Working It Out

Johnathan arrived at work the following Monday morning burning brightly, full of resolve. Resolve to do what, exactly, he did not yet know. The first thing he needed to do was to check his employment contract and see how much notice he had to give before he could leave.

As Johnathan walked through the marble-encrusted reception area he heard a voice call his name. His heart sank. He stopped, and turned to face Derek, the security guard.

‘Derek, hello. How are you?’ he asked with as much grace as he could muster.

‘Not bad, Corporal, not bad,’ said Derek.

‘Oh good,’ said Johnathan shortly. He detested Derek.

To compensate for spending his entire career behind a desk, Derek, who was about forty, had created a glamorous past for himself. He claimed to have spent several years in a crack unit of the SAS–the Official Secrets Act meaning, conveniently, that he couldn’t go into any details about what he had purportedly done. Instead of walking, he performed a peculiar strut, one arm outstretched in front of him, buttocks fiercely clenched together, a mix of goose-step and quickstep. Presumably this was how people marched in the SAS, like effete nazis.

Derek addressed everyone by military title, according to his perception of their seniority. He cringed respectfully in front of the firm’s partners as if they were generals, whereas, to his chagrin, Johnathan rarely rose above the rank of sergeant. Not even officer material. Johnathan’s lowly rank was accompanied by a patronizing chumminess that he found rather aggravating.

‘Ere,’ said Derek, beckoning Johnathan forward.

Johnathan approached the desk. Derek leaned forward conspiratorially.

‘D’ you see what happened this weekend?’ he asked.

‘What?’ said Johnathan.

‘Those poofters,’ said Derek.

‘What?’ said Johnathan.

‘Them little arse-bandits.’

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Johnathan. He could feel his enthusiasm for the challenges of the day wane, as if Derek was sucking it out of him like a leech.

‘You know. Faggots.’

‘Homosexuals?’ suggested Johnathan.

‘Yeah.’ Derek sat back, satisfied.

‘What about them?’ asked Johnathan after a pause.

‘Well, they’re all queer, aren’t they?’ said Derek reasonably.

‘Derek, what’s your point?’

‘My point is, my point is, right, that another one of them got beaten up in Soho this weekend. There’s been a series of attacks.’

‘Really?’

Derek nodded. ‘Yeah. Quite right too. About bloody time if you ask me. They’re just getting what they deserve. This bloke had his arm broken in three places. I know the technique.’ Derek grimaced, serious. ‘We used a similar method in Cambodia.’ He paused for effect. Johnathan sighed. ‘Course, you’ll have to take my word for that. I’ve said too much already.’ Derek sat back in his chair and pretended to look contrite.

‘Was there anything else?’ asked Johnathan.

‘No, son, that’s it. Just thought you should know. Be informed. Ear to the ground. Reconnaissance is the key to success. Just watch those benders. Nothing’s safe when they’re around.’

‘Well, thanks for that. As edifying as ever,’ said Johnathan, picking up his briefcase and marvelling that nobody had ever complained about Derek. His rather reactionary approach to a whole range of matters would have even the most radical right-wing policy think-tank quivering in excited apprehension.

Johnathan wandered along to his office and followed the usual routine. Put down briefcase on desk. Open briefcase. Stare inside morosely. (It is empty.) Shut briefcase. Sigh, with feeling. Hang jacket on back of chair. Ask: what am I doing here?

Johnathan wandered out of his room and peered around the next corner towards the secretarial pool. His heart sank. Charlotte was at her desk, bolt upright, typing furiously.

Charlotte had been Johnathan’s secretary for five months. In that time they had barely exchanged a word more than was absolutely necessary for their professional relationship to survive. This was not for want of trying on Johnathan’s part, but Charlotte was unwilling to be drawn into conversation about anything at all. And yet she did her job with an unnerving efficiency. She was never late. She never forgot anything. She never made mistakes. She never smiled.

Charlotte was also the thinnest person Johnathan had ever seen. All she ever ate was a small plastic tub of green salad (without dressing), which she brought in every morning and would pick at throughout the day. She looked like an under-nourished Giacometti sculpture. Her hair was always scraped fiercely back into a flaccid pony-tail, which Johnathan had thought accounted for the permanently sardonic look she wore, her eyebrows forever hoisted towards the heavens. It had soon become apparent though that their sky-bound appearance had nothing to do with her hair. Charlotte looked witheringly cynical because she was witheringly cynical. She had a fantastically low opinion of lawyers.

Johnathan and Charlotte were now embarked upon a bitter war of attrition. Charlotte was always sullen, taciturn and grossly unhelpful, but typed like the wind.

As Johnathan approached her desk that morning, Charlotte did not take her eyes off the screen. Johnathan looked at where her hands should have been. All he saw was a blur of motion over the keyboard.

‘Good morning,’ he said.

The blur of motion got blurrier.

‘Any messages?’ said Johnathan.

Charlotte sneered silently.

‘Right. No. Good. I’ll just have a quick look in my in tray, I think.’ In the tray were a glossy pamphlet from the Law Society offering beneficial rates for life assurance policies, and various internal memos. ‘No, nothing,’ he reported, and turned to retreat to his office.

‘Can you take those with you?’ said Charlotte.

‘Take what?’ asked Johnathan.

‘The stuff in your tray. I don’t want it cluttering up my desk.’

‘Well I don’t really want it cluttering up mine either.’

Charlotte glared at him. ‘Right.’ She picked up the tray and emptied its contents into the waste-paper basket.

‘Oh brilliant, thanks,’ said Johnathan, wondering whether the stuff about the life assurance would have been worth reading. He returned to his office and slumped in his chair, exhausted before work had even begun. He wanted to think hard about how best to implement his proposed life change, but first he had some work to do.

Johnathan began to think about his meeting that morning. His client was a gruff industrialist from Halifax who, over the last twenty-five years, had built up a profitable business making plastic children’s dolls, known for their vacuous expressions and improbably proportioned torsos. The gruff industrialist had decided that he had made more money than he would ever be able to spend before he died, and so had decided to retire and sell the business to a massive American corporation, Dolls and Guise Inc.

Johnathan was being supervised on the matter by one of the firm’s partners, a man called Gerald Buchanan. ‘Supervised’ in this context meant that once a week Gerald would wander into Johnathan’s room for thirty seconds in between a lunch appointment and a game of golf to see what was going on. Exceptionally, Gerald had decided to come to the meeting this morning. His golf game had probably been cancelled, Johnathan reasoned.

While Johnathan was aimlessly reading the file, Gerald put his head around the door. As always he gave a strong impression of unruffled calm. He wore a pristine dark blue double-breasted suit with a loud chalk stripe running through it, a crisp white shirt and a pink silk tie which was tied with an enormous knot. His pungent aftershave filled the room.

‘Are the Yanks here yet?’ asked Gerald. He spoke in a languid, self-satisfied drawl which betrayed a life of pampered opulence.

Johnathan looked at his watch. ‘Not yet. They should be here in about ten minutes.’

‘Good,’ said Gerald. ‘I’m just off for a dump, so if they arrive while I’m gone just go ahead and start without me.’

‘OK,’ said Johnathan, wondering how long he was anticipating spending on the toilet.

As soon as Gerald had left, Johnathan’s telephone rang. It was Derek.

‘I’ve got a bunch of Americans in reception for you,’ he said, in the sort of tone which sounded as if he was announcing an outbreak of scabies.

‘A bunch?’ said Johnathan. ‘What do you call a bunch?’

There was a brief pause while Derek did a quick head count. ‘I reckon about five or six,’ he said.

‘God. OK, tell them I’m on my way.’

Johnathan gathered up his papers and set off to the reception area, which was filled with the low nasal drone of transatlantic accents, as people huddled together in small groups talking urgently. As he approached, a short tubby man in a shiny light grey suit waved at him heartily. This was Gary Schlongheist III, the lawyer running the deal for the Americans. He was evil.

‘John, hi, thanks for agreeing to see us so soon,’ said Gary Schlongheist III. He gestured expansively behind him. ‘As you can see, we’ve got a few more troops today.’

‘Yes,’ said Johnathan, hating him. Everyone else had stopped talking and was looking at him critically.

‘The reason for everyone’s being here today is that we have something to discuss which is in our view sufficiently serious as to merit the attendance of all these various individuals for one reason or another as you will see when we get down to business but of course prior to that I will be introducing you to everybody here and explaining to you their roles in this transaction to date and the roles which they will adopt from now on, once of course we’ve all got some coffee down our throats, hey folks?’ said Gary Schlongheist III. Johnathan rapidly felt himself losing control in the face of such officious and long-winded pedantry. He opened his mouth but no noise came out. Schlongheist looked at him questioningly for a few moments and then slapped him on the back and prompted, ‘So, lead on, Macbeth. Which of your rooms do we get to see today?’

Johnathan cast a desperate eye over the group of people. ‘If you’d just like to follow me.’ Feeling like a tour guide, he turned and set off down the corridor which led to the rabbit warren of conference rooms.

The Americans filed into the appointed room and seated themselves along one edge of the long table. Johnathan awkwardly put his papers in the middle of the table opposite the row of faces. Just as he was about to speak, Gary Schlongheist III began again.

‘OK everybody, time for formal introductions. The gentleman sitting opposite you is John Burlip, who represents Mr Rocastle in the current transaction.’

Johnathan shifted in his seat. The row of heads nodded ever so slightly in his direction. My name is Johnathan, you fat American turd, he said to himself as he smiled weakly.

‘Now, John. Can I introduce, from left to right, the following ladies and gentlemen: Ulverton Lovestick, Aaron Bostick, Randy Merrick, Brandy Jordan, and lastly Harry Sawyer.’ Gary Schlongheist III beamed.

In perfect synchrony each person reached into an inside pocket and withdrew a business card which was then pushed over the table at Johnathan like a poker hand. He arranged the cards in front of him in the same order as the people opposite him. He looked up at Gary Schlongheist III, who was playing with his expensive-looking pen.

‘First of all, John,’ said Schlongheist, ‘I’d like you to listen to the managing director of Dolls and Guise Inc., Harry Sawyer.’

The man sitting next to Schlongheist cleared his throat and began to shuffle papers busily. Johnathan glanced down at his business card. It said: ‘H.D.(Harry) Sawyer, Managing Director’ in overly florid typescript.

‘Good morning,’ said H.D.(Harry) sombrely. ‘The reason that I asked Gary to arrange this meeting today is that we appear to have encountered a problem which might seriously affect the viability of the proposed transaction for us.’

Johnathan’s heart lurched. ‘Oh?’ he said.

‘Yeah,’ agreed H.D.(Harry), ‘and we just wanted to talk the issue through with you to see if we could arrive at some happy compromise.’

‘I see,’ said Johnathan.

There was an awkward pause.

‘The thing is,’ said H.D.(Harry), ‘we’ve been having a look at those dolls your client produces. And while they’re real cute, we’ve spotted a problem with them. It has always been a point of commercial concern and indeed pride for Dolls and Guise Inc. that all of the little dolls that we make are as lifelike as possible so as to provide young girls with a genuine learning tool as well as a terrific toy.’ H.D.(Harry) was looking round the table, acknowledging the enthusiastic nods of his colleagues. ‘As a result of this policy our dolls have certain features which perhaps are not what you in England might ordinarily expect to see. And there is one thing in particular which we hold to be especially important which you certainly don’t see on Mr Rocastle’s dolls.’

‘Which is?’ said Johnathan.

The American glanced at Brandy Jordan, who was sitting next to him. ‘Pubic hair.’

Johnathan blinked.

Brandy Jordan spoke for the first time. ‘Mr Burlip, we at Dolls and Guise Inc. firmly believe that we have a social obligation to educate the young of America in the mysterious ways of nature. Hence our product lines of Pregnant Penelope and Menstruating Melissa.’ She paused. Randy Merrick coughed supportively. Randy and Brandy exchanged smiles of such cloying sweetness that Johnathan felt a little queasy.

Brandy continued. ‘We have conducted a great deal of research into this and we do believe that to manufacture dolls with pubic hair prepares young girls for the often shocking trial that puberty represents. It means that when they begin to grow their pubic hair they will have already familiarized themselves with the concept and above all the sight of pubic hair in general.’

‘Pubic hair,’ repeated Johnathan dully.

Brandy Jordan’s cheaply peroxided head disappeared beneath the table top. ‘Let me show you,’ she said. There was the unclicking of a briefcase. Brandy Jordan reappeared, clutching a doll about twelve inches high with long red hair. She thrust it across the table towards Johnathan. Johnathan eyed it suspiciously.

‘And Mr Burlip, look,’ said Brandy Jordan. With no further ceremony she hooked her little finger underneath the doll’s knee-length skirt and hiked it upwards over its hips. She deftly spread the doll’s legs as wide as the little plastic joints would allow, and placed it in the middle of the table, its parted legs pointing wantonly at Johnathan. Johnathan looked, appalled. At the top of the doll’s legs sat what looked like a small Brillo pad.

‘Right,’ he said eventually.

‘John, if my client is to adhere to company policy then all future dolls coming from Mr Rocastle’s factory will have to be fitted with pubic hair, and that may be quite an expensive addition,’ said Schlongheist. It sounded a bit like getting a car fitted with a sun-roof. ‘Unless we can come to some sort of arrangement then I fear we shall have to reconsider our current negotiating position.’

Johnathan tried to think. He began to feel very uncomfortable. He tried hard to look somewhere other than at the doll’s grisly pudendum, which seemed to have fixed him with its evil eye. ‘Wouldn’t it be a feasible option to leave these dolls as they are?’ he said desperately. ‘If you like it could represent another option open to women. After all, not every woman has pubic hair.’

Harry Sawyer considered this. ‘So you’re suggesting that the English dolls could just be dolls of women who have chosen to shave their pubis?’ He seemed enchanted. He looked down the length of the table enquiringly. ‘It certainly is an option. Anybody got any comments?’

Ulverton Lovestick raised his hand, as if in school. He spoke with a mellifluous southern twang. ‘I guess that’d work as long as we made it clear from the marketing that the choice to depilate had been made, and that it wasn’t some oversight on our part.’

There was an enthusiastic nodding around the table as people began to murmur quietly to each other. Ulverton Lovestick began to sketch something on a piece of paper.

Gary Schlongheist III raised his hands in protest. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I suspect we may be getting slightly off the point of today’s meeting–’

He was ignored. The other Americans had descended into a huddle. ‘…We could package in such a way as to explain the health benefits of depilation, the convenience…’

‘…It would be a radical departure for us…’

‘We could call her Depilating Donna.’

‘Or Hairless Helen.’

‘I’ve got it. What about Shaving Sharon?’

Aaron Bostick was not convinced, however. ‘It’ll just make our products like everyone else’s,’ he complained. ‘We’ll lose the male market, that’s for sure.’

Johnathan blinked.

The Americans began to discuss the marketing possibilities which Johnathan’s suggestion had unwittingly presented. Schlongheist flapped ineffectually around his clients. Johnathan eyed the half-naked doll. Some deep-seated sense of decorum urged him to straighten its legs and restore its dress to the proper position, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch it.

Gerald Buchanan then breezed in. Johnathan got up from his chair and led him to the far corner of the room, out of earshot of the others.

‘What’s the prob?’ demanded Gerald. Johnathan told him.

Gerald blinked.

When Johnathan explained his proposed solution to the problem Gerald let out a low whistle. ‘I’m surprised they didn’t lynch you on the spot, old boy,’ he said. ‘Americans don’t like people taking the piss.’

Johnathan leant forward. ‘But Gerald, that’s what they’re discussing. They think it might be a feasible option.’

‘Are you serious?’ asked Gerald. Johnathan nodded. ‘Well I’ll be buggered,’ whispered Gerald, ‘they’re even madder than we thought. Extraordinary.’

Gary Schlongheist III bustled up. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ he said peevishly. ‘I don’t really think it appropriate that you be present while my clients are making this sort of sensitive commercial decision. Would you mind…?’ He gestured towards the door. Gerald slowly turned and left. Johnathan followed him out.

They stood in the deserted corridor. ‘Pubic hair?’ said Gerald. Johnathan nodded. ‘Christ, what next? Next they’ll be having dolls that menstruate.’

‘Actually, they already do,’ said Johnathan.

Some minutes later the door to the meeting room opened and Schlongheist came out. ‘It appears that my clients have reached a consensus of opinion in respect of the problem which we have identified this morning,’ he said, trying to hide his disappointment.

‘Yes?’ said Gerald.

‘Won’t you come in?’ Schlongheist held the door open sulkily.

Gerald and Johnathan filed inside and sat down opposite a row of flushed, excited faces. Gary Schlongheist III coughed. ‘Well, we do appear to have arrived at a suitable compromise solution to the difficulty identified–’

‘Cut the crap, Gary,’ suggested H.D.(Harry) Sawyer amicably.

Schlongheist reddened. ‘Yes, as I was saying, my clients are prepared to run with the idea that Mr Burlip suggested and on that basis I think that we can now proceed on the terms as we had originally planned.’ He looked crestfallen.

Gerald looked at him sourly from across the table. He leant forward and said, ‘Are you tweaking my twinky?’

‘Pardon?’ said Schlongheist.

‘You heard. Are you pulling my plonker? Jiggling my joystick? Yanking my yard? Beating my meat?’

‘I’m sorry, Gerald, I really have no idea what you’re referring to,’ said the American, glancing at the assembled company nervously.

Gerald was in full flow now. ‘Come off it, Gary,’ he said, with some venom. ‘I’ve been in this business long enough to know when someone is schlapping my schnitzel.’

Johnathan frowned, quite lost. The Americans had begun to murmur amongst themselves.

‘Your schnitzel?’ asked Schlongheist doubtfully.

Gerald looked at the Americans and gestured helplessly. He seemed genuinely upset. Without warning he slammed down his hand on to the table top. Brandy Jordan jumped. The doll jumped. ‘Dammit Gary! Come on. Be reasonable.’ Gerald stood up and began pacing the room. He appeared to be struggling to find the words he wanted to say. ‘I’m not prepared,’ he said, ‘to be treated like this, have you manipulate my manhood, let you play cat’s-cradle with my cock.’ He slumped back into his chair, emotionally wrung out. The Americans looked impressed. Schlongheist, hopelessly confused, waited.

Eventually Gerald said, ‘Have you nothing to say?’

Schlongheist looked at him through slitted eyes. ‘About what, exactly?’

Gerald looked at Schlongheist for a moment. ‘I see,’ he said suddenly, and began gathering up his papers to leave. Turning away from Schlongheist, he winked cheerfully at Johnathan.

‘Wait, wait,’ said Schlongheist, panicking. ‘Whatever it is you have to say, please say it. In words of one syllable,’ he added.

‘Well it seems pretty obvious to me,’ said Gerald, putting his papers back down on the table. ‘Our client is offering your client a marvellous, not to say unique, opportunity to expand their product range to encompass a totally new–to them, anyway–concept in doll manufacture. Think about it. Don’t you think my client deserves to receive greater compensation as a result?’

Gary Schlongheist III now went purple. ‘I’m quite sure–’

Gerald interrupted smoothly. ‘Why don’t we ask your clients what they think?’

H.D.(Harry) Sawyer stood up. ‘Hell, yes,’ he said, ‘that sounds reasonable enough to me. If we’re going to benefit from this breakthrough I don’t see why we shouldn’t share a little of it around.’ He looked down the table munificently, ignoring Schlongheist who remained rooted to his seat, opening and closing his mouth soundlessly. The Americans gazed adoringly up at their leader, and burst into spontaneous applause.

Some time later Gary Schlongheist III recovered his power of speech. He said: ‘What an asshole.’

SIX

When Johnathan arrived back at his office after the meeting, Charlotte smiled shyly at him. Immediately he sensed something was wrong.

‘There’s a message for you,’ she said, brandishing a small piece of paper.

‘Oh. Thanks,’ said Johnathan, and took it. On it was written,

Could we have a word? 2.30 this afternoon, my office.

E.J.S-J.

It was not a request, it was a command. And it was no ordinary command: it came from Edward Stenhouse-Jellicoe, the ancient and somewhat batty senior partner. Johnathan frowned. He had been at the firm for six and a half years, and had always believed that Stenhouse-Jellicoe didn’t have the faintest idea who he was. Each time Johnathan met him in the corridor or in the lift he would bow and scrape in obsequious reverence as expected but all he ever got in return was a rather puzzled, far-away smile.

Stenhouse-Jellicoe had given up practising any law long ago. He was too much in the grip of addling senility for that. Instead he now usually arrived at eleven o’clock each day to sign some letters, perhaps chair a meeting or two of the partners to which he would contribute nothing other than a few irrelevant Latin maxims, before going into lunch in the partners’ dining room, where he would stay for most of the afternoon cuddling the port decanter and dozing fitfully.

Under his benign and useless sovereignty, the real power was wielded ruthlessly by a small group of partners. Johnathan suspected that the balance of blood to port coursing through Stenhouse-Jellicoe’s veins had now tipped in favour of the port, and that as a result he no longer knew what actions were being taken in his name; he just signed whatever he was asked to sign and only complained when things made him late for lunch.