Cat O'Nine Tales: And Other Stories (23 page)

Henry was
articled to Pearson,
Clutterbuck
& Reynolds, and
when he first joined the firm as a clerk he dreamed of the headed notepaper
reading
Pearson,
Clutterbuck
,
Reynolds
& Preston.
But as the years went by,
and younger and younger men found their names embossed on the left-hand side of
the company notepaper, the dream faded.

Some men, aware
of their limitations, find solace in another form–sex, drugs or a hectic social
life. It’s quite difficult to conduct a hectic social life on your own.

Drugs?
Henry didn’t even smoke, although he allowed himself
the occasional gin and tonic, but only on Saturday. And as for sex, he felt
confident he wasn’t gay, but his success rate with the opposite sex, “hits” as
some of his younger colleagues described them, hovered around zero. Henry
didn’t even have a hobby.

There comes a
point in every man’s life when he realizes
I’m
going to live forever
is a fallacy. It came all too soon for Henry, as he
progressed quickly through middle age and suddenly began to think about early
retirement.
When Mr. Pearson, the senior partner, retired, a
large party was held in his honor in a private room at a five-star hotel.
Mr. Pearson, after a long and distinguished career, told his colleagues that he
would be retiring to a cottage in the
Cotswolds
to
tend the roses and try to lower his golf handicap. Much laughter and applause
followed. The only thing Henry recalled of that occasion was Atkins, the firm’s
latest recruit, saying to him as he left for the evening, “I suppose it won’t
be that long, old chap, before we’re doing the same sort of thing for you.”

Henry mulled
over young Atkins’s words as he walked toward the bus stop.

He was
fifty-four years old, so in six years’ time, unless he made partner, in which
case his tenure would be extended to sixty-five, they would be holding a
farewell party for him. In truth, Henry had long ago given up any thought of
becoming a partner, and he had already accepted that his party would not be
held in the private room of a five-star hotel. He certainly wouldn’t be
retiring to a cottage in the
Cotswolds
to tend his
roses, and he already had enough handicaps, without thinking about golf.

Henry was well
aware that his colleagues considered him to be reliable, competent and
thorough, which only added to his sense of failure. The highest praise he ever
received was, “You can always depend on Henry. He’s a safe pair of hands.”

But all of that
changed the day he met Angela.

Angela
Forster’s company, Events Unlimited, was neither large enough to be assigned to
one of the partners, nor small enough to be handled by an articled clerk, which
is how her file ended up on Henry’s desk. He studied the details carefully.

Ms. Forster was
the sole proprietor of a small business that specialized in organizing
events–anything from the local Conservative Association’s annual dinner to a
regional Hunt Ball. Angela was a born organizer and after her husband left her
for a younger woman–when a man leaves his wife for a younger woman,
its
a short story, when a woman leaves her husband for a
younger man,
its
a novel (I digress)–Angela made the
decision not to sit at home and feel sorry for herself but, following our
Lord’s advice in the parable of the talents, opted to use her one gift, so that
she could fully occupy her time while making a little pin money on the side.
The problem was that Angela had become a little more successful than she’d
anticipated,
which is how she ended up having an appointment
with Henry.

Before Henry
finalized Ms. Forster’s accounts, he took her slowly through the figures,
column by column, showing his new client how she was entitled to claim for
certain items against tax, such as her car, travel and even her clothes. He
pointed out that she ought to be dressed appropriately when she attended one of
her functions. Henry managed to save Ms.

Forster a few
hundred pounds on her tax bill; after all, he considered it a matter of
professional pride that, having heeded his advice, all his clients left the
office better off. That was even after they’d settled his company’s fees,
which, he pointed out, could also be claimed against tax.

Henry always
ended every meeting with the words, “I can assure you that your accounts are in
apple-pie order, and the tax man will not be troubling you.”

Henry was only
too aware that very few of his clients were likely to interest the tax man, let
alone be troubled by him. He would then accompany his client to the door with
the words, “See you next year.”

When he opened
the door for Ms. Forster, she smiled, and said, “Why don’t you come along to one
of my functions, Mr. Preston? Then you can see what I get up to most evenings.”

Henry couldn’t
recall when he’d last been invited to anything. He hesitated, not quite sure
how to respond. Angela filled the silence. “I’m organizing a ball
 
for African famine relief on Saturday
evening. It’s at the town hall. Why don’t you join me?”

Henry heard
himself saying, “Yes, thank you, how nice. I’ll look forward to it,” and
regretted the decision the moment he had closed the door. After all, on
Saturday nights he always watched film of the week on Sky, while enjoying a
Chinese takeaway and a gin and tonic. In any case, he needed to be in bed by
ten because on Sunday morning he was responsible for checking the church
collection. He was also their accountant.

Honorary, he
assured his mother.

Henry spent
most of Saturday morning trying to come up with an excuse: a headache, an
emergency meeting, a previous engagement he’d forgotten about, so that he could
ring Ms. Forster and call the whole thing off. Then he realized that he didn’t
have her home number.

At six o’clock
that evening Henry put on the dinner jacket his mother had given him on his
twenty-first birthday, which didn’t always have an annual outing. He looked at
himself in the mirror, nervous that his attire must surely be out of date–wide
lapels and flared trousers–unaware that this look was actually back in fashion.
He was among the last to arrive at the town hall, and had already made up his
mind that he would be among the first to leave.

Angela had
placed Henry on the end of the top table, from where he was able to observe
proceedings, while only occasionally having to respond to the lady seated on
his left.

Once the
speeches were over, and the band had struck up, Henry felt he could safely slip
away. He looked around for Ms. Forster. He had earlier spotted her dashing all
over the place, organizing everything from the raffle and the
headsand
-tails competition to the ten-
poundnote
draw and even the auction. When he looked at her more closely, dressed in her long
red ball gown, her fair hair falling to her shoulders, he had to admit... Henry
stood up and was about to leave, when Angela appeared by his side. “Hope you’ve
enjoyed yourself,” she said, touching his arm. Henry couldn’t remember the last
time a woman had touched him.

He prayed she
wasn’t going to ask him to dance.

“I’ve had a
wonderful time,” Henry assured her.
“How about you?”

“Run off my
feet,” Angela replied, “but I feel confident that we’ll raise a record amount
this year.”

“So how much do
you expect to make?” asked Henry, relieved to find himself on safer ground.

Angela checked
her little notebook.

“Twelve
thousand, six hundred in pledges, thirty-nine thousand, four hundred and fifty
in checks, and just over twenty thousand in cash.” She handed over her notebook
for Henry to inspect.

He expertly ran
a finger down the list of figures, relaxing for the first time that evening.

“What do you do
with the cash?”

Henry asked.

“I always drop
it off on my way home at the nearest bank that has an overnight safe. If you’d
like to accompany me, you’ll have experienced the whole cycle from beginning to
end.” Henry nodded.

“Just give me a
few minutes,” she said. “I have to pay the band, as well as my helpers–and they
always insist on cash.”

That was
probably when Henry first had the idea. Just a passing thought to begin with,
which he quickly dismissed.

He headed
toward the exit and waited for Angela.

“If I remember
correctly,” said Henry as they walked down the steps of the town hall together,
“your turnover last year was just under five million, of which over a million
was in cash.”

“What a good
memory you have, Mr. Preston,” Angela said as they headed toward the High
Street, “but I’m hoping to raise over five million this year,” she added, “and
I’m
already ahead of my target for March.”

“That may well
be the case,” said Henry, “but you still only paid yourself forty-two thousand
last year,” he continued, “which is less than one percent of your turnover.”

“I’m sure
you’re right,” said Angela, “but I enjoy the work, and it keeps me occupied.”

“But don’t you
consider you deserve a better return for your efforts?”

“Possibly, but
I only charge my clients five percent of the profits, and every time I suggest
putting my fee up, they always remind me that they are a charity”

“But you’re
not,” said Henry. “You’re a professional, and should be recompensed
accordingly”

“I know you’re
right,” said Angela as they stopped outside the Nat West bank and she dropped
the cash into the night safe, “but most of my clients have been with me for
years.”

“And have taken
advantage of you for years,” insisted Henry.

“That may well
be so,” said Angela, “but what can I do about it?”

The thought
returned to Henry’s mind, but he said nothing other than, “Thank you for a most
interesting evening, Ms. Forster. I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years.”
Henry thrust out his right hand, as he always did at the end of every meeting,
and had to stop himself saying, “See you next year.”

Angela laughed,
leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. Henry certainly couldn’t remember
when that had last occurred. “Goodnight, Henry,” she said as she turned and
began to walk away.

“I don’t
suppose...” he hesitated.

“Yes, Henry?”
she said, turning back to face him.

“That you’d consider having dinner with me some time?”

“I’d like that
very much,” said Angela.

“When would
suit you?”

“Tomorrow,”
said Henry, suddenly emboldened.

Angela removed
a diary from her handbag and began to flick through the pages. “I know I can’t
do tomorrow,” she said. “I have a feeling
it’s
Greenpeace.”

“Monday?” said
Henry, not having to check his diary.

“Sorry, it’s
the Blue Cross Ball,” said Angela, turning another page of her diary.

“Tuesday?” said
Henry trying not to sound desperate.

“Amnesty
International,” said Angela, flicking over another page.

“Wednesday,”
said Henry, wondering if she had changed her mind.

“Looks good,”
said Angela, staring at a blank page. “Where would you like to meet?”

“How about La
Bacha
?” said Henry, remembering that it was the restaurant
where the partners always took their most important clients to
lunch.
“Eight o’clock suit you?”

“Suits me fine.”

Henry arrived
at the restaurant twenty minutes early and read the menu from cover to
cover–several times. During his lunch break, he’d purchased a new shirt and a
silk tie. He was already regretting that he hadn’t tried on the blazer that was
displayed in the window.

Angela strolled
into La
Bacha
just after eight. She was wearing a
pale green floral dress that fell just below the knee.