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‘Look Sheridan, the last thing I want to do is waste your time and mine re-treading the same ground. And believe me, Sheridan, the very, very last thing I want to do is suggest that you’re, well, being conservative with the truth. But, Sheridan, surely you can see that there are things which simply don’t add up.’
‘Absolutely, Belinda. Someone’s imagination has got the better of them. And I suggest it is to them you should be talking. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have things …’
‘And frankly,’ Belinda went on, raising her voice a touch, ‘if person A reports that person B was slurring their speech and reeking of alcohol, I’m duty bound to treat the sober account …’
‘I take exception to …’
‘Sheridan, what motive could she possibly have for making this up?’
‘I’m not suggesting that she did make it up. I simply believe she misunderstood the intention behind the invitation.’
‘But you repeated the invitation. You wouldn’t take no for an answer. That is not something that a person makes up or misunderstands. That is a statement of fact.’ She gestured to the PA to recommence note taking.
‘Look, if I did, it was purely because, well, I suppose I thought she was being polite, or shy or something … you know how these girls, these women, can be.’
‘Helen declined the invitation, initially on the grounds that she wouldn’t feel comfortable in a wine bar dressed as she was. Is that correct?’
‘Yes, I believe …’
‘To which you replied …’ Belinda donned a devilish pair of spectacles and read from a typed sheet of paper. ‘“Rubbish, my dear, you look absolutely scrumptious as you are.”’
‘I may have used that turn of … an unfortunate choice of words in the light of things but, I assure you, entirely innocent.’
‘And at that time your hand was placed on her shoulder? Her naked shoulder, because that day she was wearing a sleeveless top. Am I right?’
‘A careless error. Still, I have no recollection.’
‘And your hand remained on her shoulder for the entire time you were issuing your invitations?’
‘If it did, it really was an unconscious gesture. And I fail to see that what she was wearing …’
‘Still, your noble intentions aside, you are not denying that the situation may have been similar to the way I’ve described it?’
‘It’s not the description that I take exception to, it’s the ridiculous interpretation that you’re forcing upon an innocent – I stress innocent – professional drinks invitation.’
‘An invitation which took place at five-twenty, perhaps ten minutes after you’d returned from lunch that particular afternoon.’
‘Absolute tosh. I went on to a meeting in the City directly after lunch.’
‘And you maintain that you were sober.’
‘Good God, woman. Of course I was bloody well …’
Belinda looked at Sheridan almost sympathetically.
‘Oh Sheridan, Sheridan. If you’d wanted to discuss Helen’s career, why didn’t you do it in your office? Why didn’t you do it the next morning?’
Sheridan had no answer.
Belinda latched on to his reticence and, looking directly into his eyes, asked, ‘And Sheridan, can you explain to me why Helen was in tears when she came to my office?’
Sheridan shook his head.
‘And why have I had reports of a number of other, all be they less serious, improprieties?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Mostly concerning your choice of words when addressing or referring to women? Three months ago you were requested to refrain from using the word, dear.’
‘Which I found made letter writing somewhat awkward. Of course I denied such a petty-minded request.’
‘And sales executives as, girls.’
‘My dear …’ he said with purpose. ‘You must understand: some habits die hard. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another engagement.’
‘Sheridan, Sheridan, briefly.’
‘What?’
‘Would you consider writing Helen a letter of apology? Do that and I think things might settle.’
‘Good God, woman. If there are any apologies flying around I expect to be on the receiving end of them all. Good afternoon, Mzzz Oliphant.’
‘Sheridan,’ she called as he threw open the door. ‘I’m afraid I have no choice but to report the matter to James, and recommend that further action be taken. I strongly advise you to opt for the apology.’
He turned and, for the first time since he’d been in prep school, Sheridan Entwhistle waggled his hand on his nose and blew a raspberry. Belinda Oliphant indicated that her PA should make a note of this.
Perhaps Sheridan hadn’t been quite so eloquent. After all, he couldn’t recall the meeting with Belinda Oliphant word for word. Was it possible that, in reality, he’d been a touch more self-effacing and given some indication that he’d do his utmost to drag his diction into the realms of the politically correct – whatever that meant.
The important thing was that he shouldn’t dwell on it. It all happened nearly six weeks ago after all. Nor should he allow himself to become so goddamn paranoic.
It wasn’t as if he was your actual sex offender.
It wasn’t as if he’d actually intended doing anything.
And if, just suppose, there had been that itsy-bitsy bit more to the invitation than he was allowing himself to admit, well, for bloody’s sake, he was only human.
But, in the name of God, he’d meant nothing by the invitation. And of this he was virtually, nay entirely, sure.
Besides, contrary to expectation James hadn’t summoned Sheridan to an interim meeting. Indeed he was mildly surprised when the MD greeted him in his usual affable manner at their regular monthly engagement. And throughout the meeting they stuck to the usual agenda of taking each of Sheridan’s magazines in turn and discussing ways of maximizing short and long term yield. Quite plainly the Oliphant woman had seen sense and backed down.
To think, he’d actually lost sleep over things.
To think, his self-confidence had faltered. That at times he’d actually taken to seeing himself in the way he imagined his staff must have – a middle-aged drooler. A man with a priapic, clandestine agenda. A dirty old believer in the impossible.
Then he saw it and shuddered. Behind the magazines and figure sheets was something he couldn’t fail to recognize – his fat, green, twelve-year-old personnel file.
‘You OK, old man?’ asked James, noticing that his interlocutor’s attention was somewhere over the Soho skyline.
‘Sorry, James. Lost concentration for a moment.’
‘A short break’s what you need, old man. Do you the power.’
Sheridan was mortified. He knew the euphemism. Invariably, a short break ripened into a longer one and ultimately matured into the old chestnut: Gone to seek pastures new, on the company memo.
They discoursed some more yet James seemed distracted. Then, with an abrupt wave of the hand, he broke off in mid-sentence and laid a palm on the portentous file.
‘Sherry, Sherry, Sherry, old boy. Aaahh, Sheridan.’
‘What?’ he snapped, suddenly indignant.
‘Well …’ James paused and met Sheridan’s scowl full on. He smiled which caused Sheridan to smile involuntarily. Abruptly he modified the expression to a grimace to indicate that he hadn’t intended the smile. How he loathed the way he instinctively emulated the facial expressions of those in authority. It made it doubly bad that James was younger than him. A good ten years younger at that.
‘Been taking a thumb through your file, Sherry. Couldn’t help noticing that you’re approaching the big four-five.’
That’s right, James, you bastard, he thought. Sack me and you effectively retire me. Nice one, James.
‘So I am, James. Not something I’m particularly overjoyed about, but che sarà sarà and all that.’
‘Rubbish man. A fine age, forty-five. Got the experience, but haven’t lost the vitality. Know what I’m saying, Sherry?’
‘I think perhaps I do, James.’
‘Good. Time for a man to spread his wings a little.’
‘Quite so.’
‘So, give it some thought. I mean, Sherry, come back to me in a month and let me know what you want for your birthday. A launch? An acquisition? Product cards? Hell, man, you may even want to drag us screaming into CD - ROM. In a year or so’s time, I want to see you up on this floor. Earning some serious shekels. Know what I’m saying, man? Let’s have Entwhistle on the board of Monroe-Hastings. Ye gads, man, we must owe it you by now.’
‘Well thanks, James. That really is … I’ve been having a few thoughts … I’ll jot down some … excellent. I’ll do that. Leave it with me, James.’
Nor was Sheridan concerned that he now wore one of those froggish grins that almost has to be wiped away with the hand.
‘Fine. And take a long weekend, man. Hate to say it but you’re looking a bit worse for it.’
‘Yes, thank you. Thank you. I’ll do that. And thank you for the …’
‘Ooh-um, Sherry. While you’re in here. Managed to smooth things over with the lesbo-Trotskyite faction for you. But, you know, old boy, tone it down a smidgen. No more said.’
Sheridan sat with head in his hands until his coffee grew cold. Because his secretary was at home with yet another day of menstrual cramps, he roused himself and collected a fresh one from the automatic dispenser then played with his magnetic paperclip pyramid until that cup also gave up its heat.
He fetched a third and picked up the phone.
First he called his financial advisor and arranged to up his life cover.
Next he telephoned his doctor and made an appointment for Monday morning.
Then he called Interflora and instructed that a magnificent bouquet of red roses be couriered to his wife. The message he dictated was, ‘Expression of affection, one, four, three.’
Traditionally, Friday morning was reserved for meetings with the advertisement managers and editors of his magazines. He lifted the phone to summon Ashby Giles, the least favourite of his managers. Ashby who said yar, instead of yes and absolutely, old boy. Who congratulated him on his employing Helen in preference to the other hounds who had applied. Who consistently defied Sheridan’s smoking ban with cavalier proclamations like, Passive smoking is for wisps. Ashby Giles who was without doubt the man behind his staff’s silent mutiny. Their failure to bid him good morning, their solemn exeunt dead on five-thirty and, of course, their utter lack of motivation and consequently sales.
He pressed the first digit of the extension number but found that he was laughing too much to go on.
‘Sea Cargo Month,’ he spoke out loud, sneering like a child saying cabbage. Then there was Warehouse Product and Service Monthly. And to top it all, Logistics and Freight Distribution Monthly. Sheridan could barely contain himself when he recalled how they’d agreed that the title rolled off the tongue. That it had need-to-read written all over it.
And then there was the business plan he was working on for James. A scheme that would in two years’ time put Sheridan Entwhistle in charge of an on-line warehousing and distribution news and recruitment network that fed directly into the established industry interface.
He opened the folder of the proposal, planning to surge on – but couldn’t. The dream was back. Blow-torching into his consciousness. And it struck Sheridan that never before in his life had he had a dream so vivid and powerful. He shut the folder. Without question this dream had need-to-read written all over it.
Sheridan was in the City or perhaps it was New York or Croydon even, surrounded by the most colossal skyscrapers.
At first, squinting up, he felt small. Small that his contribution to the perpetual motion of business in this fantastic metropolis totalled just one floor in one of the buildings and control of three unglamorous trade publications. Small that his sexual influence was limited (and extremely limited at that) to just one reluctant, aging female. And small, although he wasn’t entirely sure that this was the case, because he had forgotten to dress that morning.
The dream’s prescience, unless he was experiencing his own faculty for directing the drama, told him, even before the first tremor, that the earthquake was approaching. It said that he, and only he in this city, was naked and unable to protect himself from the imminent tremor.
Because there was very little else to do, Sheridan slumped down and let the pavement growl beneath him. The movement and noise intensified and he looked up to see cracks veining the outsides of buildings, bricks shaking loose and top stories spitting out their windows. Then whole walls began to collapse and smash into fabulous plumes of dust. Entire buildings started to go and cracks zipped through the tarmac of the road.
Did Sheridan know that this was a dream? Perhaps so, for he wasn’t unnerved in the slightest. If anything he was awed at the insane rococo beauty of it all. He knew he would shortly die and this was fine.
Things settled, or rather snapped, into the ultimate calm of a photograph and he rose and walked away from his wrought, debris-cloaked body. A joy, so sublime that there can be no words for it, permeated him. And Sheridan recognized everything. This was where he always came when released from the atrocious incarcerations of his lives. It was home. A true place where the mad concerns of bodies, money, status, fashion and all that is human were, if anything, laughable.
He turned to take a final glance at his body, perhaps to laugh at it and all it symbolized in the world of the insane. Yet someone was bent over it, carefully brushing away the rubble. He approached and saw that the girl was Folucia. Then again, perhaps it was Helen.
The girl lowered her face as if to kiss the body. The dead kissing the dead, he thought without irony. But this was no valedictory peck. The girl was performing the kiss of life and it was as if the body were vacuuming his weightless spirit back into it.
The body opened its eyes. And behind those eyes was Sheridan – re-imprisoned in the world of the insane. An intense grief overwhelmed him and he woke next to Jennifer on the very point of weeping.
Sheridan allowed the caw of the insane world’s alarm clock to drill through him for a few seconds as he interpreted his waking thoughts into the insane world’s language. The first thought said, Kill yourself Sheridan – and go back home. The second said, What, and annul your life assurance?’
Jayne and Yantra sat in Biddy’s doorway, devouring hard-boiled eggs, today’s bread and apples. They’d arced the van round to watch the sunset and deflect the outrageous north-easterly that was lashing across the Cheviots. Yantra was in two minds: should they clear out of the wasteland and roost ten miles on in the shelter of the Redesdale Forest? Or should they risk the wind shifting direction and Biddy going over in order to make love with the oncoming gale rattling agreeably outside? Of course, it was highly unlikely that the van would take a tumble. But he always felt unnerved in this grey, desolate part of Northumberland. Even when the weather was good this place was as strange and dark as the moon.
Yantra had another problem. He wasn’t sure whether they had enough petrol to make it to Newcastle. Or, more precisely, one of the poorer districts of Newcastle. If it was a toss up between dealing with petrol-cap locks, alarms and the pigs or the irate inhabitants of an inner-city estate and their dogs, there simply wasn’t a choice. A fight was generally avoidable, an arrest hardly ever was.
The wind picked up and the doors began to slam against their legs so they moved back inside.
Jayne saw something move on her coat and squealed. Yantra smiled calmly at her and remained silent.
‘Look, it’s a … flea,’ she said with disgust, attempting to move back from her arm.
Yantra pinched it from her sleeve, gave it a brief scrutiny and satisfied himself that it was of the dog variety. He crushed it with a tight twist of his thumbnail.
‘You killed it!’ she squealed.
‘I karma-ed it. It’ll reincarnate as a beetle and thank me,’ he laughed and laid a hand on her shoulder. She flinched. ‘Come on Jayne. Don’t go all Monophysite on me.’
‘Call again?’
‘The Monophysites. A cool bunch of fifth-century Christians who abhorred cleanliness and referred to fleas as pearls of God.’
