Infidelity (20 page)

25

‘I
've yearned for afternoons like this, Tom. Just you and me, and no train to catch. Do whatever we like, and finish the day in bed together. That's how other people gobble up their weekends – why shouldn't we have a tiny slice of the same pie?'

To my great joy and relief, Sarah had finally decided to shorten her weekend visits to Littleton. She said she could no longer bear us to be apart for two nights out of every seven (and neither could I, of course). So she had begun taking a Saturday morning train to Guildford, spending just one night in the house and planning to make occasional mid-week daytime raids as well.

This meant our Friday afternoons and evenings had taken on an entirely different complexion. It also felt like the first real concession Sarah had made to our life together. (Philip would have been reassured.)

The first week of this new arrangement was bliss. Sarah had not yet managed to secure an appointment with the obstetrician recommended by Fox, and was disinclined to discuss the pregnancy at all.

‘Let's just be us, just for today,' she said, when I raised it obliquely.

I was privately suffused with a new sense of being alive. A new sense of purpose, I suppose. I felt as if I'd answered some primitive call and discharged an obligation to my species. It felt as basic, as instinctual, as that – as though I had earned an inalienable right to walk upon the earth.

I didn't try to convey any of this to Sarah. She was determined to live – for a few more precious weeks, she said – as if there were no pregnancy to be taken into account. ‘I've just found you, Tom. I want to think only of you, only of us. Just for now. The rest can wait. God, it's still only the size of your big toenail. I need you to love
me
,
Tom – me myself, not me the bearer of a foetus.'

On that blissful afternoon, we strolled across St James's Park and watched the guards drilling at the palace. We caught a bus to the British Museum and walked to University College, where Sarah had lived as a student, and where she had been introduced to the other First Wednesdays. We had a meal in Russell Square at a place she'd haunted in those years, long since glamorised and renamed. It was like a tour of her personal sacred sites.

In bed that night, she asked me things about myself – my family, my background – she had never shown any interest in before. Our conversations had usually been about ideas and opinions, not personal history. ‘If you're going to be the father of my child,' she said, in that day's first reference to the baby, ‘I think I'd better learn a bit more about you. I know you have beautiful brown eyes and soft hands and lovely dark hair that curls attractively at your collar, but what else should I know?'

I told her about my childhood in Sydney, the death of my mother when I was twelve and of my father ten years later. (Like Sarah, I have no siblings.) I told her about my student days at Sydney University, the stuttering start to my career and my largely accidental move into vocational guidance on the way to establishing my practice as a clinical psychologist. I told her about Winter Close, the street where I lived in the modest middle-class end of Castlecrag, and about my neighbours. (I suddenly missed them.)

A week later, Sarah finally saw the obstetrician and it didn't go well. I had wanted to accompany her but she refused: ‘We're not a public couple yet, Tom. I'm sorry to be blunt, but that's the truth of it.'

According to Sarah, the doctor – a friend of Fox's named Bethany – had seemed excessively interested in Sarah's personal circumstances. The consultation had felt like an inquisition, she said. The physical check-up had been straightforward and the due date had been calculated as the tenth of December – very approximate, considering Sarah's forgetfulness about such things as pills and periods.

Sarah had filled in a form and given her marital status as ‘married'. But Bethany had wanted to know too much about the father for Sarah's liking, and Sarah had felt obliged to give some account of her situation.

‘Too nosey,' was her verdict on Bethany. ‘Too out-there. I might ask Fox to find me someone else, someone a bit more sympathetic. More discreet. Bethany is like, “Hello, I'm your waiter and I'll be dining with you tonight.” She was wearing jeans in the surgery, for God's sake – whatever happened to white coats? Maybe she's doing a PhD on over-forty first-time mothers. Actually, that's exactly how it felt – as if I was part of some research project. She made me feel like Exhibit A.'

‘I'm sure these doctors are discreet,' I said. ‘She just wants a bit of context. I suppose that could be a good sign.'

‘Whose side are you on? The appointment ran late, too, which made me late for Mother.'

‘Have you . . .?'

‘Don't be ridiculous, Tom. I haven't breathed a word to my mother. We'll defer tackling that particular mountain until we're fit and ready for the climb. Elizabeth adores you, of course, and can't stand Perry and all his works. But that doesn't mean she'll think it's a good idea me bearing your child. She still uses phrases like “out of wedlock”.'

Considering what I knew of Elizabeth's attitudes to life in general and her daughter's in particular, I thought Sarah's caution entirely misplaced. Did she really believe her mother was as unworldly as that? Personally, I was half hoping Elizabeth might welcome the news, complications notwithstanding.

26

M
y decision to shelve any work on the training program for the scorers was vindicated sooner than I expected.

There was a knock on my office door and I looked up to see Jelly standing there with Jennifer.

‘Come in. I can't offer you both a seat, though.' I stood up and shook hands with Jelly, remembering in the nick of time to call him Kenneth.

‘Kenneth and I wondered if we could have a word in my office. You know, about the matters we briefly canvassed?'

The matters we briefly canvassed? Was I about to be censured for my tardiness in preparing a plan for the Death Rey's beloved training program? Or hailed as a hero for my proposed innovations?

Jelly led the way and we marched in single file to Jennifer's black-and-white office. It might have lacked charm, but at least it had multiple chairs and a sofa. No sign of the cat: perhaps Jelly didn't approve.

Jelly got straight to business: ‘So tell me, am I wasting my money?'

‘Sorry. I don't –'

‘I'm a bottom-line man, Tom. Jennifer and I have been talking about a certain softening in the performance of the business and she tells me the two of you have been batting about some ideas for a reorganisation, what? I gathered you were going to tell us how to make more money. How're you proposing to do that?'

I looked at Jennifer, but she was closely examining her nails.

‘I didn't offer Jennifer anything concrete, though I'd be happy to put something down on paper if you'd like me to. And, yes, as a matter of fact, Kenneth, I think the kind of thing I've been thinking about could make you more money. But there's more to it than that. The way I see it, you'd be able to produce a better result, better quality, better advice, for less cost overall. There's a lot of detail that would need to be worked out, and we'd have to research this all very carefully – with clients as well as staff – but, yes, that's the theory.'

‘You're saying we've been wasteful? Is that what you're saying?'

Even for Jelly, the tone was unusually belligerent. Clearly, all was not well – with him personally, perhaps; more likely with the business. (By my assessment, the business
shouldn't
have been going well.) Jennifer looked uneasy. This was not the time for equivocation.

‘I touched on this when I spoke to Jennifer. I do think there could be aspects of the present package that are less cost-effective than they might be.'

‘You're saying we've been wasting our money.'

‘I didn't say “wasting”. Not at all. I'm saying a profitable operation could be made more profitable and your service to your clients could be enhanced. What I'm proposing is not a radically different system – it would build on what we have.'

He was needling me, as he had done more playfully at Sarah's. But there was a dark undercurrent here – this was about his money. It quickly became clear that this was to be a free-for-all, in the presence of Jennifer, rather than the private chat I had previously assumed we were going to have. In fact, I preferred it this way – I had never relished the role of mole.

‘How long's this going to take?' Jelly asked me.

‘I can't see the whole process – research, design, testing the new system – taking less than two months.'

‘And?'

‘And what?'

‘Starting when?'

I looked again at Jennifer, but she was avoiding eye contact. She was not enjoying this one bit, and I foresaw plenty of resistance coming from her.

‘Starting work on a strategic plan? Today, if you like. Tomorrow. Whenever Jennifer asks me to start.'

Jelly looked at Jennifer and she simply met his gaze, giving nothing away.

‘I'll leave it to you two to work something out. ASAP, though, do you understand? I said softening. Fact is, we're taking a hit, but that stays in this room. Whenever there's a downturn, recruitment is always first to suffer. Obviously. People aren't hiring. So we're suffering. But Blair's doing it tougher than the others in the group. Bit of a surprise, what? Perhaps not, you're saying. Anyway, we need some bright ideas from somewhere. Some fresh thinking, Tom, and we need it now. It rather looks as if you're it.'

It was not hard to imagine how he had reached this point: once Blair started to feel the heat, Jelly would naturally agitate for some changes. He might have liked to present himself as a hands-off proprietor, but once he'd started looking closely at the droopy figures, he would have been astute enough to recognise the fragility of the Blair model – hence his planting of me as an inside observer of the operation.

Faced with Jelly's ire and his renowned impatience, Jennifer seized this moment to mention ‘some thoughts' for refreshing the organisation – thoughts I recognised from my earlier discussion with her. I saw the way this would play out: if my plan worked, she would want to be its author, or at least its co-parent; if it didn't, then it would be a case of ‘it was worth giving Tom's ideas a trial, but I never thought . . .'

I needed to tread carefully: neither of these people would necessarily turn out to be an ally. Jelly might have wanted my frank assessment of the place, but that didn't mean he would like what he heard.

‘There are some very keen people in this organisation, very able people, who could be contributing a lot more than they are at present,' I said, looking from one to the other.

‘A lot more what?' said Jelly, giving no quarter.

‘I think this conversation is premature, Kenneth. I need more time to prepare a proper proposal and run it past Jennifer. If we're going to do this, we'll need to do it thoroughly. None of us would want a new model to go off half-cocked.'

‘A new model? You want us to trash the present one?'

‘The present one has certainly helped establish the business – it's created rapid growth in these early stages – but . . .'

‘Not sustainable? Is that what you're saying?'

‘Basically, yes.'

‘Two months sounds like a long time to me.'

‘I'll shorten it if I can. But let me put my proposal together before we jump to any conclusions.'

‘Come and report to me every week. Progress reports, what? Updates.'

I looked again at Jennifer and raised my eyebrows in anticipation of her assent. She gave me nothing.

‘Let me ask you something,' Jelly said, relaxing a bit now he'd staked his ground. ‘Did you know Jennifer is called the Death Rey around the office?'

‘Of course. Everyone knows that.'

‘Quite clever, what?'

Jennifer was colouring, not sure where this was going. The answer seemed to be: nowhere. Jelly had just heard her nickname from somewhere and it amused him. He clearly liked Jennifer and couldn't imagine that she might be offended. Nicknames were part of his currency, though I assumed Jennifer didn't know his. (I rather imagined he would have preferred one like hers.)

‘You into football at all, Tom?'

‘You mean the round ball game?'

‘I mean football. If I meant rugby, I'd say rugby.'

‘Not really, but I'm prepared –'

‘FA Cup final's in a couple of weeks. Nothing like it. Jennifer is coming. I have some tickets. You should come. You want to understand the English? You should come. I'll give you the details when you drop around for our first little meeting.' It was time for me to leave them to it, so I withdrew.

While Jelly and Jennifer were closeted in her office deciding how to proceed, I took a long walk and, daringly, sent Sarah a text. (Sarah tolerated text messages only if they were expressed in proper words – no abbreviations – and contained no endearments and no secrets. Even x was banned. ‘Think of it as a public noticeboard,' she said. ‘Don't hang your heart in cyberspace.') My carefully crafted message read:
This may be about to turn into gainful employment
. No identifying signature – even Fiona would have approved.

When Jennifer summoned me to her office at the end of the day, there was no sign of Jelly and the atmosphere was frosty. The white cat had returned, its back to the room, gazing at a blank wall.

Caught between my criticism of the BI concept and Jelly's concern about falling profits, Jennifer was understandably prickly. But she was a professional. She knew how to mask any resentment in a cloak of brisk dignity. ‘It mightn't be what I want, but let's get on with it': that was the implicit message from a woman who needed to reassert her control over this situation as quickly and convincingly as she could. I admired her style.

She offered me a formal job with a formal title – strategy consultant.
Strategy consultant?
Somehow, Jennifer – aided and abetted by Jelly, no doubt – had managed to combine into one term two of the weasel words I had learnt to mistrust most deeply. The only way to make it even less appealing would have been to insert the word ‘workshop' between ‘strategy' and ‘consultant'. It was a title I would certainly never use and I vowed to resist having it included on the business cards Jennifer was threatening to have printed.

But the offer itself was irresistible to a man whose professional self-respect was badly in need of rebuilding. I was to commission some market research with Blair clients and prospects, reassess the firm's philosophy and practices, test my ideas on the staff and come up with some recommendations, fully costed. If my proposals got the nod from Jelly, I was also to help Jennifer implement the changes. ‘Put in place a range of strategies' was how Jennifer expressed it, lifting the words straight from the same instruction manual that gives politicians combinations of words to string together when they're playing for time, committing themselves to nothing and expressing no discernible idea. I have always thought of phrases like ‘put in place a range of strategies' as the equivalent of a lullaby crooned to a restless electorate in the hope of getting voters to nod off before any awkward questions occur to them.

We quickly got down to the practicalities of where I would be working, what staff support I would need and how much I would be paid. I agreed, with some reluctance, to a four-and-a-half-day week (nothing would be allowed to interfere with my precious Friday afternoons), all to start forthwith. Jennifer telephoned Ros and explained the change in my status.

‘Oh, and by the way, Tom,' she said as we both stood up. ‘Those weekly briefings with Kenneth? They will take place right here in my office. Just the three of us.'

I nodded. Jelly would no doubt have had that made very clear to him.

‘Let's get to work, shall we?'

The cat in the corner had seen enough and slunk off, out the door and along the corridor. In the dingier parts of that old building, there must have been mice aplenty.