Alex George - Working It Out

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

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. Stenhouse-Jellicoe was slumped like an abandoned rag doll in his old leather chair behind his mahogany desk, which was about the same size as Johnathan’s office. He was flanked by two of his henchmen, Richard O’Donnell, head of the corporate department, and Trevor Bailey, the partnership secretary. Some time ago the dog had stopped wagging its two tails and the tails had begun to wag the dog, even though the dog was now too sozzled to notice. And when they wagged, they wagged hard, and without pity or remorse.

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