In Pieces (2 page)

Martha nodded, dumbstruck by the loss of her boss. She had enjoyed working for Mini far more than for her predecessors.

Mini turned and walked purposefully across the room. At the door she glanced back and waved briefly. Then she was gone.

~

Dougy McCormack, Political Editor for
The Scribe
, a critically acclaimed but commercially failing broadsheet, was having breakfast at his desk. ‘Hey, are there any more croissants?' No answer. Dougy sighed. You just couldn't get the staff these days. What kind of a PA abandoned him at such a crucial moment of the day? The kind he had, that's what.

He turned to
The Courier
, a rival paper, but one which he respected and tried to keep broadly in step with. He knew as well as anyone that it offered the most accurate media barometer for the government's policies. While he could read the gauge and reflect it in his columns, everyone knew that
The Courier
's owner had a symbiotic relationship with key members of the Cabinet. What was less clear was whether Sir Lesley's contribution to government policy exceeded the government's influence on his newspaper. Dougy suspected it did.

‘Wow, that's odd!'

‘What is?' came a nasal voice from the next room.

‘Oh, you're back are you? Thought you'd already left for the day.' The sarcasm seemed to wash over Serena, his secretary.

‘No, Dougy, I'm here for several more hours yet. At least until lunchtime.'

If I ever get another job, I'm going to give up being Mr Nice Guy with my staff, vowed Dougy. No more modern management for me. I'm going to be taken seriously, and I'm not going to take any crap from my subordinates.

‘What is?' insisted Serena. For the moment it was obviously too late, Dougy sighed.

‘What is what?' snapped Dougy.

‘What is odd?'

‘Oh, yeah. I was just reading this, that's all.' He shook a copy of
The Courier
above his head.

Serena immediately lost interest.

Dougy read the leader again carefully. That didn't look like Sir Lesley, not at all. Criticising the government's education policy—not the usual line at all. And not just criticism, but a damning attack. What was going on? His brow furrowed as he puzzled this mystery and sipped his coffee. Blast, it was cold. ‘Serena!'

~

Mark rolled over and stretched out a languid arm. He knew the bed would be empty. Mini was always gone by six and it was now nine. He understood why she went and was never there when he felt like making love to her, but no amount of conscious understanding could completely eradicate the nagging irritation and growing resentment. How could she expect him to be the perfect husband when she was either too tired or absent? It was a lot to ask. Although he knew his job was low-key compared to hers, he wondered whether Mini worried about the small cares of an interior designer any more.

Mark's hand brushed against something. Something soft and silky which yielded pleasingly to the touch. He opened his eyes with a start. ‘What are you doing here?'

Mini yawned and stretched. ‘What do you mean? This is my bed, isn't it, and aren't you my husband? Or were you expecting someone else?'

‘No, of course not. That's not what I meant. Shouldn't you be at work?'

‘Yes, probably.'

‘Is it a holiday?'

‘You could say that,' said Mini thoughtfully. She took his hand and placed it on her silk nightdress. Mark looked at her, puzzled, unaware for a moment that he was cradling her breast. He wondered what Mini was playing at. But then he felt a demanding warmth surge into his groin. There would be time for explanations later. He grinned and leaned over towards his wife.

‘Hey, you… Come here…'

~

‘You offering me the job?'

‘What do you think?'

‘Well, Sir Lesley, it's a bit of a bolt from the blue…'

‘Well, don't hang around admiring the show. Do you want it or not? There are plenty of others who'd jump at the chance.'

‘Yes, yes. Of course I do.'

‘Good. There are certain conditions attached.'

‘Of course.'

‘But we can talk about that when you come in later today.'

‘Today? What time?'

‘Why, are you busy?'

‘Uh, no… Of course not. Anytime, that's just fine by me.'

‘Good. That's what I like to hear.' Sir Lesley knew he'd got the right man already. ‘Let's say twelve, okay? We'll sort out a few details and then take some lunch. Quaglino's okay?'

‘Yeah, sure.'

‘Right. See you at twelve.'

Dougy still pressed the receiver to his ear as the line went dead. ‘Wow! Wow, bloody wow!' he shouted.

‘What's wrong now?' asked Serena.

‘Wrong? Wrong? Nothing's wrong. Nothing is wrong at all! In fact… Everything… Even you… Everything is perfect.'

Serena looked at her boss suspiciously. He'd clearly lost the plot completely this time.

~

Simon Simpson, tall and modestly handsome in a weak-chinned English sort of way, wrinkled his brow and scanned the first edition. It wasn't there. He pursed his lips and exhaled through his nose. His friend Jimmy, who'd got a mention in the sports pages for his goal in Millwall's Second Division victory, had contributed more to the paper than he had.

Si slumped in his chair, swivelled forty-five degrees and undid the cuffs on his electric blue shirt before carefully rolling them up. Damn. He'd spent all day researching that story and then Slimey Stevens, his loathsome boss, had pulled it. He might have guessed this would happen. Si put it down to jealousy but knew that if he didn't get out soon his career as a journalist would be over before it had really got started.

While wondering how to salvage the day, he twiddled his pen and stared absent-mindedly at the screensaver on his desktop computer:
Success isn't the ball at the back of the net, it's getting it there. Success isn't the
—The red text scrolled endlessly across the aquamarine background. Apparently, this was a quotation from the poet-footballer Eric Cantona. Si's boyhood football-fanaticism had faded to indifference after puberty; he only took a passing interest in the game these days, and only then when it concerned Jimmy's fortunes. So he found it hard to pinpoint what had attracted him to the
aphorism; but after seeing it printed large on a sports page he had adopted it for his idle moments—at least until he found something more interesting.

Slimey Stevens,
The Standard
's Diary Editor, sidled over to the desk where Si had spread out the paper. ‘Hi Si, how are you today?' Slimey was forty-three, thin on top, squeezed ridiculously into a yellow check waistcoat, and in the last couple of years had been forced to concede that his parabolic career curve had irrevocably flattened out and could only descend. As a result he had added spite to his rich collection of personality defects, which already included insecurity and bitchiness. Talented and attractive but inaccessible young men, such as Si, had become favourite targets for Slimey's queening acerbity.

Si looked up at Slimey's approach. ‘Fine… Well actually, no. I'm bloody pissed off.'

‘Oh, why's that?' Slimey was doing a bad job of hiding his
schadenfreude
.

‘Because you pulled my story, that's why.' Si knew he had to hold back and control his temper. Otherwise he'd be out of a job.

‘Oh that. Yes, I know, sorry luv. But it just wasn't up to it. That's all.' Slimey made to move off. ‘It's a tough old world, journalism. You'll just have to get used to it.'

‘But it was a perfectly good story. You know it was.' Si was about to accuse his boss of doing him down deliberately, but just bit his tongue in time.

‘No it wasn't. It was crap. Far too political for us. If you can't understand that, then you'd better reassess your options, I'd say.'

‘You would, would you?'

But Slimey didn't bother to reply. He'd had his fun. He turned his back and walked over to his own desk to start the day's work. If Simpson could be riled so easily, then he'd have no problem getting rid of him before long. But not quite yet; he wanted to enjoy the situation a bit more first.

Si watched Slimey waddle away. He ran his fingers through his mop of wavy hair and rested his head in his hands, crumpled over the desk. This was awful. Where had things gone wrong? Until only a few weeks ago he'd been doing great. ‘The high-flyer' was how he'd heard someone describe him. But now it was all about to go down the pan. When the phone rang he watched it for about ten seconds, too depressed to answer.

‘Why don't you answer your phone?' Slimey called across. ‘It might be a story and, God knows, honey, you need one…'

‘Hello,
Standard
Diary…'

‘Hi, can I speak to Simon Simpson please?'

‘Speaking.'

‘Hi, Simon. This is Martha Rogers. I work for Douglas McCormack.'

Si sat up. Like the rest of the media world, Si was very aware that McCormack had just been appointed to succeed Mini Bournemouth at
The Courier
. ‘Yes, of course…'

‘Mr McCormack was wondering if you could pop into the office later today. He has a proposition for you.'

‘Really? Can you tell me what exactly?'

‘No, I'm afraid I can't. Only that you may find it worth your while. Mr McCormack has seen your work and he likes it. I think you'll be interested in what he has to say.'

‘Oh, right. What time?'

‘Say about three?'

‘I'll be there.'

‘Good. See you then. Bye.'

‘Bye.' Si's heart was thumping. The excitement was almost painful. Could this be it? The break that would take him out and above the likes of Slimey Stevens? He didn't dare to hope, but it was impossible not to. Three o'clock seemed an eternity away.

~

‘Another?'

‘Yeah, why not?'

‘It'd be rude not to, eh?'

‘I guess so.' Jimmy stood up, pulled up his jeans and tucked in his tee shirt. He wandered over to the bar and returned soon after with two handsome pints.

Si and his best mate Jimmy were in their local, The Feathers. The pub provided them with a refuge and a second home. They sat on high backed chairs in the corner at their usual table, a rough wooden rectangle covered in beer mats and the circular stains of a thousand pints, many consumed by Si and Jimmy. A dozen other tables clung to the walls, but most of the pub was given over to space before the long L-shaped bar. On Friday night this space would be filled by a heaving mass of drinkers celebrating the end of the working week, but during the day it was empty and the bare boards, uncluttered by drinkers, made the pub seem much larger and lighter than it really was. On the other side of the polished oak barrier, the bar staff shuttled up and down in the deep slot as if attached to a rail. Their reflections flickered in the hanging beer glasses and stencilled mirror, which ran the length of the bar. The Feathers was nothing special really—much like several hundred other Edwardian pubs in southwest London. But it was important to Si and Jimmy and associated inextricably with their friendship.

Si watched Jimmy weave his way towards him. His friend was poised, the natural athlete balancing two full glasses carefully. A girl turned her head as Jimmy passed, clearly impressed by his trim body, clean-cut good looks and smiling eyes. The extra-short haircut was neat, and baggy jeans concealed large thighs—always, reflected Si, a winning factor with girls.

‘Thanks for that,' said Si, sipping carefully so as to preserve the spumy head for as long as possible.

‘You look like you're seducing it, not drinking it.' Jimmy wasn't malicious, just mucking about. He knew Si well, better than anyone probably. They'd grown up together and, although they'd now gone different ways, they still saw enough of each other to know what was what. ‘You take your tongue out of there, you pervert. You can get arrested for that, eh?'

‘Piss off,' said Si matter-of-factly and resumed drinking.

Jimmy laughed and took up his own pint purposefully. ‘So how's it going?'

‘What?'

‘The new job, what else?'

‘All right. It's all right.'

‘Is that all?'

‘Yeah, it's really good now I come to think of it. Most of the time.'

‘I s'pose that's true of everything.'

‘Not everything, but work anyway. I catch myself thinking there must be more to life than turning up to an office and working all day. Know what I mean?'

‘Yeah, suppose so.'

‘Not that you've ever worked in an office, mind…'

‘Hold on. Football is a job too, you know. Bloody hard work too…'

‘Yeah, sure. I wasn't saying otherwise. Only you don't work in an office, do you?' They drank quietly. ‘The thing that gets me, you know, is how broken up modern life is… D'you see?'

‘No, can't say I do,' answered Jimmy. He was used to the reflective side of Si. He sat back expecting some obscure musing from his friend and was ready to humour him. He wouldn't respond; he never did. Not that he minded listening. It was just that he didn't understand what Si was on about half the time.

‘Well,' said Si patiently, ‘we all run around like headless chickens doing things, work and going to the pub and meeting people and so on, but much of it doesn't make sense. What's lacking is something to hold it all together. You know, a structure.'

For once Jimmy broke his rule and tried to get his head around Si's philosophising. ‘You mean like a jigsaw puzzle in a box?'

‘No, not really,' said Si gently, slightly surprised by Jimmy's observation.

He paused for thought and watched his friend drinking. He hadn't expected his friend to participate and had been using Jimmy much as a dandy uses a mirror when dressing: to glance vainly into from time to time just to confirm and take pleasure in his wondrous appearance. But Si wasn't an intellectual snob and was prepared to consider Jimmy's simile.