Jenny Colgan - Working Wonders

‘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 coughed discreetly.

‘Within certain highly defined boundaries, of course.’

‘It’s an urban rejuvenation project,’ said Gwyneth. Immediately, the eyelids of the entire room began to droop.

‘This … I cannot imagine the amount of money it would take to transform Coventry,’ said Marcus, wonderingly. ‘All of it?’

‘It’s to bring out the beauty of the city, make it a tourist attraction. Show its true colours.’

‘Those being what – grey, grey and dark-grey?’ joined in Sven.

‘What’s the slogan going to be?’ added Marcus. ‘“Coventry’s Crappily Better”?’

‘Come to Coventry … if you’re a cu—’

‘Is anyone else really missing Ross?’ said Cathy.

‘Yes, yes, okay, okay, calm down,’ said Arthur, the tips of his ears going red. This wasn’t starting well.

‘Gwyneth and I …’ This felt very odd to be saying, almost like ‘my wife and I’. ‘Gwyneth and I think you are the best team to take the project forward. I know it seems a huge, huge mountain to climb, but I really think we are in with a chance.’

The room went silent as they all looked at him.

‘Any questions?’

‘Yes, one. Very important,’ said Marcus. ‘Are we going to get access to those executive snacks?’

‘Tea,’ said Gwyneth brightly. ‘Let’s all take a break for tea.’ And smiling like a primary school teacher, she hustled everyone out of the room towards a table which had been set up specially – with chocolate biscuits. The group fell on them with gusto. Gwyneth came back into the room, where Arthur was still standing.

‘They’re … they’re absolutely dreadful ,’ she said, her face like thunder.

‘What?’ said Arthur. This woman was completely incomprehensible. ‘What is?’

‘Your so-called staff .’ She practically spat. ‘Is that bunch of work-shy cynics the best this office can do?’

‘That lot?’ Arthur looked at them. ‘But you’ve just given them all chocolate biscuits.’ He sat down. ‘I don’t think that will work particularly well as staff aversion training. Here – annoy Gwyneth. Have a biscuit!’

‘They’re like a bunch of children. And that Sven – he’s just a pig!’

‘Yeah, he is a pig,’ agreed Arthur. ‘A strange, ugly pig with superior logistical ability.’

‘For a man or a pig? That’s an important distinction.’

‘Go easy on him, Gwyneth – do you know he’s never had sex? ’Fessed up to the temp at the Christmas party, poor bastard. He’s a virgin.’

‘I’m not surprised.’ She shuddered. ‘Can you imagine …’

‘No,’ said Arthur quickly, trying very hard not to think about sex and Gwyneth in the same context at all.

‘And you’re meant to be leading this bunch of reprobates – look at them. They’re slagging you off right now.’

‘They are not,’ said Arthur, looking out of the door nonetheless.

Sven was holding up his chocolate biscuit plate and saying, ‘Please sir, I’m little orphan Arthur. Please can I have a European City of Culture?’

The others were laughing.

‘I’m never going to get them to do anything, am I?’ said Arthur.

‘You just have to get tough with them.’

‘That will never work.’

Gwyneth turned round and stalked into the open area outside the meeting room. She stood before them with her hands on her hips.

‘Right, you’ve had your chocolate biscuits. Now fuck off, and Arthur wants two-page memos from each of you on your preliminary ideas for the bid, on his desk, Friday morning. Here are copies of the guidelines, budget not an issue, just brainstorm.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Marcus, and the rest of them shuffled off obediently.

Gwyneth turned round again to Arthur, who tried not to show how impressed he was. God, but this woman was annoying.

Arthur was stretched over the empty bed, one of the few pieces of furniture Fay had left behind. It still smelled, faintly, of her conditioner. There was a long brown hair lying across the pillow. He picked it up. It felt for a moment like a trap – like she had left it there to see if her bed would be disturbed; to see what would happen.

Later, he was dreaming of horses again. He was pounding over the land. It was winter again, and the frosted wind caught against his throat. This time, he wasn’t alone. He looked down and realized his arm was around a girl. She was cowering into him and holding him tight, but oddly, he felt no emotion towards her. Suddenly he realized it was Gwyneth. Her fair hair was blowing over the cowl of her cloak. He groaned once, in his sleep, and turned over.

‘I can’t believe they’re actually all here,’ said Gwyneth that Friday. ‘And they’re all pretty much legible. Sven’s has something on it …’

‘I think that’s dog slobber,’ said Arthur.

‘Oh, God,’ said Gwyneth, dropping it as if it were acid. Arthur watched her, remembering the fragile creature he had held in his dream three nights before, not this smartly dressed efficiency machine standing before him.

‘Why do you do this?’ he asked suddenly.

‘What? Pick up pieces of paper typed by dogs with dirty paws? I have absolutely no idea, I assure you.’

‘No, I mean, your job. How did you get into it?’

Gwyneth looked at him. ‘Well, at university, I spent my summers working for …’

‘I don’t mean your job interview answer. Just … why?’

She shrugged. ‘Well, why does anyone become a management consultant?’

Arthur sat back.

Gwyneth was looking at him like the answer was obvious.

‘I genuinely don’t know.’

‘I think it was … the travel, the glamour … meeting new people …’ Gwyneth looked around the office.