Sleeping Arrangements (24 page)

Why hadn't he known? Why had nobody said? But ever since they arrived, they had all deliberately been avoiding discussion of work. Chloe's voice ran again through his head, like salt on raw skin. We're not talking about work . . . We've been under a great deal of strain recently . . . Philip's under serious threat of redundancy . . .

Hugh flinched, and took a sip of wine. Redundancy. It was a word he and his colleagues avoided using—even in private correspondence. Such negative overtones of depression and failure. He tended to use the phrase 'restructuring'—and, where possible, to refer to units rather than people. He had no idea what words were used when employees were actually being told the bad news. Dealing directly with people was nothing to do with him.

Of course, he'd met plenty of National Southern staff, one way or another. He'd attended meetings with key contributors to the bank; he'd been present at the huge, tense assembly which had been held straight after the announcement; he'd even sat in on a morale-boosting focus group, in which employees were assiduously questioned on what they thought this merger meant for them, personally, and their answers fed into a customized computer program.

But that was theory. Real people, yes—but anonymous and unknown and therefore still theory. Whereas this was real life. This was Philip's life, and it was Chloe's life. And it was his life.

Hugh took another gulp of wine, then stared at the glass in his hand as though memorizing its form. The fact was, he thought steadily, that if Philip lost his job, Chloe would never leave him. Of that, he was quite certain. The knowledge hung in his mind like a glass mountain. A hard, shiny, insuperable obstacle. If Philip was made redundant, it was over. He had no chance.

His grasp tightened. Perhaps he had no chance anyway. Chloe had told him as much that morning, hadn't she? She'd stood in front of him and told him it was over, that it had been a stupid mistake. Perhaps he should believe her.

But he couldn't, just couldn't. He'd seen the light in her eye; the trembling of her lips. All the giveaway signs to show him that she felt just as passionately as he did. Of course she had rejected him this morning. Of course she had felt guilty on waking. But her refusal had been a hasty, knee-jerk reaction—a sign of guilt. It hadn't meant she didn't, deep down, still feel the same way. She could still weaken. It was still possible.

But it was not possible if Philip lost his job. If that happened, nothing would be possible.

Hugh drained his glass and poured another. He took a sip, looked up, and froze. Philip was coming towards him.

Firmly, Hugh instructed himself not to panic. He would act completely normally, and not give away anything. Not before he had all the facts.

He forced himself to smile ruefully up at Philip, and gestured to the bottle.

'Indulging in a bit of the hair of the dog,' he said. 'Care to join me?'

'Actually,' said Philip, speaking as though with enormous effort. 'Actually, Hugh, I've got a fax for you.'

'Oh,' said Hugh, puzzled. 'Thanks . . .'

He held out his hand as Philip produced the cream-coloured pages, and froze as he saw the distinctive PBL logo at the top of the page. Oh fuck, he thought, his throat suddenly tight.

That stupid fucking moron Della . . . He looked up and met Philip's eyes, and felt his heart plummet.

'So, Hugh,' said Philip, in the same curious voice, and flashed Hugh a tight smile. 'When, exactly, were you thinking of breaking the news to me?'

'I didn't know,' said Hugh. He looked up at Philip's tense, angry face, and swallowed. 'You have to believe me, I didn't know.' He shifted his eyes to the fax in his hand and scanned the message typed from Della:

Dear Hugh, hope you got my message. I enclose the relevant pages of the Mackenzie review. Best, Della.

And, underneath that, a bland statement to the effect that the contents of this fax were confidential and intended solely for the use of the individual or entity to whom they were addressed.

He hadn't yet looked at any of the subsequent pages. But it was obvious what news they contained for Philip. Jesus, thought Hugh yet again, feeling slightly sick, what had Della been thinking of? For any National Southern employee to see this report, firsthand, was a corporate communications disaster. Let alone this guy, standing there in his shorts and bare feet. This man he knew but didn't know; whose life he already desired to disrupt but in a totally different way . . .

'Philip, I had no idea you worked for National Southern,' he said, his voice strengthened by the fact that on this, at least, he was being honest. 'Not at the beginning.'

'So what about this?' Philip gestured roughly with the fax. He looked completely different.

Hugh thought, from the amiable guy who had sat next to him last night, getting slowly sozzled.

This man was tense, angry, and suspicious, staring at Hugh with no hint of friendliness in his face. It was as though they were meeting for the first time.

Which in a way, thought Hugh, they were. All that crap about not talking about work, about wearing T-shirts and relaxing and forgetting about real life—it was bullshit, wasn't it? You couldn't escape real life, even on holiday. It was there all the time, waiting to come after you.

Coming at you through the fax, through the phone, through the TV. And if you were unprepared for it, so much the worse.

'I didn't know until today,' he said. 'I had no idea who you were. Then I came across Nat.

He had a folder with the PBL logo on it. I asked him where he'd got it, and when he told me . .

.' He shook his head. 'I couldn't believe it. It's crazy. We both work for the same outfit . . .'

'National Southern and PBL are not the same outfit,' said Philip tightly. 'You own us. It's not the same.' Hugh stared at him, taken aback by his hostility.

'The takeover was completely amicable—'

'At board level, maybe.'

Hugh shook his head.

'Not just at board level. Our executive transition team has been monitoring levels of staff satisfaction throughout the organization, and they have found that—'

'You want to know what my staff call you lot?' said Philip, ignoring him. 'The fuckers.'

Hugh was silenced for a few moments.

'Philip, I'm on your side,' he said at last. 'All I want to do is—'

'All you want to do is find out everything you can about me.' Philip jabbed at the fax. 'Were you planning to tell me any of this?'

'Of course!' exclaimed Hugh. 'Jesus! I wanted to find out what the recommendations were for your benefit. I wanted to . . . warn you, if anything . . .'

'Well, go on, then.' Philip gestured sharply to the pages. 'Go on then, Mr Corporate Strategy. Why don't you read it and find out if it's a happy ending or not?'

His eyes met Hugh's challengingly. After a pause, Hugh turned to the second page of the fax. He read the first few words, then looked up. 'East Roywich,' he said. 'Is that you?'

Philip stared at him incredulously.

'Yes,' he said. 'Yes, that's us. I suppose it's just another name to you, is it?'

Hugh said nothing, but felt his mouth tighten defensively. Why should he know that Philip worked at East Roywich? He didn't even know where East Roywich was, for fuck's sake. He scanned the page quickly, then turned to the next, and scanned that, too. As he read phrase after unambiguous phrase, his frown deepened. East Roywich wasn't even borderline. It was going to go. And quickly, by the sound of things.

'I haven't misread the jargon, have I?' said Philip, watching him. 'You're going to close down the branch.' Hugh turned to the last page of the fax and gazed at the final paragraph without taking in a single word. What was he going to say to this guy? He wasn't the bloody communications officer.

'What this merger is about,' he said, without looking up, 'is creating opportunities. Opportunities for PBL—and opportunities for National Southern. In order to maximize those opportunities—'

'You're going to close the branch.' Philip's voice cut harshly through his words. 'You're going to "downsize" us. Is that what you people call it?'

' "Rightsize",' corrected Hugh automatically, and raised his head, to see Philip staring at him with an expression bordering on contempt. 'Oh God,' he said, rubbing his face. 'Look, Philip. I'm sorry. I really am. This wasn't my decision. It isn't even my area . . .'

'But it is going to happen,' said Philip, his face tense and pale. 'Or is it just a suggestion?'

Hugh sighed.

'Unless for some reason the board decides to ignore these recommendations, which is . .

.'

'Impossible?'

'Unlikely,' said Hugh. 'Very unlikely.'

'I see.' Philip sank slowly down onto a chair. He spread his fingers and stared at them for a few silent moments. Then he looked up at Hugh, a hint of hope flickering across his features. 'And not even the Head of Corporate Strategy could persuade them?'

His voice was light, almost joky. But there was a thread of optimism there, all the same; a spark of entreaty. Hugh felt a sinking within him. He turned to the fax again and read the analysis more carefully, searching for redeeming features, for points of merit.

But there were none. East Roywich itself was a suburb on the way down. The branch had done very well in the mid-nineties; had even won an internal award or two. Since the building of a new shopping centre three miles away, however, East Roywich had suffered as a high street—and performance at National Southern had fallen. The customer base had shrunk; revenues had decreased; several marketing initiatives had failed. Whichever way you looked at it, it was dead wood.

'I'm sorry,' he said, looking up. 'There's nothing I can do. Based purely on performance—'

'Performance?' said Philip sharply.

'I don't mean your performance,' said Hugh quickly. 'Obviously. I mean the branch, as a whole . . .' As he met Philip's tense gaze, he felt his neck flush and his fingers clenched the fax tightly. Jesus, this was hard. Telling the plain commercial truth to someone, face to face.

And to someone he actually knew . . . 'According to this analysis,' he pressed on, 'the branch hasn't been operating quite as one might have hoped—'

'And are you surprised at that?' retorted Philip hotly. 'Christ, you people, with your figures, and your plans, and your . . .' He broke off, and pushed his fingers through his dishevelled hair. 'Can you understand what the last few months have been like? We've had absolutely zero communication from you lot. The staff have been uneasy, the customers have been asking every day if we're going to close. . . . We had a local marketing project planned which had to be scrapped until we knew what was going on. We've been treading bloody water for three months. And now you say we're going to close because of performance!'

'The period post-merger is always a difficult time for everyone,' said Hugh, seizing on a point he could answer. 'That's understood.' He pointed to the fax. 'What these figures refer to, however, is sub-optimum performance—'

'So, has it been difficult for you?' interrupted Philip. His face was taut and white; his lips were trembling with anger. 'Have you lain awake at night, worrying and wondering and wishing you had just one piece of tangible information? Have you had customers questioning you every day, and staff morale disintegrating to the point of collapse? Have you had a marriage nearly break down because you can't stop obsessing about what the fuckers at PBL might decide? Have you, Hugh?'

His voice spat through the air, sharp and sarcastic, and Hugh stared back at him, discomfited, the smooth phrases gone from his lips. He had nothing to say to this man. He knew nothing of his life, of the day-to-day realities he had to face. What the hell, he suddenly thought, did he know about anything?

The sound of approaching footsteps broke the silence. A moment later, around the corner of the house appeared Jenna. She hesitated, and looked at the two men curiously.

'I was looking for Sam,' she said. 'D'you know where he is?'

'No,' said Hugh. Philip shook his head silently.

'OK,' said Jenna and, after another curious look, walked off.

When her footsteps had died away, the two men looked at each other silently. The atmosphere had broken; it was as though they were starting again.

He should hate this guy, thought Hugh. Rationally, he should hate him. This was the man Chloe loved. This was his rival. But as he took in Philip's tense, anxious face, his tousled hair—and, above all, his overpowering air of nice-guyness—he knew he couldn't. He couldn't hate Philip. And as he reached for his wine and took a cautious sip, he realized that neither could he stand by and watch him lose his job.

It wasn't purely self-interest. It wasn't purely to boost his chances with Chloe that he wanted to keep this man afloat. What Philip had said back there had hit a nerve. Here was a hardworking, decent guy with years of experience, thought Hugh. A guy who obviously cared passionately about his job, about his customers, about the future of the company. This was the kind of employee PBL should be nurturing and promoting, not throwing out. This was an opportunity.

'I'm going to make a phone call,' he said abruptly. He drained his glass and looked up at Philip. 'I know the director of human resources pretty well. I'll see what I can do.'

The study was dim and gloomy after the brightness of the sun outside. Hugh headed straight for the desk, picked up the phone and dialled a number.

'I'll leave you to it, shall I?' said Philip, hovering awkwardly at the door. Hugh shook his head.

'He might want to talk to you. Stay, just in case.' His expression changed. 'Hello. Christine, it's Hugh Stratton here! Yes, that's right. How are you? Good. I was wondering if I could have a quick chat with Tony. He is? Oh good.'

When the line went silent, he glanced over at Philip, who had perched on a chair in the corner of the room.

'I've known Tony a while,' said Hugh reassuringly. 'He's an excellent chap. Very able. If anyone can help, he can.'

There was another pause. Philip sat completely still, knitting his hands together until the knuckles were white. Then he got to his feet.