Working It Out. Alex George

flapped ineffectually around his clients. Johnathan eyed the half-naked doll. Some deep-seated sense of decorum urged him to straighten its legs and restore its dress to the proper position, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch it.

      Gerald Buchanan then breezed in. Johnathan got up from his chair and led him to the far corner of the room, out of earshot of the others.

      ‘What’s the prob?’ demanded Gerald. Johnathan told him.

      Gerald blinked.

      When Johnathan explained his proposed solution to the problem Gerald let out a low whistle. ‘I’m surprised they didn’t lynch you on the spot, old boy,’ he said. ‘Americans don’t like people taking the piss.’

      Johnathan leant forward. ‘But Gerald, that’s what they’re discussing. They think it might be a feasible option.’

      ‘Are you serious?’ asked Gerald. Johnathan nodded. ‘Well I’ll be buggered,’ whispered Gerald, ‘they’re even madder than we thought. Extraordinary.’

      Gary Schlongheist III bustled up. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ he said peevishly. ‘I don’t really think it appropriate that you be present while my clients are making this sort of sensitive commercial decision. Would you mind…?’ He gestured towards the door. Gerald slowly turned and left. Johnathan followed him out.

      They stood in the deserted corridor. ‘Pubic hair?’ said Gerald. Johnathan nodded. ‘Christ, what next? Next they’ll be having dolls that menstruate.’

      ‘Actually, they already do,’ said Johnathan.

      Some minutes later the door to the meeting room opened and Schlongheist came out. ‘It appears that my clients have reached a consensus of opinion in respect of the problem which we have identified this morning,’ he said, trying to hide his disappointment.

      ‘Yes?’ said Gerald.

      ‘Won’t you come in?’ Schlongheist held the door open sulkily.

      Gerald and Johnathan filed inside and sat down opposite a row of flushed, excited faces. Gary Schlongheist III coughed. ‘Well, we do appear to have arrived at a suitable compromise solution to the difficulty identified–’

      ‘Cut the crap, Gary,’ suggested H.D.(Harry) Sawyer amicably.

      Schlongheist reddened. ‘Yes, as I was saying, my clients are prepared to run with the idea that Mr Burlip suggested and on that basis I think that we can now proceed on the terms as we had originally planned.’ He looked crestfallen.

      Gerald looked at him sourly from across the table. He leant forward and said, ‘Are you tweaking my twinky?’

      ‘Pardon?’ said Schlongheist.

      ‘You heard. Are you pulling my plonker? Jiggling my joystick? Yanking my yard? Beating my meat?’

      ‘I’m sorry, Gerald, I really have no idea what you’re referring to,’ said the American, glancing at the assembled company nervously.

      Gerald was in full flow now. ‘Come off it, Gary,’ he said, with some venom. ‘I’ve been in this business long enough to know when someone is schlapping my schnitzel.’

      Johnathan frowned, quite lost. The Americans had begun to murmur amongst themselves.

      ‘Your schnitzel?’ asked Schlongheist doubtfully.

      Gerald looked at the Americans and gestured helplessly. He seemed genuinely upset. Without warning he slammed down his hand on to the table top. Brandy Jordan jumped. The doll jumped. ‘Dammit Gary! Come on. Be reasonable.’ Gerald stood up and began pacing the room. He appeared to be struggling to find the words he wanted to say. ‘I’m not prepared,’ he said, ‘to be treated like this, have you manipulate my manhood, let you play cat’s-cradle with my cock.’ He slumped back into his chair, emotionally wrung out. The Americans looked impressed. Schlongheist, hopelessly confused, waited.

      Eventually Gerald said, ‘Have you nothing to say?’

      Schlongheist looked at him through slitted eyes. ‘About what, exactly?’

      Gerald looked at Schlongheist for a moment. ‘I see,’ he said suddenly, and began gathering up his papers to leave. Turning away from Schlongheist, he winked cheerfully at Johnathan.

      ‘Wait, wait,’ said Schlongheist, panicking. ‘Whatever it is you have to say, please say it. In words of one syllable,’ he added.

      ‘Well it seems pretty obvious to me,’ said Gerald, putting his papers back down on the table. ‘Our client is offering your client a marvellous, not to say unique, opportunity to expand their product range to encompass a totally new–to them, anyway–concept in doll manufacture. Think about it. Don’t you think my client deserves to receive greater compensation as a result?’

      Gary Schlongheist III now went purple. ‘I’m quite sure–’

      Gerald interrupted smoothly. ‘Why don’t we ask your clients what they think?’

      H.D.(Harry) Sawyer stood up. ‘Hell, yes,’ he said, ‘that sounds reasonable enough to me. If we’re going to benefit from this breakthrough I don’t see why we shouldn’t share a little of it around.’ He looked down the table munificently, ignoring Schlongheist who remained rooted to his seat, opening and closing his mouth soundlessly. The Americans gazed adoringly up at their leader, and burst into spontaneous applause.

      Some time later Gary Schlongheist III recovered his power of speech. He said: ‘What an asshole.’

       SIX

      When Johnathan arrived back at his office after the meeting, Charlotte smiled shyly at him. Immediately he sensed something was wrong.

      ‘There’s a message for you,’ she said, brandishing a small piece of paper.

      ‘Oh. Thanks,’ said Johnathan, and took it. On it was written,

      

       Could we have a word? 2.30 this afternoon, my office.

       E.J.S-J.

      It was not a request, it was a command. And it was no ordinary command: it came from Edward Stenhouse-Jellicoe, the ancient and somewhat batty senior partner. Johnathan frowned. He had been at the firm for six and a half years, and had always believed that Stenhouse-Jellicoe didn’t have the faintest idea who he was. Each time Johnathan met him in the corridor or in the lift he would bow and scrape in obsequious reverence as expected but all he ever got in return was a rather puzzled, far-away smile.

      Stenhouse-Jellicoe had given up practising any law long ago. He was too much in the grip of addling senility for that. Instead he now usually arrived at eleven o’clock each day to sign some letters, perhaps chair a meeting or two of the partners to which he would contribute nothing other than a few irrelevant Latin maxims, before going into lunch in the partners’ dining room, where he would stay for most of the afternoon cuddling the port decanter and dozing fitfully.

      Under his benign and useless sovereignty, the real power was wielded ruthlessly by a small group of partners. Johnathan suspected that the balance of blood to port coursing through Stenhouse-Jellicoe’s veins had now tipped in favour of the port, and that as a result he no longer knew what actions were being taken in his name; he just signed whatever he was asked to sign and only complained when things made him late for lunch.

      Johnathan looked at his watch. It was 2.20. Why would Stenhouse-Jellicoe want to see him? His brain rioted with unpleasant theories. Suddenly Johnathan realized that whatever happened, it didn’t matter: he was going to resign anyway. He must remember: he no longer cared.

      At 2.30 he knocked on the door of Edward Stenhouse-Jellicoe’s office. There was a clearing of throats and then a strangled ‘Come’ from within.