Working Wonders (30 page)

Rafe sat next to him with his eleventh cup of coffee of the day. ‘I thought … it was all right, wasn’t it?’ he asked keenly.

‘Yes,’ said Arthur. ‘I think it was … all right. Good enough is another matter.’

Gwyneth came over. ‘My two favourite boys!’ she said. ‘I am SO pleased that is over with. What happened to you?’ she nudged Arthur playfully.

‘Stage fright, I expect. Didn’t you think there was something weird about that d’Aragon bloke?’

‘Apart from the fact that he was named after a terrifying mythical beast?’

‘God, yeah.’

Gwyneth shrugged. ‘No weirder than all the other complete weirdos I’ve met since I started this project.’

‘Yeah,’ said Arthur again. ‘Hmm.’

Ross and his posse passed by their sofa. Immediately Ross nudged Dave in the ribs, who shouted, ‘God, we were GREAT in there,’ and the whole team gave an enthusiastic round of applause.

‘You laid it in right. High cash, high profits, fast cars, fast food …’

‘Nothing like it,’ said Dave. ‘I’ve never seen a panel spontaneously clap before.’

‘Go bite him, Sandwiches,’ said Sven. ‘Fast food.’

‘Oh, sorry,’ said Ross, turning round with exaggerated slowness. ‘Didn’t see you lot there. Don’t you have a train to catch back to the sticks?’

‘As opposed to the buzzing metropolis of Sluff?’ said Marcus.

‘Soon will be, mate. Soon will be. Had them eating out of our hands in there. And D’Aragon tipped us the wink.’

Are you sure he didn’t just hold you in his hypnogaze? thought Arthur, but he kept it to himself. He didn’t want to talk to this crowd, but he couldn’t stop himself asking, ‘Where’s Fay?’

‘Sorry mate, tired her out!’ Ross laughed, until he saw the appalled faces of even some members of his own group, in particular a large snotty woman called Niamh, who sneered at everything. ‘She ain’t been too well.’

‘What’s the matter with her?’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘I don’t know. She’s a human being who’s accidentally taken up with a big fat rat. Why wouldn’t I be worried?’

Ross shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, I don’t know what’s the matter with her. She just keeps mooning around.’

‘How would anyone notice any difference?’ said Gwyneth under her breath.

‘Has she seen a doctor?’

Ross looked at Arthur full on. ‘Keep out of this. In fact, you should just keep out of all of THIS,’ he swept his arm around the room, ‘if you’ve got any sense. Unlikely.’

Arthur thought he’d never hated another man more than he did at that moment. ‘It’s in the laps of the gods now, Ross. Nothing to do with you or me.’

‘That’s right, sunshine,’ said Ross, turning away suddenly. ‘You believe that.’ A camera flashed, and Ross flashed a grin to reach it.

‘Thanks Ross!’ said the voice. ‘That’ll go down great on the front page! Well done!’

‘Howard,’ said Arthur, with resignation in his voice.

‘Oh, hello, Arthur. How are you? You’re looking well. Um, sorry I can’t take your photo. Unless you want to look really sad, you know, like you’ve just been defeated.’

‘No,’ said Arthur. ‘No, I won’t do that.’

By six o’clock, the mood in the room was poisonous. Except to Rafe, who was stretched out fast asleep. Sandwiches was watching Howard’s every move and growling almost imperceptibly every time he as much as twitched. Howard had been desperate to go to the toilet for nearly ninety minutes, and was trapped in a tight and encircling hell of his own.

Finally, at twenty past six, the receptionist entered the room. The air immediately sparked with tension. Rafe woke up and accidentally rolled off the sofa.

‘Sorry,’ he said, but no-one was paying him any attention.

The receptionist looked around. ‘Could the Helsinki team report upstairs, please.’

There was no inflection, no emotion in her voice at all. It wasn’t clear what she meant – was this it? Were the rest of them all just to go home?

The tall Scandinavians stood up, brushing themselves down and looking as puzzled as everyone else.

‘Fuck,’ said Gwyneth sharply under her breath. Arthur stilled her.

‘Don’t … we have no idea why they’ve just been called.’

‘Because they’re Finns,’ said Sven. ‘Prejudiced bloody panel.’

‘How could they possibly be prejudiced towards
Finns
?’

‘Well known fact. Everyone is,’ said Sven, and stuck out his bottom lip.

‘Well, don’t panic. Yet,’ said Arthur. ‘You never know – it could be like
Big Brother
and they call them out in reverse.’

‘Yes, because the panel looked like the fun, game-playing types.’

Nothing else happened. No-one had told the rest of the teams to leave, and no-one had wanted to ask if they were dismissed, in case it showed a defeatist attitude. So the groups sat stock-still, heavy of shoulder, shadows gathering under reddening eyes.

After another twenty minutes, the receptionist appeared at the door again. Once more, faces popped up eagerly, like hungry dogs at six o’clock.

The receptionist cleared her throat. ‘Could the Bonn team …’

No-one heard what she said after that; the exhalation of relief – or anger, from the German contingent – was so strong.

The teams trooped out one by one, their attempts to look stalwart belied by the pricking ears and tilted heads trying to pick up the rap of the receptionist’s heels on the long corridor each time she returned. Cleaners came in, worked around them and disappeared again, and however well soundproofed the offices may have been, there fell on the building the undoubted sense of a place uninhabited; they were intruding into the world of the office at night, when computers hummed and backed up, and complied, and janitors polished floors, and phone lines picked up information and messages from the side of the world still bathed in sunshine.

Ten o’clock came, eleven. It was after midnight. They were all exhausted. At eleven thirty precisely, the receptionist had appeared, framed in the doorway, to remove one of three remaining teams. It had been the Italians, the team from beautiful Verona. Perhaps, Arthur thought, Verona didn’t need any money to make it beautiful, to make it cultured. Verona was fine as it was, and people loved it. Coventry wasn’t fine. It wasn’t loved. It needed them.

He snuck a glance at Ross. And now there were two. Slough was the only other team left. Ross’s people were slumped in a corner. Some of them were asleep already, but he couldn’t make out Ross’s eyes, hidden in the moonlight.

Arthur crept to the high window and peeked out over London. The lights of the London Eye were glowing, and Tower Bridge could be seen, raised, and letting through a great ship. It was beautiful. Arthur smiled ruefully. Okay, so Coventry wasn’t so hot on the great bridges and towers and wheels stake. But still …

He thought of the cathedral he was standing in, and closed his eyes for a second. Suddenly, briefly – later, he realized he must have drifted off for a second – he was on the horse again. But alone this time. He was riding like the wind down the passageways of this pink monument, scattering papers behind him like a blizzard, vaulting the reception desk, pursued by … he couldn’t tell, but he was definitely being pursued. He found himself pounding into the Georgian state room, and the white mare effortlessly, gloriously vaulting the shining table, which was now made of ice, and as cold and as sharp as steel.

He could see the dragon veer up now, and join in the chase. But he was too far behind. The horse galloped over desks, over photocopiers. It wasn’t just this office now, it was Coventry too, and many other places where he’d sweated and worked and poured years and centuries and …

The horse spilled coffee over desks but did not stop. Printer toner exploded over everything but they went on without stopping. Computer disks, ring binders, hanging files, desktop toys, calendars, reminders, circulars, memos, staplers, pagers, ties, vouchers; all went whirling into the great maelstrom of the horse’s wake, chaos erupting behind them, until they reached the great window and Arthur realized there was no stopping them now, and they broke clean through the glass and were soaring, high, shadowed against the cold, bright, clear stars and the wild empty night, over the land, the motorway, the delays, the accidents, the stalled train sulking in a siding, the lone hitchhiker, the greasy, overlit service station, the hurtfully orange sodium bulbs, and only a small child, tucked up in the back of the car, tiny on the great road, and supposed to be sleeping whilst his parents made an absurdly early start in an ever-defeating attempt to beat the traffic – the perpetual, endless traffic – saw them as they flew and pointed his finger and gleefully cried out, ‘horsie’ as his parents sighed and bickered as to whose turn it was to get him back to sleep.

‘Well, well,’ said the quiet voice.

Arthur immediately snapped back, to find himself leaning on the window ledge, his nose practically pressed against the glass to the city below.

Just as he noticed Ross standing beside him and staring out at the view, a soft tongue licked at his hand. Silently, Sandwiches had left Sven’s lap and come over to stand next to Arthur. Arthur felt ridiculously grateful and scratched the dog’s head under his hand.

‘More of a cat man myself,’ said Ross.

‘Yes, you would be.’

Ross sniffed, then glanced behind him. ‘It’s all right, they’re all asleep.’

Arthur looked at him strangely. ‘What do you want?’

Ross shrugged. ‘Nothing, really. I just thought, you know. Here we are, still. Just the two of us. You must be doing something right.’

‘And your point is?’

‘I don’t know. Just, you know, maybe we shouldn’t always be working apart.’

‘Yes, well, you started it by trying to fight me and calling me a tosspot.’

Ross shrugged again. ‘Yeah, whatever. I was just thinking, you know, maybe turn things into a joint operation …’

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Arthur, speaking as quietly as he could through his anger. ‘You think we’re going to win and you want a piece of the pie. Great. Actually, that makes me feel really good.’

‘I don’t think that at all,’ spat Ross. ‘I was trying to do you a favour. Help you out.’

‘What
are
you getting at?’ Arthur stared at him in the darkened room.

‘Well, you know … might be able to find a place for some of your staff when you lose this competition.’

Arthur blinked rapidly. ‘Christ, Maudrin, you are absolutely unbelievable.’

‘What? It’s reasonable.’

‘You want Gwyneth.’

‘She’s the only one with half a brain in your lot.’

‘Unbelievable! Just when I think you couldn’t possibly slime any lower, you surprise me.’

Ross shrugged. ‘Fair enough, mate. It’s not like I have any trouble sorting out your birds.’

‘Excuse me? You picking up my leftovers, you mean.’

‘I don’t think she’d go back to you, mate.’

‘Well, you stay away from Gwyneth. She’s mine.’

‘And she knows that, does she? That she belongs to you?’

‘Just bloody keep your hands away from my stuff!’

Arthur couldn’t remember being so angry.

Ross put up his hands.

‘Wow, calm down, mate.’

‘Yes, perhaps you should calm down,’ said Gwyneth.

Arthur turned round, his heart draining down through his boots.

‘You weren’t talking about me,’ she said. Arthur couldn’t tell if it was a statement or a question.

‘Er …’

‘I didn’t know you “belonged” to him,’ said Ross with a sneer. ‘Don’t want to dabble in anyone else’s property.’

Gwyneth stared straight at Arthur as Ross slouched off.

Arthur closed his eyes. Crap, crap, crap. This was all he needed. He couldn’t believe it. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he started.

‘Forget the macho bullshit,’ she said. ‘Believe me, in this job I’ve got used to that.’

He looked at her. ‘But …’

‘What did you mean, Arthur? What am I to you? I wish I had one fucking sign, one tiny idea. I mean, I’m sleeping with you, so I’m your property? Is that what you mean?’

Arthur stared at her, caught completely off guard. It had never even occurred to him that his adoration wasn’t clear and absolute. He opened his mouth to speak, when he felt Sandwiches push him to face the door. There, looking as perfectly made up and set as she had done sixteen hours earlier, stood the young receptionist.

Immediately everyone stood up and started patting themselves down, but in the midst of all the confusion, Gwyneth didn’t take her eyes off Arthur for a second. What was … he was …

She realized, watching Arthur stare at her, that he had truly no idea, no awareness of his inability to communicate with her – God, maybe with Fay, maybe with all women. Why was it so hard for him to make even the tiniest gesture towards her, when he was quite happy to get involved in some macho pissing contest with a short-arsed tosspot from Slough? The
jerk
.

Arthur could feel his blood galloping through his veins. He strained forward to hear the receptionist, even though she hadn’t started speaking. She waited until everyone was up, dazed. Rafe had a big chunk of hair sticking up from his head. The entire room was completely quiet, apart from Howard hopping from foot to foot, still trying not to go to the toilet.