Working It Out
Alex George

For Christina

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

ONE

Johnathan Burlip zipped up and sighed. There was something reassuring about peeing in Chloe’s bathroom. Watching the blue, Domestos-drenched water in the bowl ripple and then assume the hue of the flesh of a ripe avocado, he had reflected that some things in life never changed, immutable in their truth and simplicity. Two and two still made four, and when you mixed blue and yellow, you still got green. Such things were precious, to be grasped in times of crisis.

He looked around the terracotta and black bathroom with distaste as he pulled the duck that sat suspended in mid-flight on the end of the flushing-chain. Blue noisily replaced green, ready for the process to be repeated. Johnathan sat down on the loo he had just used, and wondered what to do. He desperately didn’t want to go back downstairs. He traced a line through the brown Terylene shagpile with his foot, and considered possible excuses. An upset stomach, perhaps. Chloe’s aggressive vegetarian dietary tactics always had an adverse effect on his digestive system. Results were spectacular, having a similar effect on the lavatorial plumbing to that of a jack-knifed lorry in the Dartford Tunnel on a Friday night. Nothing got through. No U-turn. No U-bend, for that matter.

Johnathan decided that nobody would be convinced. He belched chickpea and got up. He opened the door and slouched towards the stairs, stopping outside the kitchen to consider a petunia, which he had given Chloe some months previously by way of apology for some deemed transgression, he forgot what. The plant looked how he felt. Thirsty. And wilting.

The door opened and Chloe’s sister Harriet appeared. She looked at Johnathan balefully. Her eyes were smudged with cheek-bound mascara.

‘How is she?’ he asked.

Harriet considered. ‘Like Eeyore with a period.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Johnathan.

He went into the kitchen. Chloe was slumped in a chair at the large table in the middle of the room, staring into a half-empty wine glass. She did not look up as he approached.

‘Um,’ said Johnathan.

Chloe did not move.

Johnathan waited, wondering what to do. He glanced over towards the sink. Troilus was lying on the floor, horribly inanimate. The pool of blood which surrounded his squashed head like a halo had started to expand with a ghoulish inevitability towards the fridge.

‘I’ll get a cloth,’ he said. He went to the cleaning cupboard and began to pad kitchen roll around the edges of the growing puddle.

Once the tide of blood had been stemmed and the sodden roll disposed of, Johnathan stood up and waited for instructions. Her eyes still fixed firmly on her wine glass, Chloe finally said, ‘Bury him by the mange-touts, and then leave. Don’t come back.’

‘Right,’ said Johnathan, wondering what decomposing cat did for the nutritional qualities of vegetables. He rolled up his sleeves and picked up the dead animal, who responded with a last spirited gush of cloying blood, scoring a direct hit on Johnathan’s trousers. Johnathan smiled grimly. He didn’t care. Got you at last, you little bastard. He went outside to look for a spade.

Johnathan Burlip detested cats. He was very, very allergic to them. If there was a cat within two hundred yards, it would unerringly track him down and snuggle up to him, purring in unreciprocated affection. He had about ten seconds in which to whip out a handkerchief with which to stem the ensuing nasal catastrophe.

Troilus, unfortunately for him, had been particularly fond of Johnathan. He loved to coat Johnathan with his fur, huge quantities of which seemed to disengage automatically on contact. Johnathan’s enmity towards cats in general developed a new focus of Troilus in particular. Over time, this had gradually developed into an unhealthy paranoia. He used to have nightmares in which Troilus could speak, dance and sing. One night he appeared as Mephistopheles and explained how Macavity wasn’t that much of a mystery cat, he just had a good agent.

Johnathan kicked Troilus into the hole he had hurriedly dug. The chapatti pan had scored a direct hit on Troilus’s cranium, causing instant departure for Cat Heaven. Johnathan had been drying the chapatti pan after dinner, while Troilus, as usual, had been sitting archly at his feet, particles of cat wafting from his fur up Johnathan’s nostrils. Just as the chapatti pan was dry, the urge to wallop Troilus became overwhelming. Johnathan hadn’t really thought through the consequences. He was suddenly overcome by tiredness and irritation, and after a brief internal dialogue, the essence of which was ah, fuck it, he had deftly played a forceful on-drive with uncharacteristic accuracy and panache, Troilus’s head obligingly playing the part of the cricket ball. Wop. Out.

Johnathan covered the dead body with topsoil and enjoyed a brief jig of victory on his victim’s grave to smooth out the surface. He trudged back towards the warm lights of the house. Chloe had vanished from the kitchen. Instead Harriet had returned downstairs and sat at the table, watching the steam rise on the last cup of decaf of the day.

She looked at him. ‘She’s gone to bed,’ she said.

‘Right,’ said Johnathan awkwardly.

There was a pause.

‘Prat,’ remarked Harriet.

Johnathan shrugged. ‘I’ll let myself out,’ he said.

‘Bye,’ said Harriet.

Johnathan nodded, and opened the front door.

On the cold Fulham street a few empty crisp packets tangoed listlessly between the parked Peugeot 205s. He turned up the collar on his coat and headed down the hill towards Parsons Green tube.

TWO

The telephone was ringing.

Slowly, very, very slowly, its insistent shrilling filtered through the syrupy mire of Johnathan Burlip’s sleeping brain. As consciousness arrived, he became aware not only of the telephone but also of a brutish throbbing just behind his eyes. He groaned, rolled inelegantly out of his bed, and tottered out of the bedroom. Barely awake, he picked up the phone and said,

‘Ugh.’

There was a pause. Then:

‘Bastard.’

Johnathan blinked. He swayed slightly. The throbbing was spreading from his eyes backwards into his brain and upwards to his temples, where it sat, deeply malignant, radiating pain. The clock in the hall seemed to suggest that it was six o’clock in the morning. He waited.

‘Bastardbastardbastard.’

Johnathan closed his eyes. It was Chloe.

‘Hello Chloe,’ he said.

‘Oh no you don’t. Oh no you bloody don’t. Don’t think for one minute that you’re going to sweet-talk your way out of this one. No way. Not this time. End of story. You’re history.’

‘OK,’ said Johnathan.

‘Look,’ said Chloe, ‘don’t even bother trying. It’s a waste of time. It won’t work. It’s pitiful, actually. You’re pathetic. You’re just a drivelly, snivelling pathetic man. God. I can’t believe this. At least have a bit of dignity.’

‘OK,’ said Johnathan.

‘I mean, Jesus. You killed my cat. You’re a murderer. I should report you to the police. The RSPCA. You are in serious trouble. Serious. You can just forget everything. How you can even ask me to contemplate having you back at this stage is beyond me.’

Johnathan woke up. He had asked no such thing, and nor was he going to. Best to make that clear right away. ‘You’re right,’ he said quickly. ‘I killed your cat. I killed Troilus. I am a murderer. I am vermin. You wouldn’t want to see me again even if I was the last person on the planet.’

Chloe’s tone softened. ‘This self-hate is not good for you,’ she said. ‘You’ve always had low self-esteem. It’s not going to get you anywhere. You need to look at yourself in a more positive light. You do have some good qualities.’

Johnathan started to hop up and down in agitation. This was not going according to plan. ‘I killed Troilus,’ he reminded her.

Chloe sighed. ‘I know. I don’t pretend to understand why. You were looking for a form of externalizing your emotions, you wanted to project your frustrations. You were caught up in the sub-luminous ego strata.’

Johnathan frowned. ‘What?’ he said.

‘But you have a problem. You’re angry about something. You should try and talk about it. You need professional help. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I go all the time. It’s been enormously uplifting, just to be able to share my problems with a sympathetic ear. Voicing my hopes and fears out loud helps them to crystallize within me. I come out more fulfilled, more rounded. More me.’

More fucking nutty, thought Johnathan blackly.

‘Chloe,’ he said after a few moments. ‘It’s over, isn’t it?’

‘God, don’t say that. Don’t ever say that. It’s never over. Things are never that bad. Christ. Things are worse than I thought. You must snap out of it, Johnathan. Come back from the edge. Take a step back and see the better you.’ Chloe’s reedy voice rose a few pitches with excitement.

Johnathan sighed. ‘No, not that. Us. You and me. We’re over. Finished. Aren’t we?’

‘Oh,’ said Chloe, the disappointment audible. ‘I see.’

‘I mean,’ said Johnathan reasonably, ‘I did kill your cat.’

Chloe thought about this. ‘We all have our moments of madness. The insuperable super-ego plays its trump card.’

‘But surely you must hate me now,’ said Johnathan hopefully.

‘Hate? What is hate, at the end of the day?’

‘Listen,’ said Johnathan quickly, keen not to get side-tracked. ‘You’re obviously still very upset. I understand that. You need some time alone. I’m sorry to have caused you so much grief. I understand if you’ll never want to see me again,’ he said.

‘Sweetie,’ cooed Chloe. ‘You’re being terribly hard on yourself–’

‘But I must, I must,’ cried Johnathan, and slammed the receiver down. He stood still for a few moments, dazed, wobbling slightly with queasiness and sleep. His mouth felt as if a herd of camels had surreptitiously crapped in it during the night.

He went into the kitchen and opened the fridge door, squinting against the anaemic glow of the electric fridge light, which felt as if it was burning holes in his retinas. There was no bottled water left. Of course there wasn’t: he had drunk it all when he had arrived home last night, hoping to stave off the mother of all hangovers. The empty bottle lay on its side near the bin. Johnathan dispiritedly took a glass and filled it with warm, slightly opaque liquid from the tap.

Chloe was addicted to self-help manuals. She could speak meaningless psycho-babble fluently, in several different dialects. She could analyse your dreams, tell you how to give up smoking or lose weight by meditation, determine what was the right job for you, and offer potted highlights of all of the world’s leading religions. Johnathan had had enough of her hectoring, if well-meaning, didacticism. All he wanted was to be left alone. It was extremely trying to have one’s numerous weaknesses pointed out and dissected at every available opportunity.

One of these weaknesses, it transpired, was spinelessness. Johnathan had decided some months ago that he could not take any more of Chloe’s banalities, but since then had done nothing until his contretemps with Troilus the previous evening. With anyone other than Chloe the best way to end matters would have been to explain gently that it was time to move on, sorry, and there are plenty more fish in the sea, and it’s not you, it’s me, and I just don’t deserve you, and so on. Johnathan realized that this approach would not work with Chloe: she would somehow manage to twist his words back on themselves and he would in all probability find himself engaged. Instead he had attempted a more oblique approach. In the lowest, slyest way possible, he did everything he could to make life for Chloe so unbearable that she would feel obliged to dump him.

One of the difficulties with this, however, was that he would find himself blinking in disbelief at Chloe’s equanimity as she calmly accepted his most outrageous and offensive behaviour with a brief shrug. Chloe clung on to the relationship with the tenacity of a pit-bull terrier. An entire section of her library was dedicated to Resolving Your Differences, Making that Love Work for You!, Talking it Through, and so on. Johnathan realized that there was a long, long way to go before she had exhausted the remedies available on her bookshelf.

Chloe’s refusal to accept the obvious was the principal reason for Troilus’s fate the previous evening. It had been in many respects a political execution, Troilus no more than a hapless pawn in an altogether more complex game. Johnathan had finally had enough. He had never knowingly killed anything before, apart from the odd mosquito or bath-trapped spider, but couldn’t find it in him to feel much remorse. Troilus was only a cat, after all.

Johnathan went back to the bedroom and retreated under the duvet. Eventually he drifted off into a restless sleep, merciful respite from his aching head. He had not been asleep for long, though, when the telephone erupted once more. Cursing, he walked out into the hall.

Johnathan regarded the telephone suspiciously. He looked at his watch. It was now eight-thirty. It had to be Chloe. The ringing seemed to be getting louder. It felt as if someone was jabbing a needle into his ear. Finally he picked up the receiver, bracing himself.

‘OK you crazy bitch,’ he said. ‘I’m ready.’

There was a discreet cough. ‘Hello darling.’

His mother.

‘Oh. Hi,’ he mumbled. ‘Thought you were someone else.’

‘We’re just off out of the door for this festival in Cardiff, so I thought I’d give you a ring.’

‘Right.’

‘So how are you?’ asked his mother breezily.

‘Fine.’

There was a slight pause. ‘You sound a bit put out, darling. Are you sure you’re all right?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘I didn’t wake you up, did I?’

‘Well, yes, actually, you did,’ said Johnathan as equably as he could.

‘But it’s such a beautiful day,’ said his mother. ‘How can you bear to spend it all in bed?’

‘I wasn’t going to spend it all in bed. I was just having a well-deserved lie in,’ replied Johnathan, aware of the disapproval emanating silently down the line but too hungover to care.

‘And what,’ continued his mother, ‘are you up to this weekend?’

‘All the usual chores,’ said Johnathan. ‘Washing, ironing, that sort of thing. You know me. Glamour glamour glamour.’

‘Oh. If you didn’t have anything special planned you could have come with us. Too late now, though.’

‘Oh well,’ said Johnathan, brightening slightly.

‘It should be absolutely fascinating,’ continued his mother. ‘They’re putting on a lesbian Macbeth, in Welsh.’

‘I see,’ said Johnathan. There was a long pause.

‘Anyway, darling, we must dash if we’re going to miss the traffic. I’ll give you a call early next week. Bye.’

‘Bye.’

Johnathan thought about his parents on their way to their latest jaunt in Wales. To them, culture was a commodity which could be acquired and traded. His parents patronized (in both senses of the word) a stable of unknown artists, whose works hung throughout their cluttered North London home. They invested speculatively but without aesthetic discrimination in the hope that one day the painters would become hugely important and their paintings hugely valuable. Some of the paintings were all right, others were capable of inducing powerful migraines. One looked like an ink-blot test given to deranged children from dysfunctional families. Others looked as if they’d been painted by the children who did the ink-blot tests.

Johnathan’s parents firmly believed that there was a direct correlation between culture and society: the higher the culture, the higher the society. Put another way, the more impenetrable the culture, the more impenetrable the posh accents. They liked to surround themselves with creative people. They knew artists, musicians and writers of varying pedigree, members of the Hampstead authordoxy. They knew a lot of women called Hermione. They were so highbrow their foreheads were permanently stuck to the ceiling.

Johnathan, however, was a solicitor, and was therefore a considerable disappointment to his parents. It was not something they could drop into conversation with any hope of carving further notches on the bedpost of artistic pretension. ‘My son the solicitor,’ didn’t have quite the same ring about it as ‘My son the bleak playwright’, or ‘My son the post-modern poet’.

Johnathan, though, suspected that he had an even greater failing in his parents’ eyes. He was straight. He liked girls. He was incontrovertibly heterosexual.

There wasn’t anything specific he could put his finger on to justify his suspicion, but the cumulative circumstantial evidence seemed compelling. He had been encouraged with his dried flower collection from an early age. For his fourteenth birthday he had received a copy of Joe Orton’s diaries, and was earnestly told that it represented a viable lifestyle choice. His parents always looked rather crestfallen when he introduced them to new girlfriends. Worst of all, though, they had added an ‘h’ to his name.

Johnathan’s extra ‘h’ had been a source of irritation and inconvenience for as long as he could remember. Nobody except for his parents knew quite why it was there, squatting like an uninvited guest in the middle of his first name. Every credit card, chequebook, and bill missed out his ‘h’. The only people who ever spelled his name correctly were the promotions department at Readers’ Digest who regularly tried to entice him into entering the Biggest Prize Draw Ever. He had grown accustomed to watching people frown slightly as they looked at his business card, while they tried to work out what was wrong with it. Johnathan had become convinced that his parents had burdened him with the redundant consonant to show that their son was somehow different. Well, maybe he was, but not that different.

Sexually Johnathan had grown up in a drearily unspectacular way. He finally managed to lose the millstone of virginity during his first, parent-free, week at university in the traditionally messy and awkward way. He was leerily propositioned by an unattractive and very drunk biochemistry postgraduate in the college bar, and woke in her bed the next morning experiencing elation, disgust, and a splitting headache. After that Johnathan had failed to have proper sex with anyone else until he had left university.

Johnathan remembered that there was a bottle of aspirin in the bathroom. His hangover was clearly too sophisticated to be dealt with simply by way of sleep. Something chemical was required. He sloped off to the bathroom, took three pills, and went into the kitchen.

Johnathan switched on his espresso machine, which soon began to chugger and whoosh and gurgle in a way more soothing than any mother’s heartbeat. He had never really stopped to consider his relationship with his coffee machine from a Freudian perspective. It was certainly closer than the one he enjoyed with his mother.

When the little yellow light on the machine clicked itself off, Johnathan flicked the switch and watched as the twin nozzles which hung beneath the matt black belly of the machine began to trickle thick, black liquid into the waiting cup. A few seconds later, the cup was full. Johnathan lifted it to his nose and breathed in deeply, relishing the espresso’s aroma. He sighed a small sigh, and then tipped the contents of the cup down his throat in two quick movements, rather as if he was taking medicine. Johnathan shut his eyes for a few moments, and allowed his mind to go blank. Then he opened them again, and switched the coffee machine back on. Round two.

Some hours later, fully caffeined-up and a few chores to the good, Johnathan sat on his sofa watching a children’s Saturday morning television show. His hangover had slowly cranked itself up to full throttle at around ten o’clock but since then had been winding down so that now it only hurt when he moved or thought. Watching children’s television required him to do neither.

Johnathan’s dog, Schroedinger, was asleep next to him on the sofa, his head resting peacefully in Johnathan’s lap. Nobody knew exactly what unlikely communion had produced him. He looked like the result of a bizarre experiment where a Scottie had mated with a porcupine.

When first-time visitors to the flat met Schroedinger, the conversation always followed the same course with an inevitability which Johnathan had begun to resent.

Visitor: Ah, what’s his name.

Johnathan (gloomily, for he knows what is to come): Schroedinger.

Visitor (frowning): You can’t call a dog Schroedinger.

Johnathan: Why not?

Visitor: Well, you know, Schroedinger’s Cat.

Johnathan (peevishly): Yes?

Visitor: So. It would be all right for a cat, but not for a dog.

Johnathan (testily): But the cat wasn’t called Schroedinger. The cat belonged to Schroedinger. Sort of.

Visitor: Yes?

Johnathan: So, logically, a cat is the last creature you would call Schroedinger.

Visitor (uncertainly): Because.

Johnathan: Because cats don’t own cats.

Visitor: Are you telling me that your dog owns a cat?

Johnathan: No of course not–

Visitor: Well then.

Johnathan:–all I’m saying is that, logically, it makes more sense to call a dog Schroedinger than a cat.

Visitor (unconvinced): But Schroedinger’s Cat.

Johnathan: OK, take another example. Take a Rubik’s cube.

Visitor (unsure where this is leading): OK.

Johnathan: Well, you obviously wouldn’t call a Rubik’s cube ‘Rubik’, would you, because we all know that’s the name of the chap who invented it.

Visitor: ?

Johnathan: Look, if you’re going to be picky, Schroedinger’s Cat was dead anyway.

Visitor (cleverly): Ah, but that’s the point. We don’t know that.

It was on days like this that Johnathan was relieved that Schroedinger was, if anything, lazier than he was. He was not the sort of dog which insists on dragging its owner for a brisk tour around all the interesting piles of dog shit in the area within five minutes of its owner’s first bleary-eyed appearance in the morning, and Johnathan loved him dearly for it. Schroedinger preferred to remain in the relative tranquillity of Johnathan’s small garden, where he could relax and defecate at leisure.

Johnathan sat back and sighed. He stared up at the ceiling and considered the weekend that lay ahead. His fridge was presently home to a half-empty jar of mayonnaise and an onion. His entire week’s washing lay crumpled at the foot of his bed.

He decided to slip out to do his weekend shop at the local store. Gently he pushed Schroedinger’s head off his lap and stood up. Schroedinger wagged the stump where his tail should have been, and yawned at Johnathan’s disappearing back.

When Johnathan returned home, having bought some fantastically expensive baked beans and a pre-sealed pack of bacon, his answer-phone was winking at him. Chloe, he thought. He put down his shopping and debated whether or not he was feeling sufficiently robust of spirit to listen to the message. Finally he pressed the little red button. The tape whizzed back and crackled into action. There was a beep.

‘Hi, it’s Topaz. Could you give me a ring as soon as you get in, if you’re back today? You could just be a life saver. OK. Hope to hear from you later. Ciao.’

Johnathan’s heart leaped, and then sank again. He knew at once what Topaz wanted. Someone must have turned down her dinner party invitation, and she was one short for the night. Few things were as important to Johnathan’s friends as getting the boy-girl-boy-girl seating arrangements just so at their dinner parties. Absences were not tolerated kindly. Johnathan had, by accident rather than design, carved a niche amongst his circle of acquaintances as a last-minute social substitute extraordinaire. He rarely had any social engagements of his own and so was always available to turn up on short notice and make up numbers. Unfortunately he had proved himself so reliable in this capacity that people had stopped inviting him to dinner parties at all, just in case anybody dropped out. His social life therefore depended upon other people falling ill, breaking promises, or suffering unforeseen mishaps. When things went according to plan, Johnathan was redundant. When things went wrong, he was a hero. Johnathan knew how members of the medical profession felt.

Still, he told himself, it was Topaz. At least she was thinking of him, if only as a last resort.

Topaz was the sort of girl Johnathan had dreamed about meeting for years. Now that he had, he found himself awake in the middle of a nightmare. They had met some years previously at the birthday party of a mutual friend whom Johnathan had known at university. It had been a fancy dress party. The theme had been ‘The Empire’. Johnathan had, rather wittily he thought, gone as a mint imperial. He first met Topaz, who was dressed as Princess Leia from Star Wars, as he was coming out of the downstairs toilet. When she came out a few minutes later, Johnathan was still standing there, trying to reach a zip at the back of his costume. Topaz took pity on him, and helped. Fuelled by embarrassment and alcohol, Johnathan had misinterpreted this act of kindness as a clear indication that Topaz wished to go to bed with him, and later on the same evening he had clumsily propositioned her. Topaz, crushingly amused, had politely declined his offer. Instead she had kissed him lightly on the cheek and told him he was sweet. Despite the ‘sweet’ comment, they had remained friends.

She worked as a subeditor for a home furnishings and interior decorating magazine. She was independently wealthy, intelligent, and impossibly gorgeous. She was also not the slightest bit interested in Johnathan in a sexual context. Johnathan, on the other hand, was extremely interested in Topaz in a sexual context. She appeared to him in his dreams, usually either sitting naked in his kitchen slicing up cucumbers or emerging from the sea in a low-cut rubber wetsuit holding a large harpoon that had already shot its bolt. This unhealthy obsession had continued unabated throughout Johnathan’s other recent relationships. If anything, it had become worse. Topaz was a useful means of distracting Johnathan from Chloe’s relentless barrage of inanities, and he would frequently drift off into a lustful reverie while she jabbered on, which had on one occasion been awkward as he had been unable to explain why Chloe’s discourse on parachutes, and their colours, had produced a rather obvious erection. Chloe had begun to suspect that he was actually turned on by that stuff.

Johnathan had by now resigned himself to the fact that he would never summon up enough courage to ask Topaz whether she might consider taking their relationship beyond the merely platonic. He thought that perhaps initially there had been a flicker of interest from her, but now, nothing. Things were strictly platonic. Indeed, things were so platonic that Topaz felt able to regale Johnathan with stories of her sexual adventures with such attention to detail that it made him weep; not with sympathy or jealousy, but from the pain of his erection straining against his trousers.

It was a difficult position. He didn’t love her, or anything complicated like that. He was just desperate to go to bed with her. As he became more and more obsessed, her company became less and less bearable. Now, of course, with Chloe out of the way, there was no reason why he shouldn’t just ask her, but he knew that he was too much of a coward. He decided that he would rather suffer the priapic indignities of being her principal sexual confessor than run the risk of scaring her off completely. This sort of agonising pain was better than that sort of agonising pain.

Why? Johnathan asked himself as he picked up the phone. Why do I do this?

THREE

Johnathan arrived at Topaz’s house late, sweating a bit and clutching a plastic bag with a bottle of red wine in it.

Topaz opened the door. She wore a mustard yellow velvet trouser suit and no make-up. Her hair fell around her bare neck in dark ringlets. She looked fabulous, wonderful, perfect, an angel.

‘Hello. You look nice,’ said Johnathan.

Topaz nodded, the compliment expected. ‘Thanks for coming at such short notice.’ She leaned forward and made smacking noises with her mouth about four inches from both sides of Johnathan’s head. ‘Haven’t seen you for ages. Come in.’

Johnathan proffered the bag. ‘A little something.’

‘Oh, how lovely. Thanks. You really shouldn’t have,’ said Topaz, examining the bottle. ‘Terrific,’ she said after a while, thrusting it back into the bag. ‘Well, we can’t stand here and chat all night. Come and join the party.’

She turned and walked slinkily down the corridor towards the kitchen. Johnathan shut the front door behind him and watched Topaz’s buttocks rise and fall delectably as she moved. There was something about velvet, something excessively sensual, that made Johnathan’s mind fuse with desire. He sighed, deeply, and followed the buttocks down the corridor.

Topaz’s kitchen was large for London. It was about the same size as Johnathan’s entire flat. Sitting around a chrome and glass table were six impossibly glamorous people. The scene looked like a Vogue promotional shoot.

‘Everyone,’ said Topaz. ‘This is Johnathan Burlip.’

The impossibly glamorous people eyed Johnathan dispassionately from behind a veil of cigarette smoke.

‘Johnathan,’ said Topaz, ‘this is Jonny, Mark, Gavin, Sibby, Kibby, and Libby.’ The names came out in rapid staccato, as Topaz jabbed the air vaguely with a manicured fingertip. ‘Drink?’

‘Thanks.’ Johnathan shifted uneasily from one foot to the other and plunged his hands into his pockets. One of the girls, Libby or Sibby, regarded him silently as a thin coil of smoke trickled out of her left nostril and spiralled gracefully upwards. She was dressed in what looked like a chiffon nightie. Her skin was almost white, apart from some dark, brutally applied make-up around her huge, doe-like eyes. She was unquestionably beautiful, if rather corpse-like. She was also tiny. Her waist was about the same size as Johnathan’s wrist.

‘Johnathan’s a lawyer,’ called Topaz from the other side of the kitchen. ‘Aren’t you?’

‘Well, yes,’ said Johnathan apologetically.

‘What sort of law?’ asked one of the men, who spoke with an accent that made Leslie Phillips sound like an East End barrow boy. He wore a thick roll-necked sweater and a fashionably tatty green corduroy jacket.

‘Commercial stuff, generally,’ said Johnathan. ‘Buying and selling companies, that sort of thing.’

‘Do you do any Legal Aid work?’

‘Well, not really, no. We don’t do any of that sort of stuff.’

‘Oh. Why not?’

‘Well,’ said Johnathan as politely as he could, ‘we just don’t.’

‘So you’re one of life’s takers, then, not one of its givers.’

Johnathan reeled. What was this? Bash a Lawyer Week? Before he could reply, Topaz appeared by his side, and handed him a glass of what appeared to be Listerine. ‘There you go,’ she cooed. ‘Tell me what you think of that.’ Johnathan eyed the green, viscous liquid suspiciously, and sniffed it. It was Listerine.

‘It’s Listerine,’ he said.

Topaz laughed. ‘No, silly, it’s TAG 69. It’s this amazing drink Libby found on her last assignment in Paris, wasn’t it Libby?’

The girl in the nightie nodded.

‘It’s just like crème de menthe, only more so,’ continued Topaz enthusiastically. ‘We can’t get enough of it now, can we?’

The girl in the nightie shook her head.

‘Well, I’d better leave you to it,’ breezed Topaz and swept off towards the stove with a regal wave. Johnathan took a hesitant sip of his drink, uncomfortably aware that Libby was staring at him with a disarming directness. The drink was intensely minty, very sweet, and clearly very alcoholic. OK, thought Johnathan, so it’s worse than Listerine.

‘What was your assignment in Paris for?’ he asked Libby, ignoring the man in the corduroy jacket.

‘I’m a model,’ said Libby.

What for, Crematoria R Us? wondered Johnathan. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘What sort of stuff do you model?’

‘Clothes,’ said Libby, lighting another Marlboro.

He changed tack. ‘Did you enjoy Paris?’

‘Yeah.’ Puff puff. In contrast to the dazzling sparkle of Topaz’s jade, Libby’s eyes were a lifeless blue. They flickered dully when she spoke, weighed down by half a tube of mascara on her eyelashes.

‘Did you get the chance to go to any of the museums? Paris is full of wonderful museums.’ Please say yes, prayed Johnathan. The conversational options were rapidly dwindling.

‘No,’ said Libby.

‘Oh,’ said Johnathan, defeated.

‘I don’t go for museums much,’ said Libby.

‘Did you know that the French Government puts as much money into the Louvre as the British Government puts into all of the museums in England put together?’ said the man in the corduroy jacket.

‘Really,’ said Johnathan. There was a pause. ‘Well,’ he continued affably, ‘it is a pretty large museum.’

‘I suppose the British Government has better things to spend taxpayers’ money on,’ said the man. ‘Illicit payments, backhanders, jobs for the boys. Greasing the palms of corrupt officials, or bent lawyers.’

‘Careful Gavin. Your nostrils are flaring,’ said one of the other girls. ‘It’s not very attractive.’

‘Neither is the sight of the rich getting richer, parasites feeding off the carcass of the nation while everyone else is suffering.’

‘God, give it a break, will you?’ said the same girl. ‘Change the record. Any more of life’s iniquities and I’ll throw up.’

‘Your trouble is,’ said Gavin, ‘that you’ve just given up fighting the status quo.’

‘Wrong. I haven’t given up. Because I haven’t begun. Nor do I intend to. Politics bores me.’

‘This is more than just politics, Kibby. This is about life.’

‘Well, yes, I suppose you’re right, if life, as you so dramatically put it, is about the sort of vapid banalities that you obsess about.’

Gavin sat back in his chair, too mortified to reply. Johnathan decided that he liked Kibby.

‘What about you, er, Libby,’ he said to the waif next to him. ‘Are you interested in politics?’

Libby ground her cigarette in the ashtray. ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘I don’t go for politics much.’

‘Shan’t be long,’ shouted Topaz cheerfully as she crashed around on the other side of the kitchen. ‘What are you lot talking about? Can’t hear from over here.’

‘Gavin is presenting his blueprint to salvage the country from the clutches of the filthy capitalist pigs who are bleeding society dry,’ said Kibby.

‘Jolly good,’ said Topaz. ‘Best to get it out of the way now while I’m doing this.’

‘Ha ha,’ said Gavin.

There was an embarrassed silence as everyone examined their glass except for Kibby, who was looking directly at Gavin. He was studying the health warning on Libby’s cigarette packet. Johnathan shot an admiring look at Kibby. She caught the movement, turned towards him, and winked at him. Immediately Johnathan looked away, blushing furiously.

‘Right, everyone ready to eat?’ demanded Topaz as she sailed towards the table. ‘We’ll have to rearrange ourselves a little bit. Libby, why don’t you go there, Gavin here, Sibby there, and Johnathan over there?’ Topaz issued directions with the assurance of a born hostess. People obediently moved into their designated positions. Johnathan sat next to Kibby. Gavin huffily moved to the other end of the table. Wine glasses were filled. A large pepper grinder was plonked on the table. It was at least two feet high. Gavin lit the candles in the middle of the table with Libby’s lighter as Topaz staggered over with an enormous orange dish.

‘Here we are,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Only lasagne, but at least it’ll be edible. Riddled with shredded tofu, as usual. Not so much as a whiff of cow.’

Oh hooray, thought Johnathan.

Topaz began doling out portions on to the elegant plates which blended seamlessly with the kitchen’s colour scheme. The plates were passed around the table. As Johnathan handed Kibby hers she smiled. ‘So Mr Lawyer,’ she said. ‘You buy and sell companies.’

Johnathan nodded. ‘Afraid so.’

‘Sounds interesting.’

‘Well. It can be. Sometimes.’

‘Do you have interesting clients?’

Johnathan considered. ‘Not especially. They’re all large corporations. Individuals couldn’t ever afford the fees.’

‘I see,’ said Kibby, prodding her lasagne with her fork. ‘No juicy divorces, stuff like that?’

‘God no. The partners decided a long time ago that human misery wasn’t nearly lucrative enough.’

‘Well, human misery is what some of us specialize in.’ Kibby nodded up the table towards Gavin. ‘Welcome to the world of the insufferably self-righteous.’

Johnathan smiled. ‘I’m used to it. It does rather come with the territory. Although I must say that your friend over there was less backward in coming forward than most.’

‘Oh, you can always rely on Gavin to call a spade a spade. Or a bimanual broad-bladed gardening implement. I’m sure “spade” is quite unacceptable nowadays.’

‘I wish I could be so frank,’ mused Johnathan.

‘I’m not so sure,’ said Kibby. ‘People like Gavin regard frankness as a huge virtue. They see it as a means of avoiding accusations of hypocrisy. They believe that if they spend all their lives facing the truth head-on, and then confronting everyone else with it, the world is somehow going to be a better place.’

‘And you don’t think it will?’

‘Why should it? Discretion has its merits. Apart from anything else, Gavin has a highly idiosyncratic idea of what constitutes truth. All it means is what he happens to think this week. Gavin just cannot shut up, and all that really illustrates is his unshakeable belief in his own convictions. And his inability to listen to anyone else’s opinion without butting in halfway through.’ Kibby sipped her wine. ‘Believe me, Gavin talks an awful lot of self-justifying, narrow-minded bollocks.’ At the other end of the table Gavin was leaning towards Topaz, talking urgently in a low voice. Topaz looked bored.

‘What does he do?’ asked Johnathan.

‘Not much,’ said Kibby. ‘Doesn’t need to. He’s fantastically rich. His father owns an extremely successful detergent manufacturing business.’

‘Very nice.’

Kibby leaned towards Johnathan, a small heap of lasagne balanced on her fork. ‘What we tend not to mention is that Daddy’s business has recently been castigated in the national press for committing some of the worst ecological industrial abuse in the country, despite repeated fines and warnings from the authorities. Daddy has taken the view that it is more economical to pay the fines than to change the manufacturing process and institute a clean-up operation to rectify the damage he’s already caused.’

‘But he can’t do that,’ said Johnathan.

‘You can,’ said Kibby, ‘if you indulge in a little “greasing of the palms of corrupt officials”.’

‘Oh,’ said Johnathan. He looked up the table at Gavin. ‘Presumably he’s turned his back on his father’s business in disgust.’

‘Not exactly. Gavin’s dad wouldn’t give him the sort of job that he felt he deserved. Gavin thought that three years of doing absolutely nothing at university qualified him for a position on the main board. When his father offered him a position as production supervisor in the Coventry factory, Gavin had a bit of a tantrum. Hence the railing against the evils of capitalism.’

‘Sour grapes.’

‘As sour as they come.’

‘So has he severed paternal links in his pursuit of the life of the righteous?’ asked Johnathan. He poured some more wine into Kibby’s glass, and then his own. He noticed that the bottle he had brought was not on the table.

Kibby snorted. ‘Of course not. The detergent business might be morally reprehensible and it might serve to perpetuate the interests of the rich over those of the under-privileged, but it comes in handy to pay for the flat in Chelsea and the insurance premiums on the Porsche.’

Johnathan’s eyebrows shot up. Kibby burst out laughing.

Her laugh was extraordinary. It was not remotely what Johnathan had expected. He had imagined a light, crustless cucumber sandwich of a laugh. What he heard was more a pie and gravy with dollops of mash laugh. It wouldn’t have been out of place in a working men’s club in Macclesfield on cabaret night. It ripped through everyone else’s conversations like a cyclone. It was wonderful.

‘And you,’ said Johnathan, after the cyclone had died away. ‘Are you one of us or one of them?’

‘Not sure,’ said Kibby. ‘Gavin would doubtless say I was one of you.’

‘What do you do? The suspense is killing me.’

‘I work for a film production company.’

‘Sounds glamorous.’

‘Ha. Not really. I make the trailers you see in the cinemas.’

‘The trailers for the films?’

‘Yup. I get presented with two hours of dross and have to cut it down to two minutes of interesting and exciting footage which is going to fool people into spending their hard-earned cash to go and see it.’

‘Sounds quite a job,’ said Johnathan sincerely. It sounded a lot more fun than drafting legal agreements. ‘To capture the essence of a film in that amount of time must be a challenge. Presumably you really need to understand the film, get under its skin and live its, sort of, quiddity.’

‘Not really,’ said Kibby. ‘You just take the best jokes and the most violent bits, and stick them together. And if there’s any nudity, you put it all in. Tits sell.’

‘Oh,’ said Johnathan.

‘Basically, it’s incredibly rare that there’s anything worth watching in a film which wasn’t in the trailer. I get to act as a sort of crap filter, if you like. Of course on occasions the films are so awful that I have to stick crap in the trailers too. Would you mind reaching over and passing me that enormous phallic thing, please?’

Johnathan reached for the pepper grinder. ‘What do you think, Libby,’ he said, turning to his right. ‘Do you like films?’ Libby had been staring vacuously into space having demolished her walnut-sized portion of lasagne in a matter of seconds.

‘I don’t go for films much,’ said Libby.

‘Christ, what a monstrosity,’ said Kibby, as she struggled to control the pepper grinder.

‘That sort of thing makes men feel terribly inadequate,’ said Johnathan lightly.

Kibby looked at him. ‘Do you know why Topaz bought it?’ she asked.

Johnathan shook his head.

‘She uses it as a sort of litmus test for prospective boyfriends.’

Johnathan stopped eating. ‘Go on.’

‘Basically, if Topaz can’t decide whether or not she’s going sleep with someone, she invites him home and cooks for him. At the relevant moment, she plonks this thing down on the table in front of him. And if he makes a remark about the grinder resembling a large penis, she won’t sleep with him.’

Johnathan swallowed.

‘Topaz’s theory is that if they make that sort of fatuous remark that means they’re either hopelessly unoriginal or have very small dicks, or possibly both. Are you all right?’

Johnathan looked stricken. That was it. This was why. He even remembered the moment. He had thought he was being rather witty at the time. He stared blankly at his plate.

‘Hey, you two,’ called Topaz from the other end of the table. ‘Stop canoodling, you flirts. Have some salad instead.’

A few hours later the party had moved to Topaz’s sitting room, where people were drinking coffee. A smog of cigarette smoke hung over the room. The conversation had veered between a variety of obscure and unrelated topics. Kibby, Johnathan noticed, took little part in it, preferring instead to sit back and listen.

Kibby wasn’t exactly pretty. Not in the same way as Topaz. (Not many people were as pretty as Topaz, and those who were didn’t get invited to dinner.) She had big, unfeminine eyebrows, which Johnathan liked. She had laughter-lines stretching in tiny deltas away from the edges of her eyes. Her nose was a bit flat at the top. She had a large mouth. Overall, Johnathan thought, she was all right.

Gavin got up to go. He had not spoken another word to Johnathan since their opening exchange. He surveyed the room with a supercilious air. ‘Lift, anyone?’ Sibby and Libby stuck up their hands together, as if they were being worked by the same puppeteer. There was a general murmuring and shifting of bodies and suddenly everyone was standing, muttering their excuses and preparing to go in that odd way people do at the end of parties, as if they had just been waiting all along for someone else to mention leaving first.

‘Right then,’ said Topaz, ‘let’s form a leaving committee. Where did you put your coats?’ She got up and strode purposefully out of the room. Everyone else dutifully followed.

Just as Johnathan was about to go out into the hall, Kibby grabbed his hand and pulled him back into the sitting room, which had emptied. She looked him in the eye without letting go of his hand.

‘You’re not gay, are you?’ she said.

‘Er, no,’ said Johnathan.

‘Sure?’ said Kibby with a smile.

‘Christ, yes, sorry, no, of course. No, absolutely not.’

‘Do you fancy having sex tonight?’

‘What?’

‘With me.’

‘What?’ said Johnathan again.

‘You know. Sex. Having it off. A bit of the other. Rumpy-pumpy. Bonking.’

Johnathan reeled. ‘Well, I–’

‘It’s not a very difficult question,’ said Kibby.

‘No, no, it’s not, not at all,’ stammered Johnathan.

‘Well then,’ said Kibby coolly. ‘What do you reckon?’

‘Er, OK.’

‘Your place or mine?’

FOUR

They sat in the back of the taxi in silence. Johnathan looked at his hands and wondered what on earth was going on. Twelve hours earlier he had been celebrating his new-found freedom from Chloe and now here he was exercising it in the most obvious way possible. Such things, he mused, usually only seemed to happen to other people.

Kibby regarded him, amused. ‘You once made a remark about the pepper grinder to Topaz, didn’t you?’ she asked.

‘I don’t remember,’ said Johnathan.

‘Thought so,’ said Kibby.

Johnathan- changed the subject. ‘We should be there in a few minutes.’ He watched the deserted London streets pass by.

‘Good. It’s freezing in this cab.’ There was a pause. ‘Johnathan,’ said Kibby.

‘Yes?’

‘We’re only going to have sex together. That’s all. I’m not expecting you to propose marriage in the morning.’

‘I know.’

‘I just wish you’d relax. You look terrified.’

‘I am terrified.’

‘Why? Look, if you prefer, we can just play Scrabble.’

‘I haven’t got Scrabble.’

‘Monopoly?’

‘No.’

‘Oh well, looks like sex it is, then.’

There was another long pause.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Kibby, moving over the back seat and linking her arm through his. ‘If all else fails you must at least have a pack of cards.’

A few minutes later the taxi pulled up outside Johnathan’s flat. It was very late. Johnathan’s hands were trembling as he fumbled with the fare. The driver watched him with amusement. ‘Can’t wait to get going, can you mate?’ he asked jovially. ‘First time, is it?’ Johnathan regarded him with loathing, and halved the tip.

Kibby was waiting patiently on the pavement. As the taxi pulled away, Johnathan smiled at her nervously. ‘Right. Here we are.’

Kibby beamed at him. ‘Can’t wait. Have you got any coffee?’

To his surprise, Johnathan laughed. ‘Tons of it. Come on.’

He unlocked the front door and led Kibby into the hall. He took her coat. Kibby looked around, shivering slightly. Johnathan saw that the answer-phone was winking at him. He ignored it. It was probably Chloe again. ‘What’s that?’ asked Kibby, pointing at Schroedinger, who had just stumbled out of the kitchen, looking around blearily.

‘That,’ said Johnathan, ‘is Schroedinger.’

Kibby laughed her laugh. Schroedinger’s ears went back as his hair stood on end. ‘Hello Schroedinger.’ She bent down and picked him up. Schroedinger was too surprised to do anything. He had never been picked up before. Kibby wrinkled her nose up at him. ‘How are you? Have you missed Johnathan this evening? Do you mind that he’s come home with a strange woman?’ Schroedinger wagged his stump non-committally.

‘How about that coffee?’ said Johnathan.

‘Lovely.’ Kibby put Schroedinger down and walked into the sitting room.

‘Be with you in a minute.’ In the kitchen Johnathan set up the coffee machine in a daze. His brain was a whirr. What was Kibby doing here? Did she really want to have sex with him? If so, what was wrong with the normal channels, the usual procedure? There was a sort of etiquette, after all. You didn’t just ask. He clumsily arranged the cups and saucers on the work surface.

‘Sugar?’ he asked a few moments later as he walked into the sitting room with two full cups.

‘No thanks. I like it black and strong. Like my men.’ Kibby took her cup. There was a pause. ‘Johnathan, I’m joking.’

‘Sorry, yes, of course you are,’ said Johnathan, sitting down beside her on the sofa. Schroedinger sat by the door, eyeing them both suspiciously.

Kibby turned towards Johnathan. ‘OK?’ she asked.

‘I think so.’ He paused. ‘There is one thing.’

Kibby looked at him appraisingly. ‘You don’t have any condoms.’

Johnathan felt sheepish. ‘No.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Kibby breezily. ‘I’ve got stacks. Never travel without them. Be prepared is my motto.’ Kibby saluted and sipped her coffee. ‘Now, there’s an easy way and a hard way of doing this,’ she continued in a matter-of-fact way. ‘Either I wait for you to make a pass at me, in which case we’ll probably be here until well into Sunday afternoon, or you let me make a bit of the running. Does that sound all right to you?’

Johnathan shrugged helplessly. ‘Er, yes, fine.’

‘Right.’ Kibby placed her cup carefully down on the table in front of her. She moved Johnathan’s cup to the far side of the table. ‘Don’t want to knock the coffee over in the excitement, do we?’ she said.

‘Suppose not,’ said Johnathan, who had begun to sweat slightly.

‘Right,’ said Kibby again. She moved purposefully towards Johnathan, and took his hand in hers. She looked into his eyes for several seconds. ‘You look like a startled rabbit caught in someone’s headlights,’ she declared.

‘Oh, thanks very much.’

Kibby moved gently towards Johnathan. She smelled of lavender. She kissed him lightly on the mouth. Their lips scarcely brushed.

Kibby drew back for a moment and looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Very good,’ she said. ‘It’s nice to meet a man who knows how to kiss properly.’ Johnathan looked down modestly. ‘Of course, he needs to know how to kiss improperly, too,’ she added, before moving towards Johnathan again, this time with more propulsion. Her arms went around the back of his neck.

Johnathan was expecting another gentle almost-kiss, and was startled when Kibby unceremoniously stuck her tongue down his throat. He took a moment to recover and then retaliated by sticking his own tongue down hers. There wasn’t enough passing space, and their tongues began to shuttle feverishly from one mouth to the other. Kibby’s tongue gradually began to overpower Johnathan’s and soon established a clear territorial advantage. She started to work towards his tonsils. Johnathan, breathing rapidly through his nose, began to knead Kibby’s shoulders while surreptitiously checking out her bra strap.

With a small moan Kibby pulled away from him. Her face broke into a wide grin.

‘Isn’t this fun?’ she said, turning to the table to retrieve her coffee.

Johnathan nodded, his arm flapping helplessly towards his own cup, out of reach. Kibby turned back towards him, straddling him. She placed her hands on his chest.

‘Sure you wouldn’t rather have a game of whist?’

‘Quite sure,’ gasped Johnathan.

‘Good.’ Kibby put her arms around the back of Johnathan’s neck and lowered herself on to his groin. She felt the bulge of his erection through four layers of material, and wriggled a bit. ‘Mmm, feels nice,’ she murmured softly, her mouth inches away from his, before running her tongue around Johnathan’s lips. As she did so, she gyrated her hips, causing Johnathan to wonder briefly whether the sensation he was feeling in his nether regions was intense pleasure or intense pain.

Kibby resolved the problem by sitting back. It was pain. Johnathan stifled a yelp. What happens when an irresistible force meets an almost immovable object? The almost immovable object gets squashed. And then it deflates.

Kibby had now begun to lick her own lips. She began to unbutton her shirt, staring all the time into Johnathan’s eyes. Johnathan stared back, hypnotized, too frightened to think about the damage she had just inflicted on his rapidly shrinking genitals. When she had undone the last button, Kibby pulled the front of her shirt open and shrugged it off her shoulders and on to the floor. Johnathan apologetically broke off from looking at her face to have a closer look at her chest.

Kibby was wearing a black satin bra, which had small lace details along the top of each cup. She thrust her chest towards him eagerly.

‘I rather think that needs to come off, don’t you?’ she panted.

Johnathan gulped, and nodded mutely. Bras incorporate a particular release mechanism which can only be operated by the owners of at least two X chromosomes. Men just cannot do it. But they are always made to try.

Staring at the small nubs of her erect nipples through the black fabric, Johnathan took a deep breath and reached behind Kibby and ran his hands over the bare skin of her back. His hands descended on the bra hook. He felt tentatively along the line of the strap. It was particularly unfair that he wasn’t even allowed to see what he was supposed to be doing. He wrestled with the clasp, which refused to yield to his clumsy touch. After a few moments of silent struggle, his tongue sticking half out of his mouth in concentration, he looked up at Kibby. She smiled down at him and pushed her breasts towards his face in encouragement. The sight of so much flesh spurred Johnathan on. He began fiddling like a man possessed. Kibby yawned. Eventually she said, ‘Would you like me to do it?’

Johnathan nodded. Three seconds later the bra was on the floor. Kibby had effortlessly unhooked it with one deft swoop of a single hand. Johnathan didn’t mind. Kibby had beautiful breasts, and they were now swaying gently in front of him, about six inches from his face. His erection was staging something of a recovery.

Johnathan reached up, gently cupped one of Kibby’s breasts in each hand, and squeezed. Kibby let out a small sigh. She ran her hands through Johnathan’s hair, and when they were clasped firmly around his head she pulled him fiercely towards her right nipple, urging it into his mouth.

Startled, Johnathan began to flick the end of his tongue over Kibby’s nipple, but as she continued to pull his head closer he took it wholly into his mouth and began to suck it, stopping occasionally to take quick gasps of air. Kibby sighed again, more deeply this time.

Eventually she pulled back. Her face was flushed.

‘Time for bed,’ she said.

Some time later, Kibby said, ‘Well.’

‘Sorry,’ said Johnathan.

‘Don’t be,’ said Kibby. ‘It was nice. Have you got an ashtray?’

‘Somewhere. Hang on.’ Johnathan rolled off the bed. He pulled on his dressing gown which was lying by the door and went to the kitchen. There he took a plate from the drying rack and brought it back to the bedroom. He presented it to Kibby.

‘Thanks,’ said Kibby, who had retrieved her cigarettes from her handbag and was now puffing away contentedly. ‘I always enjoy my post-shag fag more than any other,’ she said. ‘It’s an integral part of the whole process. Of bonking.’

‘It probably takes longer, too, if that performance is anything to go by,’ said Johnathan gloomily.

Kibby eyed him critically. ‘Are you one of these men who worry about their sexual performance so much that unless he can keep it up for an hour and a half and the woman has nineteen multiple orgasms he considers himself a failure?’

‘Yes,’ said Johnathan.

‘Oh God,’ said Kibby.

‘Sorry,’ said Johnathan again.

Kibby rolled over to face him. ‘Look, there is nothing to apologize about, really. It was fine. It was nice. It was cuddly. Please don’t start torturing yourself about it. I enjoyed it.’

‘Cuddly’? thought Johnathan, appalled. Since when was sex supposed to be cuddly? Weren’t words like ‘magnificent’ in the more traditional lexicon of sexual epithets? Or at least ‘passionate’? But ‘cuddly’. Johnathan felt as if he had been compared in bedroom prowess and technique to Humpty Dumpty.

It had been nice. It had also been very quick, and rather humiliating. They had repaired to Johnathan’s bedroom, and undressed as quickly as they could. Kibby had straddled Johnathan and lowered herself on to him. She bent forwards to kiss him softly on his mouth and then whispered in his ear in her best Clint Eastwood voice, ‘Go on, spunk, make my day.’

Johnathan had duly obliged, there and then.

As he came, the pleasure was somewhat eclipsed by his horror of an ejaculation so premature as to be in the wrong time zone. Kibby saw the look of mortified despair which passed over his face. She stopped moving.

‘What’s wrong? Am I hurting you?’ she asked.

‘Not exactly.’

‘What then?’

‘Ah.’ Johnathan had rolled his eyes nervously, silently praying that she wasn’t going to make him say it. She wasn’t. Instead she said:

‘Oh.’

‘Sorry.’

Kibby exhaled languorously, studying the glowing end of her cigarette. ‘You really mustn’t worry,’ she said. She stubbed out her cigarette and carefully put the plate by the side of the bed. She rolled over on to her front and looked at Johnathan. ‘So. Are you going to ask me to stay the night or are you proposing to banish me outside at this ungodly hour?’

‘Well, you can stay, of course. I was hoping you would.’

‘Good,’ said Kibby. ‘In that case do you think I might have something to wear? An old T-shirt or something?’

‘Let me go and see,’ said Johnathan, wearily whipping back the duvet a second time. He was starting to feel very tired. He rummaged around in the corner of his bedroom and found a T-shirt, which he passed to Kibby.

‘Thanks,’ said Kibby, slipping it over her head. She reached out and held Johnathan’s hand. ‘I don’t have to go anywhere tomorrow morning, so I think we should have another go then. OK?’

‘OK.’

‘Got any breakfast?’

‘Cornflakes, but no milk.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Don’t worry, there’s a shop nearby. It sells most things. You can have whatever you want for breakfast.’

‘Goody. I’ll start off with some more of your delicious sausage.’ Kibby laughed again, more softly this time. She kissed Johnathan tenderly on the cheek, and then moved to the other side of the bed and settled down with her back to him. ‘Night.’

Johnathan stared up at the ceiling. He thought of how Chloe would have reacted to his performance. She would doubtless have begun explaining compassionately how he should not be embarrassed by this sort of thing, but should confront it–indeed, here was just the book to help him–90s Man in the Bedroom: Placid and Flaccid.

‘Night,’ he said absent-mindedly. Who was this woman who cared so little for social etiquette, the politics of sexual encounters? Who was this woman with the finely-honed bullshit detector? Who was this woman who didn’t mind sexual failure on a truly epic scale? And, above all, what on earth was she doing in his bed?

Ever since his university days, Sunday mornings in Johnathan Burlip’s life had been reserved for doing precisely nothing, except possibly for taking some pills to temper the Saturday night hangover, and then lying very still until it went away.

When Johnathan woke on this particular Sunday morning he was alone in the bed. From the kitchen came the clanking sound of pots and pans. Johnathan swung his feet on to the floor and went into the kitchen. Kibby was standing by the fridge, fully dressed, surrounded by green plastic bags. Schroedinger was sitting on his bean bag, watching her with benign interest.

‘Hello,’ said Johnathan.

Kibby smiled at him. ‘I’ve been to the shop.’

‘So I see.’

‘Do you want some coffee? I’m going to do scrambled eggs with mushrooms, bacon and sausages. Sound OK?’

Johnathan nodded. He surreptitiously pinched himself.

‘I think I’ve worked out how to use your coffee machine,’ continued Kibby as she began to unpack the bags. ‘Why don’t you go next door and let me deal with all this, and I’ll bring you a coffee and some mango and guava juice. Sounds disgusting, but it was all they had.’

‘Right,’ said Johnathan, feeling a little overwhelmed. He went into the sitting room and switched on the television. A very old children’s show which had been popular fifteen years earlier was on. He watched distractedly. A few minutes later Kibby came in with a glass of juice and a steaming cup of coffee. She put them on the table and came and sat down next to him.

‘Hello,’ she said, and kissed him on the lips.

‘Hello,’ said Johnathan, immediately worried about the danger of his incipient hard-on manifesting itself through the lightweight towelling of his dressing gown.

‘Are you hungry?’

Johnathan looked at her as innocently as he could. ‘Not particularly.’

‘Good,’ said Kibby. ‘Come on then.’ She took his hand and led him back to the bedroom.

Johnathan eyed the over-laden plate with ill-disguised glee. Mushroom, sausage, egg, bacon and fried bread were heaped on top of each other, jostling for space. He looked carefully for a spot to put his tomato ketchup.

‘Wow,’ he said.

Kibby grinned. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’ve worked up quite an appetite.’ She paused. ‘You’d better enjoy it though. Don’t think I make it a habit to cook men breakfast. Strictly first-time shags only, birthdays excepted. From now on it’ll be back to cornflakes.’

A carefully constructed forkful went into Johnathan’s mouth. He chewed contentedly.

Kibby watched him eat. ‘Tell me something,’ she said. ‘Do you really not mind people like Gavin having a go at you? Doesn’t it rankle?’

‘Not really,’ said Johnathan cheerfully. He thought. ‘Well, sometimes it does. Sometimes it pisses me off hugely.’

‘Because they’re right or because they’re wrong?’

‘God, I don’t know. It just pisses me off.’

‘Oh, come on.’

‘All right then, both. They may be right. But what really infuriates me about people who criticize lawyers is that they don’t have a clue what they’re talking about. Lawyers are pretty easy targets, after all. People just make assumptions about how awful and greedy we are. That’s what really irritates me.’

‘Not the fact that most of you actually are awful and greedy?’

‘No. That I can live with.’

Kibby looked around his sitting room. ‘You don’t seem to be doing too badly for yourself.’

Johnathan put down his knife and fork. ‘Look, I’m not saying I’m particularly proud of what I do. I’m not. I don’t even enjoy it, really. I never wanted to be a lawyer. I never used to dream about a life of fighting injustice when I was younger. I just sort of fell into it. I work all the hours God sends and it’s usually pretty bloody boring. I won’t deny that the money isn’t bad, but there should be more to it than that.’

‘Such as?’

‘Recognition. Respect. More personable colleagues. Prospects. Better coffee.’

‘If it’s so awful, why don’t you leave?’ said Kibby.

There was a heavy silence. Then Johnathan said, ‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘I just can’t.’

‘You’re scared,’ observed Kibby.

Johnathan looked at her. ‘Correct,’ he said.

‘Can’t you get another job? One that’s more fulfilling?’

Johnathan rolled his eyes. ‘They don’t exist.’

‘Have you tried?’

‘Well. No. No, I haven’t actually tried. But I know people who have.’

‘Perhaps you should try yourself.’

‘Perhaps I should.’ Johnathan began to eat again.

‘Bet you won’t,’ said Kibby.

‘I bet I won’t, too,’ agreed Johnathan with his mouth full.

‘Shame, though.’

‘Yes, isn’t it?’

There was a pause while Johnathan busied himself in skewering the last mushroom with the end of his fork, jabbing at it half-heartedly as it skidded around the plate. Kibby watched him closely as she sipped her mango and guava juice.

‘You only get one chance at this,’ she said eventually.

‘At what?’

‘Life. It’s not a dress rehearsal. You can’t come back and have another go. It’s now or never. Aren’t you worried that you’re going to wake up one day when you’re sixty and ask yourself what you’ve ever achieved in your life and arrive at the rather awkward conclusion that the answer is probably nothing? And by then it will all be too late. You’re right when you say that there are more important things in life than money. There are.’

‘Breakfast,’ suggested Johnathan.

Kibby ignored him. ‘It’s pointless spending your life running after money if you’re empty inside. At least if you enjoyed your work that would be a reason for doing it, but you don’t. You’re a nice bloke, Johnathan. You deserve better, you really do. You should at least think about it.’

‘I will,’ said Johnathan.

‘Bet you don’t give it another thought.’

‘I will. I promise,’ said Johnathan.

‘We’ll see,’ said Kibby. She drained her glass, and looked at her watch. ‘I should really go.’

‘Oh. Right,’ said Johnathan, suddenly realizing that he desperately wanted her to stay. He watched helplessly as she got up and began collecting her things.

‘Thank you for a nice evening,’ she said. ‘And a nice morning.’

‘Thank you,’ said Johnathan.

‘Here’s where I am,’ said Kibby, writing down a number. ‘It would be nice to see you again, so give me a ring.’

Five minutes later Kibby was gone, after a slightly embarrassing goodbye kiss. Johnathan had aimed for Kibby’s mouth and she had gone for his cheek, resulting in an awkward clash. Johnathan had only narrowly avoided poking out Kibby’s left eye with his nose.

Alone in the flat, Johnathan stood in the middle of the sitting room with a broad smile on his face. After a while he became bored, and so instead sat on the sofa with a broad smile on his face.

Kibby Kibby Kibby, he thought. Nice name. Kibby what? He realized that he did not know her second name. Who was she, actually? He had slept with someone without knowing their surname. Johnathan felt appalled and then felt an unstoppable rush of elation. Kibby. Kibby Something. Kibby Something with whom I have recently had sex. Twice. Johnathan nodded with satisfaction. It sounded good.

Johnathan walked into the kitchen where the dishes from breakfast were stacked up neatly by the sink. He would do them later, he thought. Perhaps on Wednesday. Just then he didn’t want to spoil his moment of glory.

He leaned down towards Schroedinger’s bean bag. ‘Oi,’ he said. ‘I scored.’

Schroedinger looked up at Johnathan, unimpressed. ‘Suit yourself,’ said Johnathan. He beamed. Schroedinger emitted the sigh of the long-suffering self-righteous, and closed his eyes.

Johnathan remembered the winking answer-phone. He went into the hall and reluctantly pressed the button. After a brief crackle of static, a familiar voice echoed through the flat.

‘Hello? I know you’re there. I do. I can sense it. Why won’t you pick up the phone? Johnathan, we need to talk. I’m worried about you. After Troilus. I know you’re upset. I just want to talk to you. I want to check you’re all right.’ There was a small pause, followed by an artfully controlled sob. ‘I think you need help. I wish you’d call me. Soon. Please.’

Johnathan let out a low whistle of appreciation. Some performance. Brilliant. He had fallen for this sort of thing before, but no longer. Chloe was history. He made some more coffee and walked through the flat thinking about Kibby and what she had said about his job. It was, he reflected, nothing new. Such thoughts had been lurking at the back of his mind for years. He had learned to ignore such ideas when they fought their way to the front of his consciousness. Dissatisfaction was all part of the job package, along with private health insurance and gym membership.

Money. The root of all evil. Also the root of quite a lot of pleasure, thought Johnathan. A thought began to nag at the back of his mind that if that was true, he should be getting a lot more pleasure from it than he actually was. He began to wonder where his salary went. He stared at the ceiling, trying to remember what he had spent money on in the previous week.

Johnathan went to the hall table where the last few months’ bank statements had amassed, unopened. He found the most recent one and opened it. He was hugely, cripplingly overdrawn. Johnathan scanned the column headed ‘withdrawals’. He sat down and began systematically to account for each figure on the sheet.

Half an hour, later the awful truth had sunk in. The electricity bill, council tax, mortgage, house contents insurance, income protection plan, water rates, telephone, television licence, car insurance, credit card repayments, interest charges on some long-standing loans and membership of a few university clubs whose standing order he had never got around to cancelling left him with a net income per month which just made it into three figures. His life had been hijacked by a never-ending stream of pleasure-less bills which had set him firmly on the road to financial ruin.

Johnathan threw the treacherous bank statement into the wastepaper basket. Perhaps Kibby was right after all. Something was clearly wrong. There seemed little point in carrying on like this. Something had to be done.

He thought about what Kibby had said. Life was not a dress rehearsal. He thought about his money, or lack of it. He thought about his job. He thought about Gavin’s self-righteous preaching of the night before. Maybe, he thought, the time has come to actually do something about all of this.

Ah, sod it, he said to himself. What have I got to lose?

FIVE

Johnathan arrived at work the following Monday morning burning brightly, full of resolve. Resolve to do what, exactly, he did not yet know. The first thing he needed to do was to check his employment contract and see how much notice he had to give before he could leave.

As Johnathan walked through the marble-encrusted reception area he heard a voice call his name. His heart sank. He stopped, and turned to face Derek, the security guard.

‘Derek, hello. How are you?’ he asked with as much grace as he could muster.

‘Not bad, Corporal, not bad,’ said Derek.

‘Oh good,’ said Johnathan shortly. He detested Derek.

To compensate for spending his entire career behind a desk, Derek, who was about forty, had created a glamorous past for himself. He claimed to have spent several years in a crack unit of the SAS–the Official Secrets Act meaning, conveniently, that he couldn’t go into any details about what he had purportedly done. Instead of walking, he performed a peculiar strut, one arm outstretched in front of him, buttocks fiercely clenched together, a mix of goose-step and quickstep. Presumably this was how people marched in the SAS, like effete nazis.

Derek addressed everyone by military title, according to his perception of their seniority. He cringed respectfully in front of the firm’s partners as if they were generals, whereas, to his chagrin, Johnathan rarely rose above the rank of sergeant. Not even officer material. Johnathan’s lowly rank was accompanied by a patronizing chumminess that he found rather aggravating.

‘Ere,’ said Derek, beckoning Johnathan forward.

Johnathan approached the desk. Derek leaned forward conspiratorially.

‘D’ you see what happened this weekend?’ he asked.

‘What?’ said Johnathan.

‘Those poofters,’ said Derek.

‘What?’ said Johnathan.

‘Them little arse-bandits.’

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Johnathan. He could feel his enthusiasm for the challenges of the day wane, as if Derek was sucking it out of him like a leech.

‘You know. Faggots.’

‘Homosexuals?’ suggested Johnathan.

‘Yeah.’ Derek sat back, satisfied.

‘What about them?’ asked Johnathan after a pause.

‘Well, they’re all queer, aren’t they?’ said Derek reasonably.

‘Derek, what’s your point?’

‘My point is, my point is, right, that another one of them got beaten up in Soho this weekend. There’s been a series of attacks.’

‘Really?’

Derek nodded. ‘Yeah. Quite right too. About bloody time if you ask me. They’re just getting what they deserve. This bloke had his arm broken in three places. I know the technique.’ Derek grimaced, serious. ‘We used a similar method in Cambodia.’ He paused for effect. Johnathan sighed. ‘Course, you’ll have to take my word for that. I’ve said too much already.’ Derek sat back in his chair and pretended to look contrite.

‘Was there anything else?’ asked Johnathan.

‘No, son, that’s it. Just thought you should know. Be informed. Ear to the ground. Reconnaissance is the key to success. Just watch those benders. Nothing’s safe when they’re around.’

‘Well, thanks for that. As edifying as ever,’ said Johnathan, picking up his briefcase and marvelling that nobody had ever complained about Derek. His rather reactionary approach to a whole range of matters would have even the most radical right-wing policy think-tank quivering in excited apprehension.

Johnathan wandered along to his office and followed the usual routine. Put down briefcase on desk. Open briefcase. Stare inside morosely. (It is empty.) Shut briefcase. Sigh, with feeling. Hang jacket on back of chair. Ask: what am I doing here?

Johnathan wandered out of his room and peered around the next corner towards the secretarial pool. His heart sank. Charlotte was at her desk, bolt upright, typing furiously.

Charlotte had been Johnathan’s secretary for five months. In that time they had barely exchanged a word more than was absolutely necessary for their professional relationship to survive. This was not for want of trying on Johnathan’s part, but Charlotte was unwilling to be drawn into conversation about anything at all. And yet she did her job with an unnerving efficiency. She was never late. She never forgot anything. She never made mistakes. She never smiled.

Charlotte was also the thinnest person Johnathan had ever seen. All she ever ate was a small plastic tub of green salad (without dressing), which she brought in every morning and would pick at throughout the day. She looked like an under-nourished Giacometti sculpture. Her hair was always scraped fiercely back into a flaccid pony-tail, which Johnathan had thought accounted for the permanently sardonic look she wore, her eyebrows forever hoisted towards the heavens. It had soon become apparent though that their sky-bound appearance had nothing to do with her hair. Charlotte looked witheringly cynical because she was witheringly cynical. She had a fantastically low opinion of lawyers.

Johnathan and Charlotte were now embarked upon a bitter war of attrition. Charlotte was always sullen, taciturn and grossly unhelpful, but typed like the wind.

As Johnathan approached her desk that morning, Charlotte did not take her eyes off the screen. Johnathan looked at where her hands should have been. All he saw was a blur of motion over the keyboard.

‘Good morning,’ he said.

The blur of motion got blurrier.

‘Any messages?’ said Johnathan.

Charlotte sneered silently.

‘Right. No. Good. I’ll just have a quick look in my in tray, I think.’ In the tray were a glossy pamphlet from the Law Society offering beneficial rates for life assurance policies, and various internal memos. ‘No, nothing,’ he reported, and turned to retreat to his office.

‘Can you take those with you?’ said Charlotte.

‘Take what?’ asked Johnathan.

‘The stuff in your tray. I don’t want it cluttering up my desk.’

‘Well I don’t really want it cluttering up mine either.’

Charlotte glared at him. ‘Right.’ She picked up the tray and emptied its contents into the waste-paper basket.

‘Oh brilliant, thanks,’ said Johnathan, wondering whether the stuff about the life assurance would have been worth reading. He returned to his office and slumped in his chair, exhausted before work had even begun. He wanted to think hard about how best to implement his proposed life change, but first he had some work to do.

Johnathan began to think about his meeting that morning. His client was a gruff industrialist from Halifax who, over the last twenty-five years, had built up a profitable business making plastic children’s dolls, known for their vacuous expressions and improbably proportioned torsos. The gruff industrialist had decided that he had made more money than he would ever be able to spend before he died, and so had decided to retire and sell the business to a massive American corporation, Dolls and Guise Inc.

Johnathan was being supervised on the matter by one of the firm’s partners, a man called Gerald Buchanan. ‘Supervised’ in this context meant that once a week Gerald would wander into Johnathan’s room for thirty seconds in between a lunch appointment and a game of golf to see what was going on. Exceptionally, Gerald had decided to come to the meeting this morning. His golf game had probably been cancelled, Johnathan reasoned.

While Johnathan was aimlessly reading the file, Gerald put his head around the door. As always he gave a strong impression of unruffled calm. He wore a pristine dark blue double-breasted suit with a loud chalk stripe running through it, a crisp white shirt and a pink silk tie which was tied with an enormous knot. His pungent aftershave filled the room.

‘Are the Yanks here yet?’ asked Gerald. He spoke in a languid, self-satisfied drawl which betrayed a life of pampered opulence.

Johnathan looked at his watch. ‘Not yet. They should be here in about ten minutes.’

‘Good,’ said Gerald. ‘I’m just off for a dump, so if they arrive while I’m gone just go ahead and start without me.’

‘OK,’ said Johnathan, wondering how long he was anticipating spending on the toilet.

As soon as Gerald had left, Johnathan’s telephone rang. It was Derek.

‘I’ve got a bunch of Americans in reception for you,’ he said, in the sort of tone which sounded as if he was announcing an outbreak of scabies.

‘A bunch?’ said Johnathan. ‘What do you call a bunch?’

There was a brief pause while Derek did a quick head count. ‘I reckon about five or six,’ he said.

‘God. OK, tell them I’m on my way.’

Johnathan gathered up his papers and set off to the reception area, which was filled with the low nasal drone of transatlantic accents, as people huddled together in small groups talking urgently. As he approached, a short tubby man in a shiny light grey suit waved at him heartily. This was Gary Schlongheist III, the lawyer running the deal for the Americans. He was evil.

‘John, hi, thanks for agreeing to see us so soon,’ said Gary Schlongheist III. He gestured expansively behind him. ‘As you can see, we’ve got a few more troops today.’

‘Yes,’ said Johnathan, hating him. Everyone else had stopped talking and was looking at him critically.

‘The reason for everyone’s being here today is that we have something to discuss which is in our view sufficiently serious as to merit the attendance of all these various individuals for one reason or another as you will see when we get down to business but of course prior to that I will be introducing you to everybody here and explaining to you their roles in this transaction to date and the roles which they will adopt from now on, once of course we’ve all got some coffee down our throats, hey folks?’ said Gary Schlongheist III. Johnathan rapidly felt himself losing control in the face of such officious and long-winded pedantry. He opened his mouth but no noise came out. Schlongheist looked at him questioningly for a few moments and then slapped him on the back and prompted, ‘So, lead on, Macbeth. Which of your rooms do we get to see today?’

Johnathan cast a desperate eye over the group of people. ‘If you’d just like to follow me.’ Feeling like a tour guide, he turned and set off down the corridor which led to the rabbit warren of conference rooms.

The Americans filed into the appointed room and seated themselves along one edge of the long table. Johnathan awkwardly put his papers in the middle of the table opposite the row of faces. Just as he was about to speak, Gary Schlongheist III began again.

‘OK everybody, time for formal introductions. The gentleman sitting opposite you is John Burlip, who represents Mr Rocastle in the current transaction.’

Johnathan shifted in his seat. The row of heads nodded ever so slightly in his direction. My name is Johnathan, you fat American turd, he said to himself as he smiled weakly.

‘Now, John. Can I introduce, from left to right, the following ladies and gentlemen: Ulverton Lovestick, Aaron Bostick, Randy Merrick, Brandy Jordan, and lastly Harry Sawyer.’ Gary Schlongheist III beamed.

In perfect synchrony each person reached into an inside pocket and withdrew a business card which was then pushed over the table at Johnathan like a poker hand. He arranged the cards in front of him in the same order as the people opposite him. He looked up at Gary Schlongheist III, who was playing with his expensive-looking pen.

‘First of all, John,’ said Schlongheist, ‘I’d like you to listen to the managing director of Dolls and Guise Inc., Harry Sawyer.’

The man sitting next to Schlongheist cleared his throat and began to shuffle papers busily. Johnathan glanced down at his business card. It said: ‘H.D.(Harry) Sawyer, Managing Director’ in overly florid typescript.

‘Good morning,’ said H.D.(Harry) sombrely. ‘The reason that I asked Gary to arrange this meeting today is that we appear to have encountered a problem which might seriously affect the viability of the proposed transaction for us.’

Johnathan’s heart lurched. ‘Oh?’ he said.

‘Yeah,’ agreed H.D.(Harry), ‘and we just wanted to talk the issue through with you to see if we could arrive at some happy compromise.’

‘I see,’ said Johnathan.

There was an awkward pause.

‘The thing is,’ said H.D.(Harry), ‘we’ve been having a look at those dolls your client produces. And while they’re real cute, we’ve spotted a problem with them. It has always been a point of commercial concern and indeed pride for Dolls and Guise Inc. that all of the little dolls that we make are as lifelike as possible so as to provide young girls with a genuine learning tool as well as a terrific toy.’ H.D.(Harry) was looking round the table, acknowledging the enthusiastic nods of his colleagues. ‘As a result of this policy our dolls have certain features which perhaps are not what you in England might ordinarily expect to see. And there is one thing in particular which we hold to be especially important which you certainly don’t see on Mr Rocastle’s dolls.’

‘Which is?’ said Johnathan.

The American glanced at Brandy Jordan, who was sitting next to him. ‘Pubic hair.’

Johnathan blinked.

Brandy Jordan spoke for the first time. ‘Mr Burlip, we at Dolls and Guise Inc. firmly believe that we have a social obligation to educate the young of America in the mysterious ways of nature. Hence our product lines of Pregnant Penelope and Menstruating Melissa.’ She paused. Randy Merrick coughed supportively. Randy and Brandy exchanged smiles of such cloying sweetness that Johnathan felt a little queasy.

Brandy continued. ‘We have conducted a great deal of research into this and we do believe that to manufacture dolls with pubic hair prepares young girls for the often shocking trial that puberty represents. It means that when they begin to grow their pubic hair they will have already familiarized themselves with the concept and above all the sight of pubic hair in general.’

‘Pubic hair,’ repeated Johnathan dully.

Brandy Jordan’s cheaply peroxided head disappeared beneath the table top. ‘Let me show you,’ she said. There was the unclicking of a briefcase. Brandy Jordan reappeared, clutching a doll about twelve inches high with long red hair. She thrust it across the table towards Johnathan. Johnathan eyed it suspiciously.

‘And Mr Burlip, look,’ said Brandy Jordan. With no further ceremony she hooked her little finger underneath the doll’s knee-length skirt and hiked it upwards over its hips. She deftly spread the doll’s legs as wide as the little plastic joints would allow, and placed it in the middle of the table, its parted legs pointing wantonly at Johnathan. Johnathan looked, appalled. At the top of the doll’s legs sat what looked like a small Brillo pad.

‘Right,’ he said eventually.

‘John, if my client is to adhere to company policy then all future dolls coming from Mr Rocastle’s factory will have to be fitted with pubic hair, and that may be quite an expensive addition,’ said Schlongheist. It sounded a bit like getting a car fitted with a sun-roof. ‘Unless we can come to some sort of arrangement then I fear we shall have to reconsider our current negotiating position.’

Johnathan tried to think. He began to feel very uncomfortable. He tried hard to look somewhere other than at the doll’s grisly pudendum, which seemed to have fixed him with its evil eye. ‘Wouldn’t it be a feasible option to leave these dolls as they are?’ he said desperately. ‘If you like it could represent another option open to women. After all, not every woman has pubic hair.’

Harry Sawyer considered this. ‘So you’re suggesting that the English dolls could just be dolls of women who have chosen to shave their pubis?’ He seemed enchanted. He looked down the length of the table enquiringly. ‘It certainly is an option. Anybody got any comments?’

Ulverton Lovestick raised his hand, as if in school. He spoke with a mellifluous southern twang. ‘I guess that’d work as long as we made it clear from the marketing that the choice to depilate had been made, and that it wasn’t some oversight on our part.’

There was an enthusiastic nodding around the table as people began to murmur quietly to each other. Ulverton Lovestick began to sketch something on a piece of paper.

Gary Schlongheist III raised his hands in protest. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I suspect we may be getting slightly off the point of today’s meeting–’

He was ignored. The other Americans had descended into a huddle. ‘…We could package in such a way as to explain the health benefits of depilation, the convenience…’

‘…It would be a radical departure for us…’

‘We could call her Depilating Donna.’

‘Or Hairless Helen.’

‘I’ve got it. What about Shaving Sharon?’

Aaron Bostick was not convinced, however. ‘It’ll just make our products like everyone else’s,’ he complained. ‘We’ll lose the male market, that’s for sure.’

Johnathan blinked.

The Americans began to discuss the marketing possibilities which Johnathan’s suggestion had unwittingly presented. Schlongheist flapped ineffectually around his clients. Johnathan eyed the half-naked doll. Some deep-seated sense of decorum urged him to straighten its legs and restore its dress to the proper position, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch it.

Gerald Buchanan then breezed in. Johnathan got up from his chair and led him to the far corner of the room, out of earshot of the others.

‘What’s the prob?’ demanded Gerald. Johnathan told him.

Gerald blinked.

When Johnathan explained his proposed solution to the problem Gerald let out a low whistle. ‘I’m surprised they didn’t lynch you on the spot, old boy,’ he said. ‘Americans don’t like people taking the piss.’

Johnathan leant forward. ‘But Gerald, that’s what they’re discussing. They think it might be a feasible option.’

‘Are you serious?’ asked Gerald. Johnathan nodded. ‘Well I’ll be buggered,’ whispered Gerald, ‘they’re even madder than we thought. Extraordinary.’

Gary Schlongheist III bustled up. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ he said peevishly. ‘I don’t really think it appropriate that you be present while my clients are making this sort of sensitive commercial decision. Would you mind…?’ He gestured towards the door. Gerald slowly turned and left. Johnathan followed him out.

They stood in the deserted corridor. ‘Pubic hair?’ said Gerald. Johnathan nodded. ‘Christ, what next? Next they’ll be having dolls that menstruate.’

‘Actually, they already do,’ said Johnathan.

Some minutes later the door to the meeting room opened and Schlongheist came out. ‘It appears that my clients have reached a consensus of opinion in respect of the problem which we have identified this morning,’ he said, trying to hide his disappointment.

‘Yes?’ said Gerald.

‘Won’t you come in?’ Schlongheist held the door open sulkily.

Gerald and Johnathan filed inside and sat down opposite a row of flushed, excited faces. Gary Schlongheist III coughed. ‘Well, we do appear to have arrived at a suitable compromise solution to the difficulty identified–’

‘Cut the crap, Gary,’ suggested H.D.(Harry) Sawyer amicably.

Schlongheist reddened. ‘Yes, as I was saying, my clients are prepared to run with the idea that Mr Burlip suggested and on that basis I think that we can now proceed on the terms as we had originally planned.’ He looked crestfallen.

Gerald looked at him sourly from across the table. He leant forward and said, ‘Are you tweaking my twinky?’

‘Pardon?’ said Schlongheist.

‘You heard. Are you pulling my plonker? Jiggling my joystick? Yanking my yard? Beating my meat?’

‘I’m sorry, Gerald, I really have no idea what you’re referring to,’ said the American, glancing at the assembled company nervously.

Gerald was in full flow now. ‘Come off it, Gary,’ he said, with some venom. ‘I’ve been in this business long enough to know when someone is schlapping my schnitzel.’

Johnathan frowned, quite lost. The Americans had begun to murmur amongst themselves.

‘Your schnitzel?’ asked Schlongheist doubtfully.

Gerald looked at the Americans and gestured helplessly. He seemed genuinely upset. Without warning he slammed down his hand on to the table top. Brandy Jordan jumped. The doll jumped. ‘Dammit Gary! Come on. Be reasonable.’ Gerald stood up and began pacing the room. He appeared to be struggling to find the words he wanted to say. ‘I’m not prepared,’ he said, ‘to be treated like this, have you manipulate my manhood, let you play cat’s-cradle with my cock.’ He slumped back into his chair, emotionally wrung out. The Americans looked impressed. Schlongheist, hopelessly confused, waited.

Eventually Gerald said, ‘Have you nothing to say?’

Schlongheist looked at him through slitted eyes. ‘About what, exactly?’

Gerald looked at Schlongheist for a moment. ‘I see,’ he said suddenly, and began gathering up his papers to leave. Turning away from Schlongheist, he winked cheerfully at Johnathan.

‘Wait, wait,’ said Schlongheist, panicking. ‘Whatever it is you have to say, please say it. In words of one syllable,’ he added.

‘Well it seems pretty obvious to me,’ said Gerald, putting his papers back down on the table. ‘Our client is offering your client a marvellous, not to say unique, opportunity to expand their product range to encompass a totally new–to them, anyway–concept in doll manufacture. Think about it. Don’t you think my client deserves to receive greater compensation as a result?’

Gary Schlongheist III now went purple. ‘I’m quite sure–’

Gerald interrupted smoothly. ‘Why don’t we ask your clients what they think?’

H.D.(Harry) Sawyer stood up. ‘Hell, yes,’ he said, ‘that sounds reasonable enough to me. If we’re going to benefit from this breakthrough I don’t see why we shouldn’t share a little of it around.’ He looked down the table munificently, ignoring Schlongheist who remained rooted to his seat, opening and closing his mouth soundlessly. The Americans gazed adoringly up at their leader, and burst into spontaneous applause.

Some time later Gary Schlongheist III recovered his power of speech. He said: ‘What an asshole.’

SIX

When Johnathan arrived back at his office after the meeting, Charlotte smiled shyly at him. Immediately he sensed something was wrong.

‘There’s a message for you,’ she said, brandishing a small piece of paper.

‘Oh. Thanks,’ said Johnathan, and took it. On it was written,

Could we have a word? 2.30 this afternoon, my office.

E.J.S-J.

It was not a request, it was a command. And it was no ordinary command: it came from Edward Stenhouse-Jellicoe, the ancient and somewhat batty senior partner. Johnathan frowned. He had been at the firm for six and a half years, and had always believed that Stenhouse-Jellicoe didn’t have the faintest idea who he was. Each time Johnathan met him in the corridor or in the lift he would bow and scrape in obsequious reverence as expected but all he ever got in return was a rather puzzled, far-away smile.

Stenhouse-Jellicoe had given up practising any law long ago. He was too much in the grip of addling senility for that. Instead he now usually arrived at eleven o’clock each day to sign some letters, perhaps chair a meeting or two of the partners to which he would contribute nothing other than a few irrelevant Latin maxims, before going into lunch in the partners’ dining room, where he would stay for most of the afternoon cuddling the port decanter and dozing fitfully.

Under his benign and useless sovereignty, the real power was wielded ruthlessly by a small group of partners. Johnathan suspected that the balance of blood to port coursing through Stenhouse-Jellicoe’s veins had now tipped in favour of the port, and that as a result he no longer knew what actions were being taken in his name; he just signed whatever he was asked to sign and only complained when things made him late for lunch.

Johnathan looked at his watch. It was 2.20. Why would Stenhouse-Jellicoe want to see him? His brain rioted with unpleasant theories. Suddenly Johnathan realized that whatever happened, it didn’t matter: he was going to resign anyway. He must remember: he no longer cared.

At 2.30 he knocked on the door of Edward Stenhouse-Jellicoe’s office. There was a clearing of throats and then a strangled ‘Come’ from within. Stenhouse-Jellicoe was slumped like an abandoned rag doll in his old leather chair behind his mahogany desk, which was about the same size as Johnathan’s office. He was flanked by two of his henchmen, Richard O’Donnell, head of the corporate department, and Trevor Bailey, the partnership secretary. Some time ago the dog had stopped wagging its two tails and the tails had begun to wag the dog, even though the dog was now too sozzled to notice. And when they wagged, they wagged hard, and without pity or remorse.

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