Arthur sighed and looked at Sven. ‘Will you change what he eats? So he doesn’t fart so much?’
‘Charcoal biscuits only,’ said Sven solemnly. Sandwiches coughed and deposited four loose staples on the carpet. Cathy rubbed him as if he’d done something clever and unwrapped him a Fox’s glacier mint.
‘Oh God,’ said Arthur. ‘My first executive decision and I’ve let the place be overrun by wild animals.’ He headed off towards Ross’s old domain.
‘Marcus, I believe you’re goin’ to have to set up a new expense account,’ he could hear Sven say, grandly.
Ross’s office still smelled of him – Lynx deodorant, sweaty hair and air freshener. Even the boss’s windows didn’t open. Arthur paced around the room, picking things up and putting them down again. There was a long, standard issue pine desk facing the door right in the middle of the room – Ross liked to play the part of Blofeld, and sit with his back to the hapless visitor in his office (it didn’t matter what they’d done: the fact that they were in a room with Ross at all already made them pretty hapless). He hadn’t even left time to pick up his personal possessions. Arthur looked at them now, vowing to pack them up and send them on to Slough. On the desk there was the framed picture of Ross, trying to smile, with the very attractive woman he called his girlfriend scowling. Arthur wondered idly if this was his girlfriend or some woman he’d sidled up to at a motor trade fair. There was also a model of his car (a ridiculously over-customized silver-blue Audi that positively screamed ‘dickwad’.) Well, maybe he wouldn’t return all the stuff. On a whim he threw the model in the air and kicked it as it came back down to earth. The plastic shattered with a satisfying noise. He caught the main part of the chassis with his foot and kicked it into the air again. It flew across the desk and knocked the framed photograph onto the floor. Goal!
‘Oh, whoops!’ he said out loud.
‘You know, your destructive skills weren’t the only reason we hired you,’ said the cool voice.
Gwyneth, wearing a peppermint-green suit, was cool and unruffled-looking. She had been standing in the corner behind the door and was now pretending to examine the files against the far wall.
‘Oh!’ said Arthur in a high-pitched voice, which annoyed him. He cast around for some excuse for wilful destruction of somebody else’s property, but couldn’t come up with one. He tried to change the subject. ‘Nice … breakfast?’ he asked, then winced at the pathetic question.
Gwyneth looked to the side. ‘I don’t eat breakfast,’ she said.
‘No, of course not, otherwise how would you keep your slim …’ Oh God, he said to himself, shape up, you’re starting to sound like Vic Reeves.
‘Well.’ She turned and stepped forward to confront him. ‘Your first day. Welcome.’
‘Thanks,’ said Arthur, mumbling and looking at the floor.
‘What did you have for breakfast? Or rather …’ She looked at his bruised face. ‘What had you?’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Arthur, pawing his face. ‘Um …’ Well, he wasn’t going to get into this. ‘Did it myself … You know, to even things up. Don’t you think it looks better?’
Rather than answering him, Gwyneth snapped her fingers and a scared-looking secretary marched in, carrying three tons of files. The secretary dropped them onto the table with an exhausted sigh.
‘Thanks, Miriam. You can go home now.’
‘That doesn’t seem bad for a day’s work,’ mused Arthur. It was still nine thirty.
‘Night shift,’ snapped Gwyneth. ‘Efficiency drive.’
‘Of course,’ said Arthur, sitting down gingerly.
‘Okay. Here we have financial projections, budgetary restraints, minutes from the working party, the futures committee, the town council, the planning board, the county council, the department of the environment – oh, here’s the white paper. Over here are the application guidelines, the tendering process, the likelihood graphs. Plus studies from Glasgow, Manchester, Amsterdam, Prague and Budapest. I wouldn’t bother with that last one, depending on how good your Hungarian is …’
‘Bit rusty, actually.’
‘Fine.’
She eyed him over the wall of paper that now divided them.
‘Why don’t you get started?’
‘Sure,’ said Arthur, as if having to read fourteen thousand pages of the most mind-numbing information ever committed to paper was exactly the kind of thing he’d been dreaming about all these years.
‘Ehem, what will you be doing exactly?’
Gwyneth stared at him. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘I think it’s best if you call a team meeting. Then we can outline all our roles. I’m going to be working on the bid with you. Get your best people.’
Arthur stared at the pile of papers. He picked some up. He smelled them. He did not have a clue what to do with them. But, casting around, he noticed one thing – he had an intercom!
He reached over and pressed a button. As soon as he started speaking, his voice boomed right back at him – he could hear it out on the main floor. Oh, this was cool. Resisting the immediate temptation to sing ‘Angels’, he coughed – nearly bursting the eardrums of anyone on the floor – and leaned forward to the speaker. Who were his best people? He chose to make a management decision and simply ask anyone he knew.
‘Er … Hello, everyone. This is Arthur … Um, could I see … Sven, Cathy … er … Gwyneth …’
‘I’m only in here,’ said Gwyneth, crossly opening the connecting door.
‘Marcus … Marcus … Um, if I think of anyone else I’ll say in a minute.’ There was a long pause. ‘Um, sorry. Can you come and see me in the conference room, please?’
With trepidation, they filed in.
‘Sit down, everyone.’
The group bustled around, looking at the table.
‘Anywhere special you want us to sit?’ asked Gwyneth.
Arthur looked up, startled. ‘No, of course not. Sit wherever you like.’
They seated themselves around Marcus, the finance director, whom they found safe, being the only person in the office who knew how to add up. He lived in a world of fake friendship and promises, as girls gave him lascivious winks if he promised to help them out with their expenses, and many pints were bought for him round about the March mark. Sandwiches sat at the end of the table.
Looking round the room for the first time, Arthur realized, suddenly, that he didn’t care in the slightest. Whatever he did, this was it now. He was in charge. He was the boss. They were going to like him or – well, who liked their boss? Forget it. They were going to hate him, but they might respect him or they might not. He took a deep breath and began.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘Things have changed a bit round here.’
Yes, that was obvious enough. He decided just to get down to it.
‘Okay … team. Here’s what we’re going to be doing.’
He revealed the graphic overhead just as Gwyneth had done, and tried to garner the same level of dramatic enthusiasm.
‘Our new project,’ he announced, ‘is to take Coventry all the way to becoming European City of Culture!’
There was dead silence round the table.
‘What’s that then?’ said Marcus.
‘Ehem … It’s whatever you want it to be,’ said Arthur. ‘We’re going to create the city of our imagination!’
Gwyneth