Jenny Colgan - Working Wonders

‘Um … Just about …’

She swept the papers away from in front of him. ‘I’m afraid we have a strict time limit.’

‘Can I just see the last page …’

‘Sorry.’ She didn’t smile. ‘I’m Gwyneth Morgan. CFC consultancy.’

‘Ah, the Crazy Frightening Company,’ said Arthur, and immediately wished he hadn’t. ‘I’m joking. You know, I’m sure our excellent chief executive Sir Eglamore would agree that humour in the workplace and …’ He was starting to stammer.

She stared at him coldly. ‘Yes, I take your point, except of course that humour is normally funny.’

Arthur was stung. ‘Well, very little is funny when you’ve been chained to a desk in a windowless room for ninety minutes.’

She raised her eyebrow. ‘Perhaps you’d rather be excluded from the process.’

Arthur stood there for a minute, feeling the adrenalin rush through him. Suddenly, he felt furious. What the hell was he doing here and why was she treating him like this? Shaking, he pushed back his chair and stood up. She was offering to sack him and he was swallowing it like chocolate. He hated himself.

‘Am I done?’

‘For now.’

He almost pushed past her into the corridor.

Open-plan offices don’t have anywhere to hide. Well, the solitary cubicle in the men’s toilets, but that isn’t a pleasant place to be at the best of times and this was emphatically not the best of times. Unconsciously loosening his tie and wiping his forehead – Jesus, why couldn’t that bitch have given him two fucking minutes to read the last fucking question – he strode back to his rat hole, hot and furious.

‘How was it?’ asked Cathy anxiously.

‘It’s fine,’ he said, almost spitting the words out. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

‘Why are you such a funny colour, then?’ Sven said, picking his nose behind a magazine.

‘I am not.’

Sven looked over pointedly, still exploring with his finger. ‘Nah, you’re right. You look incredibly casual and relaxed.’

Cathy stroked him on the sleeve. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you’ll be fine.’

Her pitying kindness was worse than Sven’s predictable indifference, and left Arthur shaking off her arm, half wanting to scream and half wanting to cry.

‘It’s okay .’

Ross stopped past. ‘Hey guys!’ He smiled unconvincingly. ‘You know, just because it’s a special day doesn’t mean there isn’t work to be done, hey?’

Arthur briefly closed his eyes, as Sven’s phone started ringing. Sven ignored it for the eighteenth time that morning and Ross made himself scarce.

‘Sven, answer the phone.’

‘I can’t , I’m engaged in an important creative mission.’

‘ANSWER THE PHONE!’

‘You answer it! It’s two feet away.’

This was true. Didn’t prisoners get ten feet by twelve?

Ross may have moved on, but the other office monkeys looked up, sensing something interesting.

‘I am NOT answering your phone, Sven. It’ll be some Danish roofing contractor who wants to know British tiling serial numbers again.’

‘How? How can I create a city if I’m being constantly distracted?’

‘Answer the phone!’

‘No!’

‘ANSWER THE BLOODY PHONE!’

‘NO!’

People who had blended in against the grey background and the aura of coffee breath were openly watching now; signs of animation and interest were showing in weary eyes long-sighted from reading consultancy proposals.

Arthur unplugged the phone, picked it up and walked to the window of the office, which overlooked the business ‘park’. His mind a blank, he had only a very vague idea that he was planning on throwing it out when he got there. Of course, the windows weren’t designed to open, and he hurt his fingers tugging at them.

‘FUCK!’ he said, out loud. Somebody in the office – probably Cathy – gasped. Everyone was silent now.

He put the phone down on the photocopier, still clutching it furiously, his knuckles white with anger, blood flowing like acid through his veins. Suddenly, all he wanted to do was smash the window with the phone, sending it hurtling to the ground and sending Sven right after it.

It’s only a phone, he thought to himself. Calm down. You’re having a bad day. What the hell are you doing? For fuck’s sake, it’s only a fucking phone. That was right. He couldn’t. He should pull himself together, walk back over to Sven’s desk and plug it back in. When it started ringing again he would calmly pick it up and say, ‘Sven isn’t here. He got a bit of a fright from a hole-punch this morning and accidentally crapped himself. He’s gone home and is never coming back again, the shame was so much. You wouldn’t believe how bad it still smells in …’

And then Sven would grab the phone off him and everything would be okay.

Instead, Arthur stepped back from the window, picked up the industrial-sized photocopier with the phone on top, and hurled with all his might.

The photocopier flew through the air and broke through the bullet-proof glass like a flying hippopotamus, gracelessly soaring out onto the grass below. The phone bounced back off the window-frame and knocked him out.

Arthur looked around. It felt like sun on his face. Where was he? What about a window? Was he outside? He risked opening an eye, and instantly staggered backwards. He was on the edge of a forest and there wasn’t another building in sight. It was dark and icy, and he caught a glimpse of something white through the trees. Then he woke up.

He couldn’t tell where he was. His face was pointing upwards towards some light, which could either be good, as he wasn’t face down in a gutter, or bad, if he were dead. He realized how ironic this would be after wishing himself dead all morning, then realized that if he really were dead irony probably wouldn’t come into it. He tentatively opened his eyes.

‘Well, hello.’ A warm voice sounded in his head. He focused. He was lying on a sofa. A woman in her mid-fifties, with long grey hair tied back, was sitting opposite him, regarding him calmly. She was staring at him without blinking, and her eyes were an odd shade of yellowish hazel.

Arthur blinked twice. ‘Um … Where am I?’ he sputtered, in the traditional way.

‘You’re … just here,’ said the voice.

He became aware of the throbbing in his head, as the faint memory of what had happened started to crystallize. He didn’t think it was going to be good.

Arthur sat up a little way and looked around. He was in a heavily furnished room. The room was full of things: sticks, models, pipes; every available surface was covered in clutter. There was a familiar noise which he realized was the whistle of an old-fashioned kettle. The furniture was old – dark wood mostly, including a long desk. There was even a window, which looked out onto a small sunny garden – it must have been round the back of the building, away from the car park. That was odd; the rain must have cleared up. Then in a flash, he remembered the whole thing.

‘Oh, God. Oh no. Oh no.’

‘Sssh.’ She smiled and leaned forward. ‘Don’t worry about it. It appears a telephone jumped up and attacked you.’

‘Oh,’ said Arthur. He was feeling it deeply. ‘Oh, my God. Did I really throw a photocopier … ’

The woman nodded. ‘Yes, you did. That’s why we thought you had probably better go somewhere quiet for a little while.’

Arthur tentatively fingered the impressive bump on his head. ‘Where am I?’ he asked again.

‘Oh, you’re still in the building. You’re just in my office, that’s all.’

‘Who are you?’

‘I’m Lynne,’ she said, reaching out to shake his hand. ‘I’m the company psychotherapist.’