep me? At least try to tell them, Tom. You have to try!’
‘Believe me, I have tried. But the bottom line is they’ve made their decision and they’re refusing to budge. They’ve already voted on it, Sam. There’s no turning back.’
‘But what am I going to do? You know as well as I do that there’s no work out there. I need the money, for fuck’s sake!’
‘You’ll receive a redundancy settlement. That should see you though until something else comes up. And it goes without saying that you’ll receive a glowing reference from me.’
Sam clasped his hand to his mouth and stared wide-eyed at Tom. ‘I don’t believe this. I thought I was your friend, Tom. Why are you doing this to me?’
‘It’s not just you, Sam. There’ll be others too. As your friend, I thought it only right that you’re the first to find out.’
‘As my friend? What kind of friend are you?’
‘Please, Sam. The decision’s final.’
For what seemed like an eternity, they sat facing each another without saying a word; a primal moment between two men who’d known each other since university. It was Sam who finally broke the silence: ‘You do know what this means for us, don’t you?’
‘Please, Sam. You don’t have to say anything right now.’
‘We’re finished, Tom. Our so-called friendship…it’s over. I don’t ever want to see you again. Is that clear?’
‘Give it time, Sam. Eventually you’ll come to realise that I had no other choice.’
‘That’s bullshit and you know it. There’s something else, isn’t there? Something you’re not telling me.’
‘No, Sam. There isn’t. This is business, that’s all. Plain and simple business.’ And none of this would have happened if you’d kept your trap shut about Gabby. I’d still be banging Sarah, you’d still be in a job, and the world would be a happier place for everyone.
‘Like fuck it is,’ Sam said, rising unsteadily to his feet. ‘There’s something else…something you’re not telling me. I’ll find out, Tom. Sooner or later I’ll find out. This isn’t the end of it, I promise you.’
Tom stood up and extended his arm. Sam recoiled at the cynicism of the gesture, backing away in disgust at the man whom he’d once called his best friend. ‘Please, Sam,’ Tom said, urging him to take his hand. Shake my hand and get the fuck out of here, or I’ll tell you all about that ‘something else’. And then what will you do, eh?
‘Goodbye, Tom,’ Sam said, walking to the door. ‘I hope it works out with Gabby. I hope you get what you deserve.’
Tom stared blankly at Sam as he left the office, slamming the door behind him. Revenge is a dish best served cold, he thought, watching him as he headed off down the corridor and out of his life forever.
CHAPTER TEN
When Max Railton let himself in to number thirty-nine, Chaytor Avenue, the last person he expected to find waiting for him was his father. Sam was sitting in a chair opposite Gracie, the pair separated by a welcoming fire and a small, round coffee table, upon which was placed a blue and white teapot, a chipped milk jug and two white enamel mugs. It was evident to Max that they must have been in deep conversation about something or other, because it was only when he entered the room that either of them noticed that he was in the house. Max was confused; partly at seeing his dad at three-thirty in the afternoon, and partly at seeing him talking to Gracie. His dad rarely spoke to her - usually the small-talk was left to Max’s mother - and he hardly ever came into the house; preferring to wait outside on the doorstep while Max collected his things. So to see him there was unsettling to say the least.
‘Oh, hello Max,’ Gracie said, smiling at him warmly. ‘I didn’t hear you come in. My ears aren’t want they used to be.’
‘Hi, Aunt Gracie,’ Max replied, walking across to her and kissing her on the cheek before turning to Sam. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Nice to see you too,’ Sam said, his smile not as warm or as convincing as Gracie’s. ‘How was your day?’
‘Fine, I guess. You still haven’t answered my question.’
‘Do I need a reason to come home early to see my son?’
‘Yes. What’s wrong?’
‘It’s a long story. Actually it’s not that long.’
‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘Are you going to tell me why you’re here or aren’t you?’
‘Of course I’m going to tell you. But first I need to-’
‘Max, darling,’ Gracie said, interrupting them. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but your father and I need a little more time to finish our conversation. Would you be a darling and take yourself off to the front room for a few minutes? I promise we won’t be long.’
Max eyeballed them suspiciously. ‘What’s going on here?’ he said, reluctant to move. ‘Why can’t I stay?’
‘There’s nothing wrong,’ Gracie replied. ‘There’s just something I need your father’s help with, that’s all. Something personal. I tell you what, why don’t you help yourself to the biscuit jar and go and watch some television? You needn’t concern yourself with boring grown-up talk.’
‘Are you trying to bribe me?’
‘I am, yes.’
‘Fair enough,’ Max said, retrieving the biscuit jar from a nearby shelf and leaving the room. Having taken orders from her since before he was able to wipe his own backside, he wasn’t about to start arguing with her now.
When they were satisfied that he was out of earshot, they resumed their conversation.
‘Are you certain you’ve got your facts in order, Sam? I mean, if they were planning on making you redundant, surely there would have been some prior warning. You must have had an inkling that it was coming.’
‘We don’t all have the power to see into the future,’ he replied sarcastically.
‘That’s not fair.’
‘Sorry. Couldn’t resist. You’re right though; I should have
seen it coming. It came out of the blue: no warnings, no prior conversations…nothing. I thought I was doing a good job. That’s certainly what they were telling me, anyway.’
‘It doesn’t make sense.’
‘I know.’ They paused and drank some tea. ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you this,’ he said, placing his cup back onto the table. ‘In all the years you’ve been looking after Max I’ve hardly even spoken to you. I’m sorry about that, by the way. I guess I’m feeling a little fragile this afternoon.’
‘No need to apologise. What does Sarah have to say?’
‘Nothing yet. I haven’t been able to get hold of her; her phone’s switched off and she’s not at the office. Probably out visiting a client. She’s not going to take it well when she finds out, that’s for sure. Christ, what am I going to do?’
‘Well, if you want my advice, I suggest you go home, cook a nice meal and wait for Sarah. Then you should tell both her and Max together over dinner. Keep your head, be honest, and answer any questions they throw at you calmly and clearly. Get a good night’s sleep, if you can, and then first thing tomorrow you need to get out there and see what other jobs there are. It won’t take long for a man of your experience to find something suitable. What you mustn’t do is allow your head to drop and start feeling sorry for yourself. That’s when trouble starts.’
‘Easier said than done. You’re not the one who’s out of a job.’
‘Maybe so, but it’s not your fault they can’t secure enough business to keep people employed. You’re not the salesman.’
‘I suppose.’
‘No supposing about it.’
Sam looked up from the fire and stared into the old lady’s eyes, studying her properly for possibly the first time in all the years that he’d entrusted his son to her. She was wizened, with deep wrinkles and hairs that grew from places that would embarrass a younger, more self-conscious woman. Her clothes were basic but well-made: clearly she took pride in herself and was happy in her own skin. Despite being fired from his job only two hours earlier, sitting there beside her he felt safe and warm and almost content with the world outside. He was beginning to understand why there were others – many others, according to Max – who trusted her and came to her for advice and guidance. So what if he didn’t believe in the hocus-pocus nonsense that she and her kind espoused? The fact was she was a comforting person to be around. It was easy to see why Max loved her so much.
