CHAPTER 1
I’m a little bit suspicious of people who smile
on the Tube;
specifically, commuters who smile to themselves. I have no problem with
foreigners in fluorescent cagoules, laden with maps and sheaves of
leaflets espousing the many joys of anybody’s-guess waxworks and
open-top bus rides in the rain. They’re abroad and don’t know any
better. Smile away. And gabbling, reeking lunatics holding onto empty
liquor bottles for dear life are often very cheerful and capable of
creating their own blissful space in otherwise sardine-packed carriages,
like penicillin in a Petri dish. They can smile all they want to, though
preferably nowhere near me. But that bloke in a suit who, without any
obvious visual or aural stimulation, is just bloody smiling - well, he
bothers me. What I want to know is - what’s so funny, Smiley? What
entitles you to be light of mood when all about you, whey-faced
drones with their shark-dead eyes are drowning in quotidian gloom?
Worse, The Smiler, snubbing his nose at propriety, is invariably keen
to broadcast his anarchic streak. So he’ll catch your eye to rub it in. He
wants you to know there’s a party in his head and you’re not invited.
And that’s when I get to thinking - and I’m sure he knows this - have
I done something to amuse him, something I ought to be embarrassed
about? Has he spotted a matted glob of blood on my collar, unwitting
evidence of a careless shave? Or do I have a hole in my crotch
revealing my ‘Oh crap, it’s Monday’ pants (they were a birthday
present, by the way, which I wear on Tuesdays pursuant to my own
anarchic streak, thank you). And anyway, why’s that funny? A bloody
collar, an unstitched seam, a witty pant? Ok, maybe I’m being a bit
over-sensitive, maybe it’s not me at all or, indeed, anyone else in the
carriage. Maybe something funny’s just occurred to him.
specifically, commuters who smile to themselves. I have no problem with
foreigners in fluorescent cagoules, laden with maps and sheaves of
leaflets espousing the many joys of anybody’s-guess waxworks and
open-top bus rides in the rain. They’re abroad and don’t know any
better. Smile away. And gabbling, reeking lunatics holding onto empty
liquor bottles for dear life are often very cheerful and capable of
creating their own blissful space in otherwise sardine-packed carriages,
like penicillin in a Petri dish. They can smile all they want to, though
preferably nowhere near me. But that bloke in a suit who, without any
obvious visual or aural stimulation, is just bloody smiling - well, he
bothers me. What I want to know is - what’s so funny, Smiley? What
entitles you to be light of mood when all about you, whey-faced
drones with their shark-dead eyes are drowning in quotidian gloom?
Worse, The Smiler, snubbing his nose at propriety, is invariably keen
to broadcast his anarchic streak. So he’ll catch your eye to rub it in. He
wants you to know there’s a party in his head and you’re not invited.
And that’s when I get to thinking - and I’m sure he knows this - have
I done something to amuse him, something I ought to be embarrassed
about? Has he spotted a matted glob of blood on my collar, unwitting
evidence of a careless shave? Or do I have a hole in my crotch
revealing my ‘Oh crap, it’s Monday’ pants (they were a birthday
present, by the way, which I wear on Tuesdays pursuant to my own
anarchic streak, thank you). And anyway, why’s that funny? A bloody
collar, an unstitched seam, a witty pant? Ok, maybe I’m being a bit
over-sensitive, maybe it’s not me at all or, indeed, anyone else in the
carriage. Maybe something funny’s just occurred to him.
I don’t care. I don’t like it.
That’s the thing about the London Underground. People
forget
who they are; that they got on the train with distinct and, in many
who they are; that they got on the train with distinct and, in many
1
Simon Lipson
cases, complex
personalities. Yet once ensconced within the sterile
anonymity of the seething warren, arcane rules of non-engagement
kick in. The haughty, physical defence of personal space; the flickering,
fascinated eyes watching stations hove into and out of view, stations
they’ve flickered at a thousand times before; the intense ‘I’m reading,
don’t disturb me’ po-face. Woe betide anyone making eye contact.
That’s why The Smiler stands out. He’s not to be trusted.
anonymity of the seething warren, arcane rules of non-engagement
kick in. The haughty, physical defence of personal space; the flickering,
fascinated eyes watching stations hove into and out of view, stations
they’ve flickered at a thousand times before; the intense ‘I’m reading,
don’t disturb me’ po-face. Woe betide anyone making eye contact.
That’s why The Smiler stands out. He’s not to be trusted.
But, you see, that morning, it was me who broke ranks.
I’m normally
a pack-dog, an automaton, a leave-me-alone merchant, someone
whose mind is ostentatiously elsewhere. But I was smiling - yes, to
myself - a smile interlaced with the odd gentle convulsion. Maybe,
hopefully, it was me pissing everyone else off for a change as I ran a
mental video of the night before. Me, in the kitchen, clattering about,
hopeless-dad-fashion, trying to conjure a meal for Millie and Katia
under cover of the laboured comedy routine of which they’d long
since tired. Undeterred by their indifference, I ploughed on. Where
was the pasta? What the hell’s spelt when it’s at home? Which one’s the
special pasta saucepan? How long do you boil it for - or do you fry it?
Do you need to add meat to Ragu or merely slop it on cold from the
jar? In truth, I didn’t know the answer to too many of these questions.
Millie wore the weary look she’d inherited, gene-for-gene, from her
mother, eyelids fluttering, barely tolerating my ineptitude and ham-
fisted witlessness, while Katia smiled wryly as she chewed on a waxy
rod of cheese of indeterminate colour whilst skim-reading a Jacqueline
Wilson book I’d have found too racy and sophisticated at eighteen,
much less eight.
a pack-dog, an automaton, a leave-me-alone merchant, someone
whose mind is ostentatiously elsewhere. But I was smiling - yes, to
myself - a smile interlaced with the odd gentle convulsion. Maybe,
hopefully, it was me pissing everyone else off for a change as I ran a
mental video of the night before. Me, in the kitchen, clattering about,
hopeless-dad-fashion, trying to conjure a meal for Millie and Katia
under cover of the laboured comedy routine of which they’d long
since tired. Undeterred by their indifference, I ploughed on. Where
was the pasta? What the hell’s spelt when it’s at home? Which one’s the
special pasta saucepan? How long do you boil it for - or do you fry it?
Do you need to add meat to Ragu or merely slop it on cold from the
jar? In truth, I didn’t know the answer to too many of these questions.
Millie wore the weary look she’d inherited, gene-for-gene, from her
mother, eyelids fluttering, barely tolerating my ineptitude and ham-
fisted witlessness, while Katia smiled wryly as she chewed on a waxy
rod of cheese of indeterminate colour whilst skim-reading a Jacqueline
Wilson book I’d have found too racy and sophisticated at eighteen,
much less eight.
Sunday
evening meals were invariably my domain and I took the
responsibility extremely semi-seriously despite my absence of
domestic skills. Lisa always seemed to be on top of it when she was in
charge, not militarily, but with that languid efficiency that mums do so
well. But she’d gone out to her book club meeting to discuss some
impenetrable Nabokov treatise - which she’d actually packed in after
thirteen pages (as it turned out, she’d got further than most) - so I
couldn’t refer to her higher authority. Soldiering on, I finally got the
water to boil, chucked in the penne with a flourish - a steaming splash
responsibility extremely semi-seriously despite my absence of
domestic skills. Lisa always seemed to be on top of it when she was in
charge, not militarily, but with that languid efficiency that mums do so
well. But she’d gone out to her book club meeting to discuss some
impenetrable Nabokov treatise - which she’d actually packed in after
thirteen pages (as it turned out, she’d got further than most) - so I
couldn’t refer to her higher authority. Soldiering on, I finally got the
water to boil, chucked in the penne with a flourish - a steaming splash
2
Song in the Wrong Key
burnt my hand
(important lesson there) - and stuck the Ragu jar in the
microwave. Yes I took the lid off, come on. As I collected the requisite
plates, cutlery and glasses, I began to sing ‘Home,’ the all-time Michael
Bublé classic. In my book anyway. The kids pointedly ignored me,
embarrassed for and by me, so I waltzed closer to them, knives and
forks for dancing partners, forcing the poor things to cower at the
table. Katia pulled her book around her face in an attempt to insulate
herself from the crooning nutter, while Millie stifled a smile as she
coloured in a pencil-drawn map of Ireland, Peru or possibly Jupiter in
her exercise book. I leaned down, singing first into Katia’s, then
Millie’s ear. They cringed theatrically.
microwave. Yes I took the lid off, come on. As I collected the requisite
plates, cutlery and glasses, I began to sing ‘Home,’ the all-time Michael
Bublé classic. In my book anyway. The kids pointedly ignored me,
embarrassed for and by me, so I waltzed closer to them, knives and
forks for dancing partners, forcing the poor things to cower at the
table. Katia pulled her book around her face in an attempt to insulate
herself from the crooning nutter, while Millie stifled a smile as she
coloured in a pencil-drawn map of Ireland, Peru or possibly Jupiter in
her exercise book. I leaned down, singing first into Katia’s, then
Millie’s ear. They cringed theatrically.
‘Come on,’ I pleaded, ‘you always used to love it when
Daddy sang
to you.’
to you.’
‘That was when we were young,’ said
Millie, now seven.
I smiled and picked up the song where I’d left off, upping
the
volume extravagantly and losing a little tonal accuracy in the process.
Millie looked up dolefully, half covering her ears, wincing. ‘The thing
is, Dad, your singing…’ she said. I nodded, awaiting her sweet little
put-down, ‘…it’s shit.’
volume extravagantly and losing a little tonal accuracy in the process.
Millie looked up dolefully, half covering her ears, wincing. ‘The thing
is, Dad, your singing…’ she said. I nodded, awaiting her sweet little
put-down, ‘…it’s shit.’
Shit? I blame the mother. I never say ‘shit’ in front
of the kids. Ok,
I might occasionally slip it in if it’s contextually appropriate, like
‘what’s this shit you’re watching kids?’ Otherwise? Never. But, even
allowing for Millie’s little cuss - in fact largely because of it - I was
The Smiler on the train that morning, a contented man breezing
along, not a care in the world.
I might occasionally slip it in if it’s contextually appropriate, like
‘what’s this shit you’re watching kids?’ Otherwise? Never. But, even
allowing for Millie’s little cuss - in fact largely because of it - I was
The Smiler on the train that morning, a contented man breezing
along, not a care in the world.
Funny how your life can change in
an instant.
I battled my way up the escalators at Holborn station,
slipped,
Astaire-like, through the snapping jaws of the automatic barrier and
skipped up the final set of stairs into the hazy sunlight. The cold
morning air was thick with fumes, the traffic jammed and furious, but
I didn’t care. I was awash in smugness, still congratulating myself on
those brilliant kids of mine, my wonderful, tolerant, capable wife, my
overall domestic bliss. I observed the poor bastards whose lives
couldn’t possibly be as rich as mine, trudging to wherever they were
doomed to spend yet another pointless day.
Astaire-like, through the snapping jaws of the automatic barrier and
skipped up the final set of stairs into the hazy sunlight. The cold
morning air was thick with fumes, the traffic jammed and furious, but
I didn’t care. I was awash in smugness, still congratulating myself on
those brilliant kids of mine, my wonderful, tolerant, capable wife, my
overall domestic bliss. I observed the poor bastards whose lives
couldn’t possibly be as rich as mine, trudging to wherever they were
doomed to spend yet another pointless day.
3
Simon Lipson
I floated east along High Holborn, all but whistling a
happy tune,
arriving outside my office building within a couple of joyous minutes.
I spun through the revolving door, nodded at the security guy - who,
as ever, looked down at his desk gravely as though he had several
pressing security issues on the go and couldn’t possibly allow himself
to be distracted - and, eschewing the lift, hopped up the three flights
of stairs to my floor. I bundled through the double doors and strode
sunnily into the open plan office area where half the staff were
cranking up for the day. The other half, like me, were late. I nodded
with what I hope could never be interpreted as condescension at the
handful of underlings lining the path to my executive office tucked
away in the far left hand corner. A couple of yards from my door, I
was intercepted by Pete Moore, my immediate superior. Of course, he
was only superior in terms of job title, salary and perks - and, ok, he
lived with a young Spanish model in a Docklands penthouse, had a
first class Oxford degree in some social science or other and drove
something silver and supercharged - but that’s not how you judge a
man, is it? Pete and I went way back. In fact, I started at Edmonds &
White IT Systems a month before him and was, briefly, his boss. But
Pete was all thrusting ambition, a ruthless operator who lived to work
arriving outside my office building within a couple of joyous minutes.
I spun through the revolving door, nodded at the security guy - who,
as ever, looked down at his desk gravely as though he had several
pressing security issues on the go and couldn’t possibly allow himself
to be distracted - and, eschewing the lift, hopped up the three flights
of stairs to my floor. I bundled through the double doors and strode
sunnily into the open plan office area where half the staff were
cranking up for the day. The other half, like me, were late. I nodded
with what I hope could never be interpreted as condescension at the
handful of underlings lining the path to my executive office tucked
away in the far left hand corner. A couple of yards from my door, I
was intercepted by Pete Moore, my immediate superior. Of course, he
was only superior in terms of job title, salary and perks - and, ok, he
lived with a young Spanish model in a Docklands penthouse, had a
first class Oxford degree in some social science or other and drove
something silver and supercharged - but that’s not how you judge a
man, is it? Pete and I went way back. In fact, I started at Edmonds &
White IT Systems a month before him and was, briefly, his boss. But
Pete was all thrusting ambition, a ruthless operator who lived to work
- when he
wasn’t spending his vastly inflated salary on exotic holidays
and expensive women. His greatest skills were licking the right arses
and looking ferociously busy even when he wasn’t, a deadly
combination with which I could never compete. Good luck to him.
The poor guy had no family to coddle him in their warm, loving
embrace after a hard day’s work. I wouldn’t have swapped anything I
had for anything of his. Ok, that’s not strictly accurate, but I don’t
want to split hairs over anything as vacuous as money, status, property
or stunning señoritas.
and expensive women. His greatest skills were licking the right arses
and looking ferociously busy even when he wasn’t, a deadly
combination with which I could never compete. Good luck to him.
The poor guy had no family to coddle him in their warm, loving
embrace after a hard day’s work. I wouldn’t have swapped anything I
had for anything of his. Ok, that’s not strictly accurate, but I don’t
want to split hairs over anything as vacuous as money, status, property
or stunning señoritas.
Pete placed his hand gently on my elbow and guided me
away from
my office and towards his. ‘A word?’ was his sole, solemn remark.
Pete’s cavernous suite was cold, not because of the surfeit of smoked glass, the soulless décor or the absence of family photos, but because of his face, his manner. You always know, don’t you?
‘Got a problem, mate,’ he said, his voice flat, foreboding.
my office and towards his. ‘A word?’ was his sole, solemn remark.
Pete’s cavernous suite was cold, not because of the surfeit of smoked glass, the soulless décor or the absence of family photos, but because of his face, his manner. You always know, don’t you?
‘Got a problem, mate,’ he said, his voice flat, foreboding.
4
Song in the Wrong Key
‘Don’t tell me. Those morons at Delta-D complaining about
the network
again?’ I could already feel myself
drowning, but didn’t yet know which ocean was sucking me down.
‘No. They’re fine.’
‘Yeah,’ I scoffed without conviction, ‘had to work my
butt off to get them onside. Bunch of complete…’
‘We’re letting you go.’
‘…wankers.’
‘Mike? We’re letting you go.’
‘Ok mate. Let’s do lunch later,
yeah?’
‘Mike. I’m not pissing around. This
isn’t coming from me.’ ‘Look, I’ve got stuff
piled up on my desk, so…’
‘They thought it’d be better if I told you.’
‘They thought it’d be better if I told you.’
‘Ok. Now, I may look cheerful enough, but I’m actually
beginning
to get a bit worried, Pete. I thought,’ I chuckled pitifully, my heart
thudding, lungs barely able to replenish the oxygen they were hyper-
exhaling, ‘…I thought I heard you say you were letting me go, but
obviously…’
to get a bit worried, Pete. I thought,’ I chuckled pitifully, my heart
thudding, lungs barely able to replenish the oxygen they were hyper-
exhaling, ‘…I thought I heard you say you were letting me go, but
obviously…’
‘Elliott
and Barry hauled me in last thing Friday. They’re making you redundant. No other way to say it.’
I let that one sink in as I struggled to breathe. ‘They
can’t do that.’
‘They can. They have. I’m really sorry, mate. You think this is easy for me?’
‘They can. They have. I’m really sorry, mate. You think this is easy for me?’
‘Oh poor you,’ I said with desperate sarcasm, ‘you’d
better sit
down.’
down.’
‘My hands are tied, Mike.’
‘Why me? What about…what about Arnie? He’s useless. Or
Christine?’ I was pleading now, pathetic, emasculated. This was as
good a point as any to slump into the über-modern, supremely
uncomfortable leather armchair reserved only for the best clients.
Pete stifled a wince.
Christine?’ I was pleading now, pathetic, emasculated. This was as
good a point as any to slump into the über-modern, supremely
uncomfortable leather armchair reserved only for the best clients.
Pete stifled a wince.
‘She’s on half what you’re on…and, you know…’
‘Big tits,’ I mumbled in a sad echo of the mock-laddish banter Pete
and I occasionally engaged in before his accession to executioner-in-
chief. And Christine did, indeed, have a sizeable bust, which didn’t
and I occasionally engaged in before his accession to executioner-in-
chief. And Christine did, indeed, have a sizeable bust, which didn’t
5
Simon Lipson
excuse it, I
know, but we’re men and we can’t help ourselves sometimes.
But right now it wasn’t remotely funny, even if everyone tacitly
acknowledged that Christine’s rise was largely due to the tongues-out
enthusiasm generated by her most prominent physical feature.
But right now it wasn’t remotely funny, even if everyone tacitly
acknowledged that Christine’s rise was largely due to the tongues-out
enthusiasm generated by her most prominent physical feature.
‘She’s pulling in the business, Mike; making the boys upstairs
happy.’
‘Big tits do that,’ I said, shaking my head like a defeated schoolboy, ‘I’m at a massive disadvantage.’
‘Big tits do that,’ I said, shaking my head like a defeated schoolboy, ‘I’m at a massive disadvantage.’
Pete
rolled his eyes as though this sexist nonsense was, belatedly, beneath him. He’d invented it, the bastard. ‘What
can I say?’
‘I’ve been here longer than Arnie.’
‘I’ve been here longer than Arnie.’
‘But Arnie’s just
nailed that Freestone
contract,’ said Pete, hammering home another irrefutable nail in my coffin,
‘otherwise he’d probably
have been the one to go. You know business is bloody tough. Someone had to take the
bullet.’
‘Someone?’ I knew all of
this, of course, but you never
quite see it coming. ‘Didn’t you argue on my
behalf ? Didn’t you tell them how unlucky
I’ve been? I mean, if I’d pulled
off that deal with Virgin, Elliott and Barry could’ve fucking retired.’
‘But you didn’t.’
I pinched my thumb and forefinger to within a centimetre
of each
other. ‘I was this close.’ I wasn’t even in the neighbouring solar system.
‘They think you fucked it up. And right now, it’s costing us to keep you on. You’re not bringing in the fees. You’re not even paying for yourself.’
other. ‘I was this close.’ I wasn’t even in the neighbouring solar system.
‘They think you fucked it up. And right now, it’s costing us to keep you on. You’re not bringing in the fees. You’re not even paying for yourself.’
‘Costing us?’ I whined. ‘Us?’
‘Them. I mean them, the company,’ Pete said in a hollow
display of personal
loyalty of which he then thought better.
‘Well no, I don’t. It is us, isn’t it? We
all have to make our contribution. I’m part of
the family here.
We’re all in this together.’
‘Are we?’
Pete sighed. I wish I could say this was hurting him,
but the guy was
a consummate actor whose prime concern was covering his own
backside.
a consummate actor whose prime concern was covering his own
backside.
‘And, Mike. How long have we known each other? Of course I pleaded with them on your behalf,’ he lied. ‘Come on.’
6
Song in the Wrong Key
‘I was top fee
earner…’ ‘In 1998,
Mike.’
The internal phone buzzed and Pete held up an apologetic
finger as
he rounded his desk to take the call. He spoke sotto voce, but I cupped
my ear. ‘Yes. Yes,’ he whispered, ‘won’t be long. I’ll pop up in a minute.
Ha, ha. Coffee’d be great. Any croissants? Mmm. Ok.’ He put the
phone down, turned to face me and quickly readjusted his features
until they settled on the sympathetic mien he’d probably practised in
the executive washroom mirror.
he rounded his desk to take the call. He spoke sotto voce, but I cupped
my ear. ‘Yes. Yes,’ he whispered, ‘won’t be long. I’ll pop up in a minute.
Ha, ha. Coffee’d be great. Any croissants? Mmm. Ok.’ He put the
phone down, turned to face me and quickly readjusted his features
until they settled on the sympathetic mien he’d probably practised in
the executive washroom mirror.
‘Is that how
you pleaded for me? Over a nice plate of
flaky pastry?’ ‘Stop it Mike.’
‘But I’ve got kids and a wife and a mortgage…all that
shit. What am
I going to do? I’m forty-two.’ It was lame, after the event. It wasn’t
going to help.
I going to do? I’m forty-two.’ It was lame, after the event. It wasn’t
going to help.
‘We’ve put together a really good package. Six months’
salary. And you can keep
the gym membership until the end of the
year. Uh?’
‘Great. I’ll jog to the bankruptcy court. My God, Pete. Six months’ money? After all these years?’
‘Great. I’ll jog to the bankruptcy court. My God, Pete. Six months’ money? After all these years?’
‘And…you can keep the car.’
He’d obviously kept that up his sleeve in case I had the
temerity to whinge. Hardly
a clincher. ‘Oh, magnificent. Can’t afford to fill it up, but maybe I can fold the seats down
and move in when the Nationwide forecloses on my fucking mortgage.’
‘You’ll find something in no time.
You’re a good man.’
‘Look, fuck the package. Why not reduce my basic, load it
in favour
of commission? It’ll motivate me. Maybe that’s what I’ve been
missing.’
of commission? It’ll motivate me. Maybe that’s what I’ve been
missing.’
‘My hands are tied Mike.’
My mouth opened but nothing came out. I was all done
begging. I
gulped in some air and whimpered, ‘But I’m forty-two.’
‘What about Lisa? She’s earning good money, isn’t she? You’re not going to starve.’
gulped in some air and whimpered, ‘But I’m forty-two.’
‘What about Lisa? She’s earning good money, isn’t she? You’re not going to starve.’
Which was true, of course. My financial protestations were
born
of shock, indignation, humiliation, not the facts. Lisa comfortably
out-earned me; had done for years. Maybe that made me easier to
of shock, indignation, humiliation, not the facts. Lisa comfortably
out-earned me; had done for years. Maybe that made me easier to
7
Simon Lipson
get rid of.
But I still needed a reason to get up in the morning. And I was only forty-two. Did I mention
that?
‘That’s it for
me. Who wants someone of my age in this
game?’ ‘The references will be great and…’.
‘Yeah? Michael Kenton worked for this company for 17
years. He is
reliable, capable, trustworthy and diligent. That’s why we got rid of
him.’
reliable, capable, trustworthy and diligent. That’s why we got rid of
him.’
‘No-one’s going to take that inference. People in the
business know it’s tough.
The competition’s horrendous. There are new companies sprouting up as we speak, ready to
undercut us.’
‘I know,’ I muttered, ‘I know.’
‘Hey, and…tell you what, I’ll see if I can have a word with David
Lewis at Crack-IT. I heard he was after someone experienced on the
technical side.’
Lewis at Crack-IT. I heard he was after someone experienced on the
technical side.’
‘Yeah, right,’ I sulked.
‘That’d be perfect for you. Maybe sales isn’t your thing
any more. You were always
a techie at heart.’
‘Yeah.’ I squeaked up off the armchair and gestured at the door. ‘I
might as well…’
Pete laced a smile with his best approximation of tragic empathy and put his arm around me, but
felt immediately uncomfortable and turned it into a stilted pat on the shoulder.
I trudged out and slunk along the corridor, dead man
walking, until
I reached my office. It already looked deserted. There was no point
sitting down, no point settling into my comfortable little kingdom;
better to clear it out and clear off. I rifled through my desk drawers,
finding all sorts of items I’d forgotten I had - a liveried letter opener,
my Top Fee Earner plaque from 1998, a useless, frayed felt tip pen
given to me by Millie who insisted I use it at work. I removed the
family photos from my desk - the gap-toothed ones of the kids in
their prim, ill-fitting school uniforms, the one of my parents when
they still had a future, the yellowing shot of me and Lisa looking lean
and shiny-faced, toasting the camera in a long-forgotten restaurant in
Mykonos. I dithered over the pens, the calculator, the plastic ruler, the
stapler, all of which were company property, then decided to take the
I reached my office. It already looked deserted. There was no point
sitting down, no point settling into my comfortable little kingdom;
better to clear it out and clear off. I rifled through my desk drawers,
finding all sorts of items I’d forgotten I had - a liveried letter opener,
my Top Fee Earner plaque from 1998, a useless, frayed felt tip pen
given to me by Millie who insisted I use it at work. I removed the
family photos from my desk - the gap-toothed ones of the kids in
their prim, ill-fitting school uniforms, the one of my parents when
they still had a future, the yellowing shot of me and Lisa looking lean
and shiny-faced, toasting the camera in a long-forgotten restaurant in
Mykonos. I dithered over the pens, the calculator, the plastic ruler, the
stapler, all of which were company property, then decided to take the
8
Song in the Wrong Key
lot. Screw you, Pete, screw all
of you. I win!
I piled my sad little bounty into a couple of the Tesco bags I kept in
my bottom drawer. It was pathetic. I was pathetic. Two plastic bags
full of useless crap. Was that all the last 17 years had amounted to? I
stood by the door, bags hanging limply from one hand, empty
briefcase from the other, and looked around the room one last time. I
almost bade it farewell, then realised it was only a bloody room, one in
which I was no longer welcome.
my bottom drawer. It was pathetic. I was pathetic. Two plastic bags
full of useless crap. Was that all the last 17 years had amounted to? I
stood by the door, bags hanging limply from one hand, empty
briefcase from the other, and looked around the room one last time. I
almost bade it farewell, then realised it was only a bloody room, one in
which I was no longer welcome.
What was I going to tell Lisa?
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