Authors: Jenny Colgan
The man stepped up and examined the map carefully. ‘Hmm, a Cretan of course would be no use …’
He studied the shape from several angles, then felt about in his breast pocket. Into the hexagonal edge of Chapel Fields, he slotted this:
It fitted perfectly. They all stared.
‘That’s just right,’ breathed Gwyneth. The twists and turns seemed to reflect the trees of the park itself.
‘It’s perfect,’ said Arthur.
‘We’re in,’ said Rafe. ‘Let’s go to the pub.’
It was the fact that he said it so casually, Arthur reflected later, as if this would be the most natural thing to do in the world – bunch of people working together, going to the pub. But in fact, differently to every other office, possibly in the country, they had never drunk together. There were Christmas parties, obviously, and the occasional leaving bash, but to actually choose to spend time with each other outside of office hours did seem very strange indeed.
At first they all looked around.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Rafe. ‘Have I committed some kind of a big old weird office faux pas?’
They still stayed silent.
‘Nooo,’ said Arthur. ‘Um, do we know where there’s a pub round here?’
‘There isn’t one,’ said Sven scornfully. ‘This is a motorway. They don’t put pubs on motorways. Although maybe we could start.’
‘No, no – I think the whole not drinking/driving at ninety miles an hour is probably all right for now.’
Everyone stood around hesitantly, not quite knowing what to do.
‘Well,’ said Rafe. ‘Why don’t we all go home then meet in, say, the Lion Rampant at seven?’
Arthur waited for everyone to make lame excuses and sidle away, but people were nodding in agreement and picking up their coats.
Gwyneth raised her eyebrows. ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘I’ll see you all there.’
And she walked out.
‘Do you know,’ said Sven, as they picked up their bits and pieces and continued after, ‘I thought she was going to be a completely stuck up cow.’
Yes, well, that makes two of us, thought Arthur ruefully.
‘But now I think she might be all right. Pretty …
shaggable
, in fact.’
Oh crap, thought Arthur. that really
does
make two of us.
‘You’d never get her,’ said Marcus scornfully. ‘Do you really think she’d go out with some backwater jerk from Coventry? She’s probably got some famous London boyfriend or something. She wouldn’t want to be slumming it here with you.’
The words felt like an awkward stabbing pain to Arthur.
‘Sure she would,’ said Sven. ‘Have you never seen any porn? Everyone knows Danish people are sexy.’
‘Yes, so slim, tall and unbald …’ said Marcus. ‘And they smell nice, too. And they’re almost all dog-free …’
Sven was already heading towards the door. ‘Come on, Sandwiches. Let’s go get dolled up. I think tonight might be our lucky night.’
‘I’d put my money on Sandwiches,’ said Marcus.
The Lion Rampant was glowing like an island of warm light at the bottom of Station Road, and looked exactly the right place for a weary traveller. The eighteenth-century tavern still clung onto a residue of its original, wood-timbered charm and had managed to resist – so far – being turned into some terrifying theme bar, with matching casuals in shiny suits drinking Metz and boring pissed-up miniskirted teenagers about the engine models of their new cars.
Arthur was the last of the group to arrive out of the wind and the cold.
He stood at the door and looked in for a second, observing the group as they sat in a circle.
Rafe was in the centre, illustrating a story vividly with his hands. Cathy was sitting on his left, completely engrossed and watching him fondly. Arthur wondered how she’d got out of making dinner for her horrible family. She was sipping sherry and already looking faintly tipsy. On Rafe’s other side was Gwyneth, then Sven and Marcus, who were arguing – probably about robot wars again. Sandwiches, wearing a rather dashing neckerchief, was sitting on Sven’s lap.
They did, Arthur reflected, look like a group, finally; a team of people, together. They could have been any bunch of friends anywhere. And he found this rather reassuring as he started to shrug off his heavy mackintosh and walk into the welcoming circle of light.
‘All I’m saying is,’ Sven was pointing out, ‘when we totally revolutionize this town, right, if they want to put us in charge, we should let them.’
‘I don’t quite think that’s ever going to happen,’ said Arthur, sitting down next to Gwyneth. ‘Why are you talking about this?’
‘Hello! HELLO!’ Sven waved one of Sandwiches’ paws in front of his face in a particularly annoying manner.
‘What?’ said Arthur. ‘Don’t do that with that dog. It’s unhyg—’ He noticed Sven was letting the dog sip from his pint. ‘Never mind. What is it?’
‘All I’m saying is, why not? If we make everything lovely and fun, right, I don’t see why we can’t be crowned kings or something.’
Rafe leaned over and giggled. ‘What would you do if you were king, Sven?’
Sven shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Probably something about pet passports and herring import licences.’
‘Well, that would be worth it.’
In deference to Sven, the table had a round of Skol, with a sherry for Cathy.
‘What would you do, Rafe?’ asked Gwyneth. She’d changed into a soft grey sweater with a red skirt and knee-length boots, and she knew she looked good. Plus, next to Cathy with her sweet, collapsing face, she knew she looked even better, and that this wasn’t a particularly nice thing to be thinking, but that it was true nonetheless. She was chatting to Rafe to see how Arthur reacted, but he didn’t seem to notice. It wasn’t as if Rafe wasn’t cute. Oof, perhaps the Skol was a little stronger than she was used to.
Rafe looked up for a minute as if this was the best question he’d ever been asked. ‘Well, there’s the wenches peeling grapes for you,’ he mused. ‘But that’s just for starters.’
‘Grapes!’ said Gwyneth. ‘That’s really the first thing you’d think about if you were a king? What about world peace?’
‘Ah, but you see, it’s very hard to get world peace without grapes being involved. That, tragically, is what so many of our world leaders just don’t understand.’
‘Wenches, too?’
‘Well, you know, women – the peace-making species.’
Sven snorted vigorously.
‘Nah, I don’t think I’d really want to be king,’ said Rafe. ‘All that responsibility. I mean, look at our Arthur here, and he’s only the project manager.’
Arthur had in fact been miles away, thinking of Fay. What was she up to? What was she doing? He ran last night over and over in his head, but it never came to any better conclusion – she had been pumping him, quite literally, for information, and she was going to take it back to Ross.
That meant a couple of things: either that slimy little bastard was going to use it to rubbish him in front of – well, the committee, or the local papers – or he was going to rip everything off. Either way, it didn’t bode well. How could he have been so stupid? Why hadn’t he stood up to Fay in the first place? Or been nicer to her, as Lynne had suggested? Or … well, not just shagged her first chance he got. He winced. Dammit. He had got every single thing wrong.
‘We’re wondering what it would be like to be king,’ said Gwyneth. ‘And how you cope under such a heavy burden.’
‘Er … I’m not king,’ said Arthur, unsure if he was being wound up or not. Maybe he was giving off king vibes.
‘No, we know that,’ said Marcus, exaggeratedly slowly. ‘We’re just wondering what you would do if you were.’
Arthur furrowed his brow. What were they talking about? And if you were king, did you get to choose whoever you wanted to go out with you?
He shrugged, hundreds of things in his head. ‘Well, I guess I’d start with the wenches.’
‘So, that’s settled,’ said Rafe, getting up to buy another round.
‘What’s the gossip round this place anyway?’ he asked, as he returned, putting down the tray of drinks. There was silence.
‘You mean …’
Rafe looked around. ‘I heard, when I left college, right … I mean people were always talking about what people in offices got up to. Behind the filing cabinets, right, and Christmas parties and …’ He paused as the others looked at him. ‘It was all a big con to make me go to college, wasn’t it?’
They nodded slowly.
‘What about … you know, creative fulfilment, self-direction, that kind of stuff?’
The table shouted with laughter.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Arthur. ‘It’s not that bad. You know, this whole being trapped in an office for all the daylight hours of your natural life type thing.’
‘Really? I mean, what would you rather be doing, if you could do anything?’ said Rafe.
‘I’d do this,’ said Sven, decisively. The table looked at him. ‘Aha! But at NASA.’
‘Ooh, yes. That sounds good. Can I come with you?’ said Marcus.
‘Marcus, you have got the worst imagination of anyone I have ever met,’ said Arthur.
‘Show me an accountant with a good imagination and I’ll show you a direct route to jail,’ said Marcus. Arthur nodded. Rafe turned to him.
‘What about you two? NASA related or not?’
‘I’d rather be out riding,’ said Gwyneth and Arthur instantaneously. They stared at each other.
‘You ride!’ said Gwyneth. ‘What do you ride?’
‘Um … er …’ Oh God, thought Arthur. How could he tell her he’d never been on a horse in his life, and what on earth had he been thinking when he’d said it?
‘I’ve got the most gorgeous mare out near Huntingdon,’ she said. ‘What stables do you use?’
‘Oh, no, I hardly ever ride now,’ he said, blustering slightly. ‘But I miss it from, you know – the old days.’
‘Oh, you must come up one weekend and have a shot.’
Arthur winced: the joy of spending the weekend with Gwyneth versus the fact that he didn’t know the arse end of a horse from a tractor.
‘Yeah, that would be great,’ he said. He could sort out the other stuff later. Either learn to ride very very quickly or own up … No, no, he could learn quickly, surely. ‘Don’t worry, Rafe.’ He changed the subject. ‘It’s not too bad. Welcome aboard. We’ll try not to make it just like any other boring old job.’
‘No,’ said the stocky figure who had suddenly planted himself in front of them, his face grim. ‘We’re about to make it much, much worse.’
The table stared in amazement. Arthur’s stomach dropped through his boots.
It was Cathy who finally broke the silence. ‘Ross!’ she said, blushing and delighted. ‘Come and have a drink.’
‘I won’t, thanks,’ he said, surveying the room. All the fake smarminess he used to show around the office had gone. Instead, there was just a nasty cast to his eye and he gave off an aura of snarling. Of course, it helped that Dave Gorman was standing next to him, looking huge compared to Ross.
‘But I’ve been hearing a lot about what you shower have been getting up to.’
Arthur felt his stomach turn into a plummeting lift. Gwyneth looked at Ross, completely unfazed.
‘Really?’ she said blandly. ‘That’s nice. Impossible, of course.’
Ross didn’t budge. Seated half-hidden, a couple of tables away, Fay looked white. Inside she was furious. This information was meant to give them an advantage when it came to doing their jobs. Not to be used in some kind of pissing competition. But she couldn’t leave now; she knew how unpleasant Ross could be and she didn’t fancy risking it.
Gwyneth was looking entirely unimpressed by Ross. Fay glanced at her, then looked at how close she and Arthur were sitting together. Oh, bugger it. She looked again, realizing she was probably being paranoid, but couldn’t help staring anyway, comparing Gwyneth’s shiny hair to her own frizzy flop with the highlights growing out of it: Gwyneth’s Jigsaw to her Jonelle.
Fay realized immediately why Arthur hadn’t rung, and her bitterness and hatred reasserted itself. She couldn’t compare. ‘Go, Ross,’ she whispered under her breath.
‘Yes, well … of course,’ said Ross, turning round as if he was going to go, then turning back. ‘Oh, and good luck with getting planning permission for that maze, by the way.’
Gwyneth had been about to make some casual retort, but instead felt as if someone had punched her. ‘How – how on earth …’
‘Although,’ Ross went on, lifting his pint to his lips, ‘there won’t be much left for bribing the planning committee after you start on your ridiculous ice magic programme. Cheers.’
He and Dave choked with laughter.
‘Ice magic – yeah,’ said Dave.
Arthur cringed in disbelief. He could throttle Fay. He could throttle himself. He could see her in the corner, not meeting his eye, focusing instead on Gwyneth, who had risen to her feet. White with rage, she towered over Ross with her heels on.
‘I’m so sorry you got fired,’ she said. ‘Oh, no – hang on – I’m not at all.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Ross, directing a pitying look at Arthur. ‘I’m just sorry you have to work with that piss-poor failure machine.’