Rachel Cusk - The Temporary

‘I haven’t had the pleasure,’ he said finally.

She looked up and he smiled urbanely. He was younger than Mr Lancing and quite good looking, Francine thought, but his handsomeness was fatigued through over-use and his skin had a slightly thickened, curdled quality suggestive of decline. His belly strained at the waist of his trousers. As if sensing her looking at it, he pulled it in sharply without removing his eyes from her face.

‘I’m Francine.’

‘Roger Louche, co-Director,’ he said, putting out his hand. She shook it, and was surprised to feel coarse hair on his skin beneath her fingers. The intimacy of her discovery seemed inappropriate in the atmosphere of the office and she felt herself begin to blush. ‘Glad to have you with us, Francine.’ He sat down on the edge of her desk, his manner abruptly changed. ‘So how long do you think you’ll stay?’

‘As long as I’m needed,’ said Francine, shrinking from the proximity of his bulk. From its fringes she could see one or two of the other secretaries watching them. ‘I’m only temporary.’

‘Oh, don’t say “only”! We need girls like you around here, otherwise we’d die of boredom. It’ll be nice to have something good to look at for a change. No, don’t be embarrassed!’ He lowered his voice and leaned towards her. Close up, his face was large and porous. ‘You’re a very attractive girl. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

Francine giggled with mingled pleasure and anxiety. At the sound he stood up again suddenly and dropped the piece of paper on the desk in front of her.

‘Type that up for me by lunch-time, will you?’ he said, turning and walking back to his desk.

Francine watched his retreating back with astonishment. The piece of paper had slid from her desk to the floor and she bent to retrieve it. When she re-emerged she saw Mr Louche watching her from his podium. She caught his eye and he looked away. Francine sat with a beating heart. She wished Jane would come back. An older woman sat at a desk identical to Francine’s at the foot of Mr Louche’s podium. She was plump with short permed hair and wore a cardigan over her shoulders instead of the tailored jacket worn by most of the other secretaries. Francine hadn’t noticed her until that minute, but now she realized that the woman must be Mr Louche’s own secretary. She sat for a moment, paralysed by the necessity for asserting herself.

‘Hey you!’ said Mr Lancing suddenly. ‘You!’

Francine looked up and saw that he was speaking to her.

‘Yes, Mr Lancing?’

‘Get me Bill,’ he said, picking up his telephone and dialling a number.

Francine waited for further instructions but Mr Lancing had begun speaking into the receiver. She searched her desk for a list of numbers which might help her and soon found a plastic wheel bristling with hundreds of cards at the far end. She began to flick hopelessly through them. Beside her, Mr Louche’s letter lay unresolved.

‘It’s a vanilla reit, dumbo,’ said Mr Lancing into the phone.

Her own telephone rang and she froze at the sound. It shrilled again and she picked it up, but as she opened her mouth to speak she suddenly lost all memory of where she was.

‘Hello? Hello?’ said a man’s voice impatiently.

‘Yes, hello!’ said Francine. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Don’t they teach you how to answer the phone over there?’

‘I’m sorry, I was—’

‘I need Lancing,’ said the man.

‘He’s on the phone,’ said Francine shortly, desperate to be rid of this latest interference.

‘Well, do you take a message too, or do they just programme you to pick it up?’

‘Who may I tell him called?’

‘Tell him it’s Bill.’

‘Oh, Bill!’ gushed Francine gratefully. ‘I know he’s been trying to get hold of you!’

‘I was here,’ said Bill, audibly shrugging.

‘I mean, I know he wanted to speak to you, I don’t know if he’s actually tried —’

‘What is this?’

‘I’ll just see if I can get him off the phone for you,’ said Francine, jamming her finger over the hold button. Mr Lancing was still talking, his back turned towards her. ‘Mr Lancing!’ she said. ‘Mr Lancing!’ When there was no response she snapped her fingers in desperation and the other secretaries raised their heads in horrified unison. Eventually Mr Lancing looked round.

‘What?’ he said, holding the receiver against his neck.

‘Bill’s on the line for you.’

‘Oh, put him on!’ he said, waving his arm. ‘Dial the other phone. Larry, can you hold a second? I gotta talk to Bill,’ he added, although the telephone was still pressed to his neck.

‘Just putting you through,’ said Francine, releasing the hold button. To her despair, the handset was emiting a dull tone. ‘Hello?’ she said, pressing buttons indiscriminately. ‘Hello?’

‘Where’s Bill?’ said Mr Lancing.

‘I think I lost him,’ admitted Francine.

‘Well, get him back!’

‘But I don’t have his number—’

‘Larry? You still there? Sorry, we got a new girl here. Look, like I was saying—’

Francine replaced the phone and fixed her eyes on the desktop. They stung with tears and she held herself rigid until they receded. Finally she stood up, Mr Louche’s letter in her hand, and walked determinedly to his desk.

‘Excuse me?’ she said, standing before him. He was reading something and didn’t look up. Beside him his secretary sat neatly tapping at her keyboard, her eyes fixed on the screen. Apart from her fingers, her soft body was motionless. ‘Mr Louche?’

‘Sorry, yes?’ he said, looking up in surprise. His face was blank.

Francine felt herself grow cold with anxiety. She held the letter before him.

‘Mr Louche, I don’t think I’m supposed to do this.’

He was silent for a moment.

‘Why not?’ he said finally, as if he were interested.

‘I’ve been employed to do Mr Lancing’s work.’

‘You’ve been employed,’ said Mr Louche slowly after a pause, ‘to do whatever you’re told.’

A sudden faintness stole over her.

‘But surely,’ she persisted, smiling in an attempt to infuse her words with charm, ‘surely your own secretary should type your correspondence?’

‘Barbara has enough work to do,’ said Mr Louche.

At the sound of her name, Barbara turned her head and stared at Francine with mute eyes. Her face was very plain. The three of them were locked for a moment in silence. Francine turned and went back to her desk, the letter still in her hand.

At 11.25 Francine reminded Mr Lancing of his haircut. He hadn’t spoken to her since her earlier mistake with the telephones, and although she feared that his silence was the signal of his displeasure, she was relieved at least that he seemed to have forgotten about Bill.

‘See you later,’ she said foolishly, as he put on his suit jacket. The collar was turned up and she wondered if she should tell him.

‘I’ll be back!’ he said with a crooked grin.

Their eyes met as if by mistake, and she saw his dim with the lack of recognition. After he had left the office, she imagined him seeing his upturned collar in the barber shop mirror and wished that she’d told him. He would know that she had seen it. She turned to her computer screen and began to type Mr Louche’s letter. His writing was neat, and she was glad that she didn’t have to go to his desk and ask him to explain anything. Before long she had finished, and seeing how easily the task had been accomplished she felt oddly warm with gratitude for her humiliation. She fussed with it, adding touches on the screen to improve its appearance. In a moment of inspired alertness, she took down one of the files of past correspondence from the shelves behind her and looked at one or two of the letters to make sure that she had typed Mr Louche’s according to the correct format. Finally she printed it out and, crossing the office, placed it before him on his desk. He read it while she stood there, without looking up. After a long time, he raised his head.