Authors: Jenny Colgan
She looked at him. ‘I could believe that.’
Arthur grimaced and sidled past her, into the open-plan space beyond. The office was cunningly done out in various shades of grey on grey which blended into the background outside, so that it rendered the world in black and white, punctuated occasionally by a particularly jolly stapler and purportedly humorous Garfield posters peeling from the walls.
His nearest colleague grunted, from behind his partition. Sven was a Neanderthal umbilically connected to his computer. He had convinced himself that in traffic patterns lay the ultimate sequence of truth: the perfect number, the end of pi and the key to universal harmony, or so he explained the hours a day he spent staring at the screen and plotting wildly complicated graphs in the further reaches of Excel.
Arthur could smell something. Part of it was Sven – if you’re looking for the ultimate sequence of truth, as Sven often pointed out, personal hygiene is not a priority. Also, Sven liked to think that really he worked in Silicon Valley in California, or Clerkenwell, which meant a surfeit of slogan t-shirts, trainers, and a diet consisting entirely of junk food, none of which helped the hygiene issue particularly.
The office of course smelled the way it normally did – of ink, dirty computer keyboards, bad food and a general low-lying depression. Under that smell, though, there was something else – something different, Arthur thought. Something reminiscent of wet school blazers and drool. He navigated the last few identical grey desks – newcomers could often be found scurrying around here like panicking rats before they gave up and simply became resigned rats.
Oh God, this was all he needed. Sure enough, now he thought about it, he could hear the heavy panting. He stood up and peered over the partition. There was Sven in all his normal early-morning sweatiness, munching his way loudly through a breakfast bun, but today – yet again – with the help of Sandwiches, his small, droopy-eared, stubby-legged, dribbly, stinky basset/sausage/ God-knows-what of a dog.
‘Bloody hell!’ said Arthur, all the frustrations of the morning welling up. ‘Sven, I thought you were supposed to stop bringing that fucking dog in. Today of all days!’
Sven grunted, entirely unconcerned. ‘Are you my boss?’
‘That’s not the point. Your dog is so dirty he’s a fire hazard. It’s health and safety.’
‘It’s “Bring Your Dog to Work Day”, innit?’
‘It is
not
,’ said Arthur fiercely, although a faint glimmering of doubt crept into his mind.
Was
it?
‘Yeah, it is. It said so in the
Guardian
.’
‘What? What on earth could a dog
possibly
do in an office? Well, yours could lick all the stamps.’
Sven snorted. ‘Yeah. And he could probably do your job. With one paw tied behind his back.’
‘Oh, don’t start.’
‘Who started? You started, you doggist bigot.’
Sandwiches reached up and carefully ate the end of Sven’s malodorous bun.
‘And if you fed your dog properly he wouldn’t fart all over the place.’
‘He doesn’t fart all over the place!’
‘Yes, he does, actually. You just don’t notice because you, too, fart all over the place.’
‘Why are you so fucking grumpy this morning then? Not getting any?’
Arthur wondered if job stress might make him impotent for the rest of his life. ‘NO!’
‘I reckon Sandwiches gets more than you, and I chopped his bollocks off five years ago.’
‘Nyeaarrgh,’ said Sandwiches.
‘Coffee?! Anyone? Who wants coffee!?’
A woman in a bright pink mohair sweater popped her tidy, short-white-haired head round the other side of Sven’s desk. This was Cathy who administrated the planners, oiled the troubled waters, did far too much of everyone else’s boring jobs and gave off an aura of complete desperation. She had a horrible husband and two horrible teenage boys, and coming to work was just about the most fun she ever had. Arthur tried not to think about this too often.
Sven and Arthur stopped sparring for a moment and grunted back at Cathy. Sandwiches’s tail wagged sturdily: he was the only person in the office, and possibly the world, who loved her unconditionally.
In fact, Arthur didn’t mind fixing coffee in the morning: it deferred the ultimate computer switching-on moment when the jolly day’s crap would begin.
‘No, it’s okay, I’ll manage.’
‘Ooh, I’ll come with you. But we can’t be too long, or people will start to talk!’
Cathy tried to look flirtatiously at Sven, who gave a groan of disgust and ignored them.
‘Do you like my new brooch?’ Cathy showed off the diamanté panda bear incongruously fastened to where her nipple must be underneath her shapeless sweater. ‘It was a birthday present!’
‘Oh, that’s nice,’ said Arthur. ‘From Ken?’
‘No.’ She looked at the floor, then jollied up again. ‘I got it for myself. Well, you know, the boys are
soo
forgetful. Which is actually better, you know, because I get to choose what I want!’
‘It is,’ said Arthur, trying to nod as if this were true.
‘So … it all starts today …’ Cathy offered tentatively as she pottered around the urn.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Arthur, ‘I’m sure you’ll be fine.’ In fact, he reckoned mousey work-horses were almost always the first to go; they complained less about redundancy.
‘Is it really a good idea to make us reapply for our own jobs, do you think? I mean, management must be right, but …’
Arthur nodded. ‘Absolutely. The fact that we’re in these jobs to begin with, of course, must be sheer chance. I got mine through my lottery numbers, in fact.’
Cathy perked up as she spotted someone on the horizon.
Great, thought Arthur, as Ross, his Tosspot Boss, came striding towards them in his cheap suit, with a big grin on his face implying that, whatever might happen to the rest of them – destitution, poverty, depression – he, mate, was going to be just fine, alright, mate? Yeah.
‘Art. Cath.’ Ross the Tosspot Boss was a year younger than Arthur and liked to point it out. His shirts were always on the wrong side of shiny, his voice on the grating edge of bonhomie and his actions mean as a snake. Arthur half-suspected that this strategic review thing was his idea. It meant Ross got rid of people with no direct route to himself: the consultants made him do it. Perfect. Although on reflection, Ross would probably have absolutely no trouble telling people to go by himself. He’d like it, in fact. A lot.
‘What are you getting up to in here then, yeah? Hanky panky!’
Cathy grinned and blushed. She had a hopeless crush on Ross – she clearly had a type. ‘Oh no!’ she fluttered.
‘Unlucky, eh Art?’
‘Yeah,’ said Arthur, as if yearning for nothing more than to be banging a sad-looking fifty-year-old woman on top of a coffee machine. Every time he let Ross call him Art, he reflected, a little bit of his soul died. He suspected (correctly) that Ross knew this. ‘I was doing alright until you came along.’
‘Oh!’ Cathy blushed again and waved her hands. This was possibly the most wonderful time she’d had in years.
‘Never mind, eh, pet?’ Ross leaned in chummily. ‘If you get made redundant today we’ll just go and cruise round the world, eh?’
Cathy smiled happily. Arthur shut his eyes. This was awful. Why didn’t he just punch him? He’d seen the picture of the ex-page-three model Ross claimed to be going out with, and she didn’t share much in common with Cathy apart from a certain look of resignation around the eyes. He should defend Cathy and punch Ross and … thrust a sword through his heart.
He opened his eyes. A sword? That was a bit much, surely. Offensive weapons weren’t really his style: he was a Labour voter and an inveterate spider freer.
‘Worried, Art?’ said Ross.
‘No,’ said Arthur, panicking.
Ross sniffed, looked as if he knew something the others didn’t, and walked away.
Can I feel my blood pressure rise? thought Arthur. Ooh. If I had a heart attack I’d get three months off to recover. Then: I am thirty-two years old and wishing for a heart attack. That cannot be good. Perhaps a mildly painless form of cancer, that got lots of sympathy. Or if he jumped out of the window here, made it look like an accident …
He wandered back to his desk, ostentatiously holding his nose as he passed Sven. ‘You’ve got mail!’ said a smarmy American voice. Arthur was surprised to see he’d automatically turned on his computer. Oh God. This, as well as a tendency to dial ‘nine’ before making a phone call at home was starting to make him think that his brain was gradually melding with the office. Soon, he would have no independent thoughts left of his own. His computer would beep ‘You’ve got thoughts!’ and then proceed to delete them, one by one.
Eighteen messages, almost all involving the project he was currently working on – the mooted bid for a new hypermarket near the town centre which involved knocking down substantial bits of old houses and creating a six-hundred-space multi-storey car park which would obscure the view of the marshland. It would also create fifteen hundred jobs and, on the whole, people tended to like handy hypermarkets. As a government worker charged with reviewing the viability of such projects, he often figured it would, in the long run, be quicker for him just to pull down his trousers and pull open his butt cheeks for the mega-grocers.
The e-mail he was looking for, however, was about a third of the way down the screen.
re: Strategic review job reassessment schedule
.
In his head, he heard them mispronounce ‘schedule’.
Please report to conference room B at 10.10 a.m …
Ah hah, he thought. Not even doing it in half-hour cycles. They must already know who they wanted in or out.
…
for your psychometric testing
.
Oh crap. The last time Arthur had done any psychometric testing, it had recommended he join the army. Although, on balance, how could that possibly be any worse than what he was doing now? Well, he could be shot to death, he supposed.
I would like to remind all staff that this is simply a cost-benefit-efficiency exercise devised to see how we can get the best out of all public service environments – a goal with which we’re all in agreement!
Yes, thought Arthur. I would gladly let my family starve and my house get repossessed if it benefited public service environments.
So, don’t worry and you never know – you might even enjoy taking the test!
Yours, Ross
.
Cathy leaned over from the next booth, twisting her brooch nervously.
‘I get three twenty-five,’ she said. ‘You know, I’m not sure if I will enjoy taking the test.’
Arthur wanted to be reassuring, but couldn’t think of a way. ‘I’m not so sure, either. Otherwise they’d call it a “party”. Although not one of our Christmas parties. Which are also misleadingly titled.’
Cathy’s face fell even further. ‘I organize those.’
‘Of course you do! Just being …’ he groped for a word. ‘Um, “wacky”.’
Cathy, not normally a good judge of wacky behaviour (eg: having more than two piercings would count as wacky, as did being gay; filling your house full of china dolls bought on a monthly payment plan however would have crossed her radar as perfectly normal), narrowed her eyes at this travesty of the Trade Descriptions Act.
‘It’ll be a piece of piss,’ said Sven, standing up for his twice-hourly trip to the vending machine. He normally timed them for whenever his phone was ringing, which drove everybody crazy. ‘Just tell them you’re not doing it!’
‘Yes, well, the only way someone could get away with that,’ said Arthur, realizing he was sounding peevish and exactly like his father, ‘would be to do a job so incomprehensible that no-one understands it, so they can’t fire you. Or your dog.’
Sven nodded with satisfaction, taking the compliment. His phone started to ring. He ignored it and walked away.
‘Yeah. I’m so happy I’m not some generic paper pusher – ooh, sorry,’ was his parting shot.
‘I am NOT …’ Arthur took a deep breath, conscious that Sven was always trying to rile him and that it always worked. Also, that whoever the evil consultants might be, they would probably choose a good moment to walk past while he was getting involved in a yelling match. And also, that it was true.
He sighed and turned back to his computer. Sven came back slopping coffee, and took an enormous bite out of his second roll, spluttering crumbs all over Arthur’s in-tray. Management had discouraged the habit of going out to lunch by situating the offices seventeen miles from the nearest conurbation, so the entire room had a patina of other people’s pot noodles and Marmite.
Arthur sat in purgatory for the next forty minutes, unable to concentrate. How had he got here, struggling to hold on to a shitty job he didn’t want, on a wet Tuesday in Coventry? School had been alright, hadn’t it? College – fine, fun. Geography, the world’s easiest option in the days when universities had still been fairly exclusive organizations that didn’t include degrees in Star Trek and Cutlery. And, ‘There’ll always be a need for town planners,’ his dad had said, pointing out with unarguable logic that people did, indeed, continue to be born. And now he was thirty-two and wanted to kill someone for accidentally spilling small pieces of bread into a black plastic container that didn’t belong to him, filled with crappy bits of paper he didn’t give a flying rat’s fart about. Hmm.