A short story by
NICOLAS TRAVERS
Richard Thompson is taut but
confident, even cocky, as he drives into central London. He is on his way to an
important job interview with a major magazine publisher and he feels on top of
the world. He has a clear head, his shoes shine brightly, his best dark blue
suit tones well with his dark blue silk tie and pale blue shirt, and a quick
check in his rear view mirror confirms that his hair is neat and that his eyes
shine brightly. The interview should be a pushover, because he ranked as a star
financial writer on Investment Today before it closed some six weeks since, and
a couple of friends have whispered that he faces little competition.
A set of traffic lights
change to red, and he glances at his watch. But he is at ease. He still has
time on his side, and hopefully parking should not prove too much of a problem,
for Sarah, his wife, always keeps a small purse in the car filled with coins
for parking meters. It is a precaution he has drilled into her, for Richard
prides himself on being a well-organised man, and preparation is always
essential.
The traffic lights change to
green, and he rolls smoothly forward. Going back to work will be a relief after
six weeks of staying at home. Sarah has been supportive, of course, well,
reasonably supportive, but she has also begun to fret at being kept on a tight
budget, and it has been hard to convince the children that economy must take
priority over pocket money. Sex has also been in short supply, because of the
strain, and Richard has once or twice eyed lurid magazines stacked on a top
shelf at his local newsagent. But he has fought down temptation, because he knows
himself for a strong man with a determined will. Top status in a new post will
restore all his rights, and perhaps even accrue additional benefits, for the
job he is tracking carries a new car, and a smart office with its very own
sofa, and – if he can take over completely from his predecessor – a really very
dishy secretary with green eyes and a most trim figure and the finest of fine
red-gold hair.
Traffic along the Embankment
is light, and the smooth water of the Thames mirrors in outline a passing column
of office buildings on the far bank. It is a fine summer afternoon sun, and the
world belongs to the good and the great. Richard drives carefully, because he
has had to borrow Sarah’s car after losing his own, taken back by the
receivers. But he knows that he will only have to rely on a six year old Clio
for a few days more. Then he will become a star once again, and for a moment he
visualises the joy and pride of choosing something more top-of-the-range,
perhaps even a new BMW.
He licks his lips, and can
imagine the admiration his new car will attract from Sarah, and the children,
and very possibly a great many upwardly mobile young women into the bargain.
There will be knees to stroke, and curves to pat, and upwardly mobile young
women will respectfully pay him homage en bloc. He also momentarily conjures up
a sharp narrow face, with ferrety eyes and a long pointed nose, and frowns in a
frown that has more than a touch of schadenfreude. Jenkins, his former
assistant at Investment Today, will also learn of his promotion, and the news
will – hopefully – fill Jenkins with bitterness as it consigns him with
ignominy to his rightful subservient place. Richard’s jaw tightens a little at
this point, because he dislikes, disliked, Jenkins intensely. Chris, editor of
Investment Today, had asked him a year earlier to take on a trainee, some
little accounts clerk with ambitions and folies de grandeur. Richard had
acceded graciously. He is a kindly man, for a journalist, and always prepared
to lend a helping hand. But Jenkins had been brash, and cheeky, a young man
almost half Richard’s age, spotty and gangling and totally unprepossessing, and
totally lacking respect for his betters. He had tried breezing in, fast talking
and all knowing, brimming with tidbits about high flyers and fast movers,
insider tips and sexy technology stocks, and Richard had been forced to slap
him down.
Then Richard had come back
early one day from a trip that was supposed to have kept him out of town
overnight, to find Jenkins sitting in his chair, and using his screen, to punt
some no-hope Internet minnow in ever higher rising circles. Richard had blown a
fuse, marching the cheeky young bastard straight down to Chris’ office, to
fulminate about a junior employee using Investment Today equipment for gambling
purposes. But Chris had turned the whole messy business into a joke, mumbling
platitudes about youth, and enterprise, and initiative, and given Jenkins a
little hotshot column of his own. Some of his hotshots had flunked, but others
had gone through the roof, and Jenkins had begun to give himself airs.
Perhaps Investment Today’s
collapse had been a blessing in disguise, in dumping him out on the street.
Richard smiles a hard little
smile. He wished nobody ill, but Jenkins had been a pain.
He slows again for a traffic
light, and his eyes casually inspect the people crossing the road in front of
him. Then he stares, and draws in his breath, and it is a sound of complete and
total astonishment. A girl with fine red gold hair, dressed in an elegant but
simple white linen summer dress, is crossing the street just in front of him,
and she is a vision. She turns to her right as she reaches the pavement,
heading in the same direction as himself, and Richard feels the palms of his hands
moisten on his steering wheel.
He is staring at the girl
destined to be his new secretary, he is sure of it. He glances in his rear view
mirror to make sure he has nobody hard on his tail, and flips his indicator to
the left to show that he intends to slow and stop. The girl is now drifting
along the pavement, plainly in no great hurry, and he slows behind her. Heaven
is blessing him, and he will stop, and she will smile into his eyes, and it
will be a confirmation of his engagement ahead of his interview, and a taste of
friendship, and the embodiment of warmer hopes to come.
He slows to a halt along an
empty stretch of pavement. Twin red bands along the edge of the road surface
mark it as a taboo location, a place barred from any kind of halt. But Richard
feels good, and knows that he will not stray far from the car. He will merely
trade politenesses and go on his way.
He gets out of the Clio and
hurries to catch the girl. She slows as he draws level with her, and stops, and
she is really a treasure, with sea-green eyes set in a perfect oval of a face,
and lips just made to smile in welcome. Richard knows that she is the girl who
will be working for him, and he is elated and triumphant in his certainty. She does
smile, returning his smile, and it is plain that she recognises him. But
somehow it is also a strange moment, because she does not smile the
wholehearted smile of welcome and deference that he expects, but a smile tinged
with a strangeness, a shadow of reluctance, even with some doubt and
uncertainty.
He begins to patter, but the
doubt between them erects a shadowy barrier, and he fills himself out with
smiles and charm. “Hello, can I give you a lift? I saw you from my car.”
“I think,” the girl
hesitates, and now she is looking over his shoulder, at something behind
Richard. “I think you’d better go back to your car, don’t you?”
Richard turns, and an icy
finger of fear traces its way down his spine. A police car has pulled up behind
the Clio, and two traffic policemen get out to study his wife’s car with
interest as he watches. He breaks away from the girl, and suddenly she is gone
from his mind. He begins to run, but one of the policemen has already pulled a
notepad from his pocket and begun to write.
“I’m sorry, I saw a friend, I
wanted to offer her a lift.” He tumbles out his words in desperate little
splashes of speech as he reaches the two men.
“Is this your car, sir?” The
policeman is rather younger than Richard, perhaps about the same age as
Jenkins, and has a stern, official face. His eyes are steel grey, and stern,
hard and unforgiving.
“It’s my wife’s car.”
The policeman seems almost to
smile, he has a shark look in his eyes. “Was that your wife, sir?” He looks
beyond Richard, and his voice is heavy with scorn.
Richard turns, but the girl
with flame hair is gone. He shakes his head. “She’s going to be my secretary.”
The two men look at each other, and Richard can see the open contempt in their eyes. He also feels a sharp knife pain slice between his ribs, for his words are counting chickens as yet unhatched, and it is a perilous game to play. Perhaps, and his knife pain slices harder and deeper, perhaps he is counting too early.
The policeman with the
notepad completes his writing and holds out a small sheet of paper. “Tell your
wife she has twenty-eight days to pay, sir.”
His companion, another young man in a fluorescent jacket with the
same hard eyes, smiles slightly, a thin dry smile. “I’m sure she’ll understand
if you tell her you stopped to talk to a young lady friend.”
Richard looks down at the
paper. He has just landed Sarah with a £40 fine.
He gets back into the Clio,
but now his confidence is beginning to ebb. Dark shadows rise up to menace him
– he must land this job if he is to maintain, let alone improve, his lifestyle.
Money has trickled out much too fast since leaving Investment Today, his
savings will not last long. Little rivulets of sweat trickle down between his
shoulder blades and he realises with a shock that he is muttering a prayer to
himself, a man who has never prayed since leaving school.
Now the sunny summer
afternoon turns into a nightmare. He has trouble finding a parking slot,
trouble finding the right kind of coins, because Sarah parks out of town, and
pays in 20p coins, whilst all the City meters clock up in pounds, and he is
late for his interview.
He sits on a hard reception
area chair, trying to regroup and get his act back together again, and he
starts to panic. Why, oh why, did he allow himself to fall for such a
temptation? Why, oh why, did he behave so foolishly?
A door opens, and he sees a
figure approaching him, but he is too far lost in his self-pity to distinguish
any details.
“Hello, Dick. Want a job as
my assistant?”
Richard looks up. It is
Jenkins, snivelling little Jenkins of the ferrety eyes and pointed nose, but a
Jenkins looking mightily pleased with himself.
“I’ve just talked them into
giving me the job. ‘The paper wants sprucing up’, I said. ’Needs some buzz,
hotshot tips, that kind of stuff.’” Jenkins grins, a ratty little grin. “Guess
it was you or me, but I’m young, I’ve got the speed, the ideas. I gave them
some good tips, chances to double their money in a month, that kind of thing. I
think I impressed them.” He is full of himself, he is a star, he seems to grow
by the moment.
Richard is dumbfounded. He
would cry if he had the tears, he would slaughter this little monster if he had
a knife.
“I’m serious, Dick. I need
someone with experience, someone solid to back me up.” Jenkins’ voice is creamy
with patronage, and he bends forward so that he is looking down on Richard,
master speaking to future slave. “I might even be able to swing you a bit of a
raise.”
Richard nods dully, and it is
a gesture of surrender. He can do no more - conceit has undone him, and his
undoing is his bane.