Working Wonders (7 page)

‘Uh huh.’

‘Remove the fucking dog.’

Cathy put her head round the cubicle. ‘Arthur … Mr Pendleton … Hello!’

‘Hi, Cathy. You don’t need to call me Mr anything.’

Cathy came round the side of the partition. ‘Um … Arthur …’

‘Yes?’

‘Um, it was just … Well, I spoke to the girls in the typing pool and … well, we just wondered if there was any way we could keep Sandwiches. You know, for therapeutic value.’

‘What? What’s therapeutic about a methane machine who eats staplers?’

Sandwiches obligingly spat out the stapler he’d been attempting to maul. A long trail of drool still connected him to it, and he regarded it closely.

‘We thought,’ Cathy shrugged, ‘seeing as you’ll have a new office, you won’t be near enough to smell him.’

Arthur shook his head. ‘You’re telling me you actually
want
that thing in here?’

Sven regarded the scene carefully.

Cathy snapped her fingers. Sandwiches took a careful glance at Arthur to make sure he was watching, then shuffled on his stubby legs off the chair and rounded the partition – his bottom disappearing last, like the slinky dog in
Toy Story
. Arthur stood back so he could see. Sandwiches was fawning up against Cathy’s legs, rubbing his head and giving his best pathetic dog eyes. Cathy leaned down and scratched his head.

‘It’s more affection than I get from my husband,’ she said, trying to laugh, although the statement was so obviously true it was painful. She knelt down and gave the dog a scratch.

‘Happy workers, innit?’ said Sven. ‘Lowers aggression in the office and all that.’

Well, he’d rather got him there. More aggression in the office was something he could definitely do without for the moment.

Arthur sighed and looked at Sven. ‘Will you change what he eats? So he doesn’t fart so much?’

‘Charcoal biscuits only,’ said Sven solemnly. Sandwiches coughed and deposited four loose staples on the carpet. Cathy rubbed him as if he’d done something clever and unwrapped him a Fox’s glacier mint.

‘Oh God,’ said Arthur. ‘My first executive decision and I’ve let the place be overrun by wild animals.’ He headed off towards Ross’s old domain.

‘Marcus, I believe you’re goin’ to have to set up a new expense account,’ he could hear Sven say, grandly.

Ross’s office still smelled of him – Lynx deodorant, sweaty hair and air freshener. Even the boss’s windows didn’t open. Arthur paced around the room, picking things up and putting them down again. There was a long, standard issue pine desk facing the door right in the middle of the room – Ross liked to play the part of Blofeld, and sit with his back to the hapless visitor in his office (it didn’t matter what they’d done: the fact that they were in a room with Ross at all already made them pretty hapless). He hadn’t even left time to pick up his personal possessions. Arthur looked at them now, vowing to pack them up and send them on to Slough. On the desk there was the framed picture of Ross, trying to smile, with the very attractive woman he called his girlfriend scowling. Arthur wondered idly if this was his girlfriend or some woman he’d sidled up to at a motor trade fair. There was also a model of his car (a ridiculously over-customized silver-blue Audi that positively screamed ‘dickwad’.) Well, maybe he wouldn’t return
all
the stuff. On a whim he threw the model in the air and kicked it as it came back down to earth. The plastic shattered with a satisfying noise. He caught the main part of the chassis with his foot and kicked it into the air again. It flew across the desk and knocked the framed photograph onto the floor. Goal!

‘Oh,
whoops
!’ he said out loud.

‘You know, your destructive skills weren’t the only reason we hired you,’ said the cool voice.

Gwyneth, wearing a peppermint-green suit, was cool and unruffled-looking. She had been standing in the corner behind the door and was now pretending to examine the files against the far wall.

‘Oh!’ said Arthur in a high-pitched voice, which annoyed him. He cast around for some excuse for wilful destruction of somebody else’s property, but couldn’t come up with one. He tried to change the subject. ‘Nice … breakfast?’ he asked, then winced at the pathetic question.

Gwyneth looked to the side. ‘I don’t eat breakfast,’ she said.

‘No, of course not, otherwise how would you keep your slim …’ Oh God, he said to himself, shape up, you’re starting to sound like Vic Reeves.

‘Well.’ She turned and stepped forward to confront him. ‘Your first day. Welcome.’

‘Thanks,’ said Arthur, mumbling and looking at the floor.

‘What did
you
have for breakfast? Or rather …’ She looked at his bruised face. ‘What had you?’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Arthur, pawing his face. ‘Um …’ Well, he wasn’t going to get into this. ‘Did it myself … You know, to even things up. Don’t you think it looks better?’

Rather than answering him, Gwyneth snapped her fingers and a scared-looking secretary marched in, carrying three tons of files. The secretary dropped them onto the table with an exhausted sigh.

‘Thanks, Miriam. You can go home now.’

‘That doesn’t seem bad for a day’s work,’ mused Arthur. It was still nine thirty.

‘Night shift,’ snapped Gwyneth. ‘Efficiency drive.’

‘Of course,’ said Arthur, sitting down gingerly.

‘Okay. Here we have financial projections, budgetary restraints, minutes from the working party, the futures committee, the town council, the planning board, the county council, the department of the environment – oh, here’s the white paper. Over here are the application guidelines, the tendering process, the likelihood graphs. Plus studies from Glasgow, Manchester, Amsterdam, Prague and Budapest. I wouldn’t bother with that last one, depending on how good your Hungarian is …’

‘Bit rusty, actually.’

‘Fine.’

She eyed him over the wall of paper that now divided them.

‘Why don’t you get started?’

‘Sure,’ said Arthur, as if having to read fourteen thousand pages of the most mind-numbing information ever committed to paper was exactly the kind of thing he’d been dreaming about all these years.

‘Ehem, what will you be doing exactly?’

Gwyneth stared at him. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘I think it’s best if you call a team meeting. Then we can outline all our roles. I’m going to be working on the bid with you. Get your best people.’

Arthur stared at the pile of papers. He picked some up. He smelled them. He did not have a clue what to do with them. But, casting around, he noticed one thing – he had an intercom!

He reached over and pressed a button. As soon as he started speaking, his voice boomed right back at him – he could hear it out on the main floor. Oh, this was cool. Resisting the immediate temptation to sing ‘Angels’, he coughed – nearly bursting the eardrums of anyone on the floor – and leaned forward to the speaker. Who were his best people? He chose to make a management decision and simply ask anyone he knew.

‘Er … Hello, everyone. This is Arthur … Um, could I see … Sven, Cathy … er … Gwyneth …’

‘I’m only in here,’ said Gwyneth, crossly opening the connecting door.

‘Marcus … Marcus … Um, if I think of anyone else I’ll say in a minute.’ There was a long pause. ‘Um, sorry. Can you come and see me in the conference room, please?’

With trepidation, they filed in.

‘Sit down, everyone.’

The group bustled around, looking at the table.

‘Anywhere special you want us to sit?’ asked Gwyneth.

Arthur looked up, startled. ‘No, of course not. Sit wherever you like.’

They seated themselves around Marcus, the finance director, whom they found safe, being the only person in the office who knew how to add up. He lived in a world of fake friendship and promises, as girls gave him lascivious winks if he promised to help them out with their expenses, and many pints were bought for him round about the March mark. Sandwiches sat at the end of the table.

Looking round the room for the first time, Arthur realized, suddenly, that he didn’t care in the slightest. Whatever he did, this was it now. He was in charge. He was the boss. They were going to like him or – well, who liked their boss? Forget it. They were going to hate him, but they might respect him or they might not. He took a deep breath and began.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘Things have changed a bit round here.’

Yes, that was obvious enough. He decided just to get down to it.

‘Okay … team. Here’s what we’re going to be doing.’

He revealed the graphic overhead just as Gwyneth had done, and tried to garner the same level of dramatic enthusiasm.

‘Our new project,’ he announced, ‘is to take Coventry all the way to becoming European City of Culture!’

There was dead silence round the table.

‘What’s that then?’ said Marcus.

‘Ehem … It’s whatever you want it to be,’ said Arthur. ‘We’re going to create the city of our imagination!’

Gwyneth coughed discreetly.

‘Within certain highly defined boundaries, of course.’

‘It’s an urban rejuvenation project,’ said Gwyneth. Immediately, the eyelids of the entire room began to droop.

‘This … I cannot imagine the amount of money it would take to transform Coventry,’ said Marcus, wonderingly. ‘All of it?’

‘It’s to bring out the beauty of the city, make it a tourist attraction. Show its true colours.’

‘Those being what – grey, grey and dark-grey?’ joined in Sven.

‘What’s the slogan going to be?’ added Marcus. ‘“Coventry’s Crappily Better”?’

‘Come to Coventry … if you’re a cu—’

‘Is anyone else really missing Ross?’ said Cathy.

‘Yes, yes, okay, okay, calm down,’ said Arthur, the tips of his ears going red. This wasn’t starting well.

‘Gwyneth and I …’ This felt very odd to be saying, almost like ‘my wife and I’. ‘Gwyneth and I think you are the best team to take the project forward. I know it seems a huge, huge mountain to climb, but I really think we are in with a chance.’

The room went silent as they all looked at him.

‘Any questions?’

‘Yes, one. Very important,’ said Marcus. ‘Are we going to get access to those executive snacks?’

‘Tea,’ said Gwyneth brightly. ‘Let’s all take a break for tea.’ And smiling like a primary school teacher, she hustled everyone out of the room towards a table which had been set up specially – with chocolate biscuits. The group fell on them with gusto. Gwyneth came back into the room, where Arthur was still standing.

‘They’re … they’re absolutely
dreadful
,’ she said, her face like thunder.

‘What?’ said Arthur. This woman was completely incomprehensible. ‘What is?’

‘Your so-called
staff
.’ She practically spat. ‘Is that bunch of work-shy cynics the best this office can do?’

‘That lot?’ Arthur looked at them. ‘But you’ve just given them all chocolate biscuits.’ He sat down. ‘I don’t think that will work particularly well as staff aversion training. Here – annoy Gwyneth. Have a biscuit!’

‘They’re like a bunch of children. And that Sven – he’s just a pig!’

‘Yeah, he is a pig,’ agreed Arthur. ‘A strange, ugly pig with superior logistical ability.’

‘For a man or a pig? That’s an important distinction.’

‘Go easy on him, Gwyneth – do you know he’s never had sex? ’Fessed up to the temp at the Christmas party, poor bastard. He’s a virgin.’

‘I’m not surprised.’ She shuddered. ‘Can you imagine …’

‘No,’ said Arthur quickly, trying very hard not to think about sex and Gwyneth in the same context at all.

‘And you’re meant to be leading this bunch of reprobates – look at them. They’re slagging you off right now.’

‘They are not,’ said Arthur, looking out of the door nonetheless.

Sven was holding up his chocolate biscuit plate and saying, ‘Please sir, I’m little orphan Arthur. Please can I have a European City of Culture?’

The others were laughing.

‘I’m never going to get them to do anything, am I?’ said Arthur.

‘You just have to get tough with them.’

‘That will never work.’

Gwyneth turned round and stalked into the open area outside the meeting room. She stood before them with her hands on her hips.

‘Right, you’ve had your chocolate biscuits. Now fuck off, and Arthur wants two-page memos from each of you on your preliminary ideas for the bid, on his desk, Friday morning. Here are copies of the guidelines, budget not an issue, just brainstorm.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Marcus, and the rest of them shuffled off obediently.

Gwyneth turned round again to Arthur, who tried not to show how impressed he was. God, but this woman was annoying.

Arthur was stretched over the empty bed, one of the few pieces of furniture Fay had left behind. It still smelled, faintly, of her conditioner. There was a long brown hair lying across the pillow. He picked it up. It felt for a moment like a trap – like she had left it there to see if her bed would be disturbed; to see what would happen.