Maybe the Horse Will Talk

by Elliot Perlman

  ‘Yes, I still am. I’m only back here to do something futile for HR, for Bradley Messenger.’

  ‘What?’ Emery asked, still unsure how scared to be.

  ‘HR is making me go around to a selection of Second Years to survey them about hot-desking.’

  ‘What does hot-desking mean? Making people move their workstations around all the time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Isn’t that kind of futile and counter-productive, time-consuming and generally conducive to disequilibrium among fee-earners?’

  ‘Yes, of course it is.’

  Emery thought for a heartbeat. ‘Should I say I like it?’

  ‘Not sure it matters what you say.’

  ‘But if they do decide to introduce it and word gets round that I said I like it, people are going to hate me. They’ll blame me. So maybe it does matter,’ reasoned Emery.

  ‘No one’s going to believe your opinion mattered and, anyway, I don’t even know if they’re planning to bring it in.’

  ‘Then why are they asking you to ask us about it?’

  ‘I don’t know but it can’t be because they care what any of us think.’

  ‘Who else are you going to ask?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure.’

  ‘Ask Fleur Werd-Gelding. Then make my answer the same as hers.’

  ‘Why Fleur Werd-Gelding?’

  ‘She’s a beautiful, well-spoken, pedigreed, sweet-smelling, vicious junkyard dog, immune to self-doubt and bred for success. To emulate her in any way I can seems to me the safest thing to do in most situations.’

  Maserov did as Emery had asked and that’s when it came, exactly as he’d expected.

  ‘Fuck off, Maserov.’

  Fleur Werd-Gelding was, among other things, very reliable. Like the rattlesnake, she was born ready to attack.

  Fleur Werd-Gelding had never engaged in small talk. She had absorbed the overwork mania of the WeWork generation and its celebration of her indentured exploitation by the partnership. She was strikingly attractive with blue eyes and thick lustrous hair the colour of cruelty. And she was no slouch intellectually. She had a razor-sharp mind that smothered self-doubt before it gestated and this, along with a relentless need to succeed, led to a first-class honours degree. She had grown up around floodlit infinity pools, wineries, cattle stations the size of Luxembourg, and beach houses bequeathed to her parents and their cousins by previous generations of Werds and Geldings. She had gone to an all-girl private school like her mother and her mother’s mother before her and, like them, she was expected to breed with a slightly older boy from the brother school and to share her genes with his in return for a share of his properties, shares and trust fund annuities. Maserov held no interest for her.

  So when Fleur Werd-Gelding rolled her eyes at Maserov’s enquiry he replied, looking down at his notepad, ‘I’m going to take that as a “not in favour of hot-desking”.’

  Maserov returned to Emery’s workstation, knelt down beside him and described Fleur Werd-Gelding’s response. Emery looked at him with unexpected admiration. It was as though, without saying anything, he was trying to take in the full measure of the man he had started out with some two years earlier. Then he exhaled wistfully and with a slight smile in bewildered admiration of the somehow better man, he shook his head at the strength of what he perceived as Maserov’s achievement.

  ‘She has contempt for you, Maserov,’ Emery whispered.

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Me . . . She doesn’t even know I exist. But you . . . First this thing with Hamilton and Torrent Industries, which is incredible enough, and now . . . I mean, if I could just earn her contempt . . .’ Emery trailed off dolefully.

  ‘Don’t give up hope, Emery. As long as there’s life, there’s hope.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Why not? Don’t sell yourself short,’ Maserov offered compassionately.

  III

  Maserov was in his new temporary safe haven, his office at Torrent Industries headquarters, when his mobile phone began to vibrate. It was Eleanor.

  ‘Eleanor, is everything okay?’

  ‘I did it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I called Carla and made a play date.’

  ‘That’s great. When is it?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘Tonight? That’s great!’

  ‘Yeah, I figured: I like her, Jacob is around her daughter’s age and I’m not doing anything wrong so . . . so what the hell. Right?’

  ‘Right, you’re definitely not doing anything wrong.’

  ‘No, especially since I decided I wasn’t going to mention anything about Betga and paternity.’

  ‘You’re not? Eleanor, that’s the whole point of the play date.’

  ‘I know. That’s why you’re going to do it.’

  ‘How can I do it?’

  ‘I’ve made the arrangements. I’ll be at her house with both kids between about five and seven, then I’m taking them home to bath them. You come up with some pretext why you need to meet me there and then you do it.’

  ‘Eleanor, how does that help? That doesn’t help me.’

  ‘Stephen, I can get you in the door. That’s all I’m willing to do. You want to talk her into allowing a paternity test for your new friend Betga, you think of an excuse to meet me there and to ask her yourself. Why should I make myself uncomfortable?’

  ‘We’ll lose our house if I can’t make a deal with Betga and this is what he wants.’

  ‘Like I said, if you can think of a pretext, I can get you into the house. After that it’s down to your advocacy skills. We’ll be there between five and seven.’

  ‘Jesus, Eleanor! Why would I need to see you rather than just phoning?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. There could be something you have to give me urgently.’

  ‘What could I have to give you urgently?’

  ‘I don’t know. Sleep Bear.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sleep Bear. Come over to deliver Beanie’s Sleep Bear. I’ll tell her that Beanie can’t sleep without Sleep Bear.’

  ‘It’s true, he can’t. But why can’t I give it to you when you go home?’

  ‘Stephen, she doesn’t care. She won’t ask.’

  ‘What am I going to use for Sleep Bear?’

  ‘Come by our place on the way to Carla’s. I’ll leave Sleep Bear in a plastic bag in the letter box.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll bring Sleep Bear.’

  ‘Don’t forget, ’cause Beanie can’t sleep without him. Bye!’

  Eleanor was right, he acknowledged. The mortgage and the house were their problem but all the ramifications of the deal he’d made with Betga, the precise details of which he now regretted, they properly lived at his door, the door to the rented one-bedroom. He needed to formulate a case to put to Carla. What could he say that would convince her?

  His train of thought was abruptly terminated when the phone rang again. This time it was the landline.

  ‘Stephen Maserov, it’s Bradley Messenger from HR. How are you? I’ll get straight to the point. We loved your work on the whole hot-desking issue.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry, Bradley, it seems everyone hated the idea.’

  ‘Yes, statistically that’s true.’

  ‘Is it untrue in some other way?’

  ‘Well, that’s just the thing, we’re not sure. What is truth? Isn’t that what all lawyers ask?’

  ‘No, never. You’re thinking of philosophers.’

  ‘Well, get back to me when philosophers bill in units of six minutes, right Maserov? Anyway, I just wanted to let you know we were very, extremely, happy with your hot-desking work, so much so that we intend to call for your help again shortly.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘Haven’t quite finalised the details yet. I just know you’re the man for the job. We all do.’

  ‘Bradley, why are you coming to me with these things? Why me?’

  ‘You happen to have caught Hamilton’s eye. He’s t
old us to call on you whenever we need help. He says you’re very capable. Talk soon.’

  ‘He said that?’ Maserov asked, but Bradley Messenger had already hung up. None of this made any sense to him.

  Then it dawned on him. His secondment to Malcolm Torrent had conditions attached to it. Hamilton had agreed to let Maserov work for twelve months solely on Torrent Industries’ sexual harassment problem on the condition that Maserov abided by the dictates of the HR department of Freely Savage. This was Hamilton using Freely Savage HR to sabotage his efforts to solve Malcolm Torrent’s problems by giving Maserov useless tasks simply to take up his time. But they were tasks that he couldn’t refuse. Malcolm Torrent wouldn’t come to his defence over such trivial matters internal to Freely Savage. Maserov was confident he wasn’t being paranoid.

  He was in mid-speculation when a percussive sound infused with anger or desperation brought him back to the room he was in. There was no time to wonder who at Torrent Industries he could have annoyed. The sound of knuckles rapping at the door was followed by the door being firmly pushed open and then closed. Jessica sat down in the chair opposite Maserov’s desk. She looked around the room furtively.

  ‘There’s no one else here. You can look under the desk. Are you alright?’

  ‘It’s got to be tonight,’ Jessica whispered.

  ‘Are we robbing a bank?’

  ‘He’s making me . . . Frank Cardigan’s making me stay back tonight. So you have to get me involved in your thing tonight.’

  ‘He can’t order you, can he?’

  ‘Yes, he almost can.’

  ‘Almost?’

  ‘I’ve exploited the gap between “almost” and “yes” as long as I can and now you have to get me in on your thing by tonight. What is your thing?’

  ‘I haven’t been able to clear it with Mr Torrent.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You can check with his PA. He wasn’t here yesterday. He’s not here today.’

  ‘He’s got a phone, you know.’

  ‘I thought I’d have a better chance talking to him in person.’

  ‘I guess you would. It’s just that by the time you get to talk to him in person I will have been frisked and filleted by Frank Cardigan.’

  ‘Jessica, I’m so sorry to have let you down. I’ll be able to help you tomorrow. Isn’t there somebody else who can help you tonight?’

  Jessica’s response was to gaze up to the ceiling and close her eyes. When she opened them again it was clear they were glistening. Some combination of rage, fear, frustration and embarrassment had commandeered her face and transmuted her usual office hours corporate demeanour into that of a frightened young woman. It was only after a tear or two had fallen on her right cheek that she was able to speak.

  ‘No. No one else can help me. I’m so sorry to be burdening you with this.’

  ‘Jessica, you mustn’t be.’ His impulse was to leave his chair, go around to her side and physically comfort her by hugging her but under the circumstances that could easily have been misconstrued. There had been a time in his life when that might not have stopped him.

  ‘We’ll work something out. I’ve asked for an appointment with Malcolm Torrent to talk about seconding you to help me. But we won’t let Frank Cardigan —’

  ‘I have to be alone in the building at night with him . . . tonight, five-thirty actually.’

  ‘How scared of him are you really?’

  ‘You know, that’s the kind of question only a man, even a well-meaning one, could ask. For a man, I know, the corporate world delivers all sorts of fear; fear of being frozen out, passed over, overworked, under-utilised, humiliated, being fired and ultimately unemployed. I really do understand that. I don’t merely understand that intellectually, I understand it emotionally. I feel it myself. Women have all that too.

  ‘But then there’s a whole other level, a whole additional level of terror and disequilibrium that most men never really understand. A woman in the workplace has her clothes discussed by her male colleagues, her appearance, her body shape, changes in her body shape, her reaction to sexual innuendo, to off-colour jokes about sex, unwanted, unasked-for flirting and her reaction to that, fear of casual bodily contact all the way along the continuum, offers to trade sexual favours for career advancement and the consequences of rejecting them, blackmail and every conceivable permutation of sexual harassment and assault all the way down the line to rape. There’s no overtime, no salary, no perks of the job that make any of that worthwhile.

  ‘In addition, being Indian, I have to tiptoe through a minefield of racism that adds an extra dimension to the precariousness of my position within these hallowed walls. Sorry, you didn’t ask for any of that.’

  ‘You don’t need to apologise for anything. I’m beginning to understand how hard this is for you. It’s me that has to apologise. So you’re meant to meet him at five-thirty. Where?’

  ‘In his office. The place is still buzzing till somewhere between six and six-thirty. But by six-thirty it’s quiet. It’s too empty for a woman to feel safe alone with a man in his office, particularly if he’s Frank Cardigan.’

  ‘Has he ever touched you, been inappropriate?’

  ‘No, but I’ve never been alone with him after hours. But he’s commented on my appearance. And sometimes he . . . he talks to me while eyeing my breasts.’

  Maserov suddenly feared that he’d done that too. He had no memory of having done it but this is what a lot of men do and he remembered having been a man. Admittedly, it was some time ago.

  ‘Are you wondering whether my concerns are justified?’ she asked him.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why did you ask that question?’

  ‘Well . . . if he’s already harassed you in some way, attempted something, you probably have the right within your terms of employment to decline to work with him after hours.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Stephen, if I sound angry. I shouldn’t be sounding this way, to you of all people.’

  ‘There’s nothing you’ve said that sounds at all unreasonable.’

  ‘No, it’s not the content but my manner. It sounds like I’m holding you accountable for the behaviour of all men around here, of pretty much all men. To be honest, meeting you has been like a breath of fresh air. You’re honest, decent. You’re not at all in love with yourself or arrogant like so many of the men here.’

  ‘That’s not a temptation I’m resisting, I’m afraid. I have nothing to be arrogant about.’

  ‘Actually that’s not true, you know,’ Jessica said quietly.

  Maserov didn’t argue. She was going to hate him very soon. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to delay telling her precisely what he was doing for Malcolm Torrent much longer. But it wasn’t going to be then.

  ‘Listen, I’m going to help you.’

  ‘But there’s nothing you can do, not tonight anyway,’ she added, fatalistically.

  ‘No, I’m going to help you tonight. You tell me where his office is and I’ll wait in the office next to it. He won’t know I’m there.’

  ‘You’ll hang around just in case I scream?’

  ‘Yep, that’s what we’ll do tonight and then tomorrow I’ll somehow get you in on my thing.’

  ‘So what exactly is your thing for Mr Torrent, if I may ask?’

  ‘There’s one slight hitch though . . . with tonight.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You have to find a reason why you can’t be here till after, say, seven-fifteen, at the earliest.’

  ‘Do you have to go somewhere?’

  ‘Yes, I have to . . . see my kids.’

  ‘You have kids?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘How much time have you got?’

  ‘Isn’t there a one-word answer?’

  ‘Separated . . . if you want it in one word.’

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s none of my business.’

  ‘You seem surprised.’

  ‘I don’t kn
ow why but . . . I just thought you were single.’

  ‘Do I give off that air?’

  ‘No, not at all. We tend to make assumptions about people. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.’

  ‘It’s understandable. I’m living on my own in a rented one-room apartment. I must smell of domestic dysfunction . . . to say the least.’

  ‘Not at all. Actually, you smell . . . I like that aftershave. What is it?’

  ‘I don’t remember the name. My mother-in-law bought it for me. Or she got it for me with loyalty points from her pharmacy. Last gift I’ll get from her, quite probably.’

  ‘You possibly made assumptions about me.’

  ‘No, I . . . How do you mean?’

  ‘About my relationship status.’

  ‘Well, no, I hadn’t really given it much thought,’ he lied.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, somewhat taken aback by his apparent lack of interest.

  ‘I mean, I suppose, I kind of unconsciously assumed you were attached to some well-heeled son-of-a-gun.’

  ‘Well-heeled son-of-a-gun? That doesn’t sound like you.’

  ‘No, it isn’t me. It’s just that I feel . . . awkward.’

  ‘Why do you feel awkward?’

  ‘This conversation’s a minefield. I don’t know . . . what I ought to say.’

  ‘Nothing but the truth, I suppose. I’m single.’

  ‘Oh, really? I hadn’t expected that.’

  ‘You said you hadn’t given it any thought.’

  ‘I lied . . . Of course I had. You’re so . . . attractive young women aren’t usually unattached. Isn’t it a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife?’

  ‘That’s very good,’ Jessica said, smiling. ‘Not many male lawyers can quote Jane Austen.’

  ‘I was an English teacher.’

  ‘Really? There’s so much I don’t know about you. I suppose that isn’t surprising. I was attached until . . . recently.’

  ‘Should I not ask you what happened?’

  ‘I discovered who he was.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘An alpha male, a prick, vain, obsessed with his appearance, one of those guys who doesn’t eat good food when he goes out to dinner because everything’s bad for him yet he still does recreational drugs. One of those “my body is a temple” types.’