I suppose one of the reasons we’re all able to continue to exist for our allotted span in this green and blue vale of tears is that there is always, however remote it might seem, the possibility of change. I never thought, in my strangest imaginings, that I would find my job anything other than eight hours of drudgery. It was a source of astonishment to me that, on many days of the week now, I’d check my watch and see that hours had gone by without my noticing. The office manager role involved numerous new tasks that I had to learn and perfect. None of them was beyond the wit of man, obviously, but some were reasonably complex, and I was surprised at how enthusiastically my brain responded to the new challenges placed before it. My colleagues had appeared somewhat underwhelmed upon hearing the news that I would be managing them, but, thus far at least, there had been no sign of mutiny or insubordination. I kept myself to myself, as always, and allowed them to get on with their jobs (or what passed for doing their jobs, insofar as they never actually did very much, and tended to make a mess of the few tasks they actually attempted). For the time being, at least, the status quo prevailed, and they were, so far, no more ineffectual than they’d been prior to my installation.
The new role meant interacting with Bob more frequently, and I discovered that he was actually quite an amusing interlocutor. He shared a lot of details about the day-to-day running of the business with me, and was delightfully indiscreet about clients. Clients, I soon learned, could be very demanding; I still had limited direct contact with them, which suited me just fine.
From what I could gather, they would routinely be completely unable to articulate their requirements, at which point, in desperation, the designers would create some artwork for them based on the few vague hints they had managed to elicit. After many hours of work, involving a full team of staff, the work would be submitted to the client for approval. At that point, the client would say, “No. That’s exactly what I don’t want.”
There would be several tortuous iterations of this process before the client finally declared his or herself satisfied with the end results. Inevitably, Bob said, the artwork that was signed off on at the end of the process was virtually identical to the first piece of work submitted, which the client had immediately dismissed as unsuitable. It was no wonder, I thought, that he kept the staff room well stocked with beer, wine and chocolate, and that the art team availed themselves of it quite so frequently.
I’d started planning the Christmas lunch too. I had only vague ideas at the moment, but, like our clients, I was very clear as to what I didn’t want. No chain restaurants or hotels, no turkey, no Santa; nowhere that said “corporate entertainment” or “office party” on their website. It would take time to track down the perfect venue and plan the perfect event, but I had months yet.
Raymond and I continued to meet for lunch, roughly once per week. It was always on a different day, which annoyed me, but he was a man who was extremely resistant to routine (something that shouldn’t have surprised me). One day, he e-mailed me less than twenty-four hours after we’d met, to invite me for lunch again the very next day. I could almost believe that someone might enjoy, or at least tolerate, my company over the duration of a brief luncheon, but it stretched credibility to think that it could happen twice in one week.
Dear R, I’d be delighted to meet you for lunch again, but am somewhat perplexed due to the proximity to our previous meeting. Is everything in order? Regards, E
He replied thus:
Got something I need to tell you. See you at 1230 R
We were so habituated to our lunchtime meetings that he did not even need to specify the venue.
When I arrived, he wasn’t there, so I perused a newspaper that was lying on the chair next to me. Strangely, I’d come to like this shabby place; the staff, whilst off-putting in appearance, were uniformly pleasant and friendly, and now more than one of them was able to say “The usual, is it?” to me, and then bring my coffee and cheese scone without my having to request it. It’s very vain and superficial of me, I know, but it made me feel like someone in an American situation comedy, being a “regular,” having a “usual.” The next step would have been effortlessly witty badinage, but unfortunately we were still some way away from that. One of the staff—Mikey—came over with a glass of water.
“Do you want yours now, or are you waiting for Raymond?” he said.
I told him I was expecting Raymond imminently, and Mikey began wiping down the table next to me.
“How’s tricks, anyway?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” I said. “It feels like we’re getting toward the last days of summer.” This was something I had been thinking as I walked to the café, feeling gentle rays on my face, seeing a few red and gold leaves among the green. Mikey nodded.
“I’m finishing up here at the end of the month,” he said.
“Oh!” I said. “That’s a pity.” Mikey was kind and gentle, and always brought truffles with the coffees, without being asked or seeking additional payment.
“Have you found a new position somewhere else?” I said.
“No,” he said, perching on a chair beside me. “Hazel’s really poorly again.” Hazel, I knew, was his girlfriend, and they lived nearby with their bichon frise and their baby, Lois.
“I’m very sorry to hear that, Mikey,” I said. He nodded.
“They thought they’d got rid of it all the last time, but it’s come back, spread to the lymph nodes and the liver. I just wanted to, you know . . .”
“You wanted to spend the time she has left with Hazel and Lois, rather than serving cheese scones to strange women,” I said, and, gratifyingly, he laughed.
“That’s about the size of it,” he said. I braced myself, then put my hand on his arm. I was going to say something, but then I couldn’t think what was the right thing to say, so I just kept silent, and looked at him, hoping he’d intuit what I meant—that I was desperately sorry, that I admired him for caring so much about Hazel and Lois and looking after them, that I understood, perhaps more than most, about loss, about how difficult things must be, and would continue to be. However much you loved someone, it wasn’t always enough. Love alone couldn’t keep them safe . . .
“Thanks, Eleanor,” he said gently. He thanked me!
Raymond arrived and threw himself into his seat.
“All right, mate?” he asked Mikey. “How’s Hazel doing?”
“Not bad, Raymond, not bad. I’ll get you a menu.” After he’d left, I leaned forward. “You knew already about Hazel?” I said. He nodded.
“It’s shite, isn’t it? She’s not even thirty, and wee Lois isn’t two yet.”
He shook his head. Neither of us spoke—there really wasn’t anything else to say. Once we had ordered, Raymond cleared his throat.
“I’ve got something to tell you, Eleanor. It’s more bad news—sorry.”
I sat back in my chair, and looked up at the ceiling, readying myself.
“Go on,” I said. There’s very little in life that I couldn’t imagine, or brace myself for. Nothing could be worse than what I’ve already experienced—that sounds like hyperbole, but it’s a literal statement of fact. I suppose it’s actually a source of strength, in a strange way.
“It’s Sammy,” he said.
I hadn’t been expecting that.
“He passed away at the weekend, Eleanor. A massive coronary. It was quick, at least.” I nodded. It was both a surprise and not a surprise.
“What happened?” I said. Raymond started eating, telling me the details between—and during—mouthfuls. I’m not sure what it would take to put that man off his food. The Ebola virus, perhaps.