Jeffrey Archer - A Twist in the Tale

‘And it’s not my fault that you’re penniless and always out of work. The truth is that jobs are easy enough to come by for someone who can supply references from his last employer.’

‘Just what are you hinting at?’ said Michael.

‘I’m not hinting at anything.’

Several members had stopped taking part in the conversation in front of them as they tried to listen to the one going on behind them.

‘What I am saying,’ Philip continued, ‘is that no one will employ you for the simple reason that you can’t find anyone who will supply you with a reference — and everybody knows it.’

Everybody didn’t know it, which explained why most people in the room were now trying to find out.

‘I was made redundant,’ insisted Michael.

‘In your case redundant was just a euphemism for sacked. No one pretended otherwise at the time.’

‘I was made redundant,’ repeated Michael, ‘for the simple reason that the company profits turned out to be a little disappointing this year.’

‘A little disappointing? That’s rich. They were nonexistent.’

‘Caused by the fact that we lost one or two of our major accounts to rivals.’

‘Rivals who, I’m informed, were only too happy to pay for a little inside information.’

By now most members of the club had cut short their own conversations as they leaned, twisted, turned and bent in an effort to capture every word coming from the two men seated in the window alcove of the club room.

‘The loss of those accounts was fully explained in the report to shareholders at this year’s AGM,’ said Michael.

‘But was it explained to those same shareholders how a former employee could afford to buy a new car only a matter of days after being sacked?’ pursued Philip. ‘A second car, I might add.’ Philip took a sip of his tomato juice.

‘It wasn’t a new car,’ said Michael defensively. ‘It was a secondhand Mini and I bought it with part of my redundancy pay when I had to return the company car. And in any case, you know Carol needs her own car for the job at the bank.’

‘Frankly, I am amazed Carol has stuck it for so long as she has after all you’ve put her through.’

‘All I’ve put her through. What are you implying?’ asked Michael.

‘I am not implying anything,’ Philip retorted. ‘But the fact is that a certain young woman who shall remain nameless’ — this piece of information seemed to disappoint most of the eavesdroppers — ‘also became redundant at about the same time, not to mention pregnant.’

The barman had not been asked for a drink for nearly seven minutes, and by now there were few members still affecting not to be listening to the altercation between the two men. Some were even staring in open disbelief.

‘But I hardly knew her,’ protested Michael.

‘As I said, that’s not the version I heard. And what’s more I’m told the child bears a striking resemblance—’

‘That’s going too far—’

‘Only if you have nothing to hide,’ said Philip grimly.

‘You know I’ve nothing to hide.’

‘Not even the blonde hairs Carol found all over the back seat of the new Mini. The girl at work was a blonde, wasn’t she?’

‘Yes, but those hairs came from a golden retriever.’

‘You don’t have a golden retriever.’

‘I know, but the dog belonged to the last owner.’

‘That bitch didn’t belong to the last owner, and I refuse to believe Carol fell for that old chestnut.’

‘She believed it because it was the truth.’

‘The truth, I fear, is something you lost contact with a long time ago. You were sacked, first, because you couldn’t keep your hands off anything in a skirt under forty and, second, because you couldn’t keep your fingers out of the till. I ought to know. Don’t forget I had to get rid of you for the same reasons.’

Michael jumped up, his cheeks almost the color of Philip’s tomato juice. He raised his clenched fist and was about to take a swing at Philip when Colonel Mather, the club president, appeared at his side.

‘Good morning, sir,’ said Philip calmly, rising for the Colonel.

‘Good morning, Philip,’ the Colonel barked. ‘Don’t you think this little misunderstanding has gone quite far enough?’

‘Little misunderstanding?’ protested Michael. ‘Didn’t you hear what he’s been saying about me?’

‘Every word, unfortunately, like any other member present,’ said the Colonel. Turning back to Philip, he added, ‘Perhaps you two should shake hands like good fellows and call it a day.’

‘Shake hands with that philandering, double-crossing shyster? Never,’ said Philip. ‘I tell you, Colonel, he’s not fit to be a member of this club, and I can assure you that you’ve only heard half the story.’

Before the Colonel could attempt another round of diplomacy Michael sprang on Philip and it took three men younger than the club president to prize them apart. The Colonel immediately ordered both men off the premises, warning them that their conduct would be reported to the house committee at its next monthly meeting. And until that meeting had taken place, they were both suspended.

The club secretary, Jeremy Howard, escorted the two men off the premises and watched Philip get into his Rolls-Royce and drive sedately down the drive and out through the gates. He had to wait on the steps of the club for several minutes before Michael departed in his Mini. He appeared to be sitting in the front seat writing something. When he had eventually passed through the club gates, the secretary turned on his heels and made his way back to the bar. What they did to each other after they left the grounds was none of his business.

Back in the clubhouse, the secretary found the conversation had not returned to the likely winner of the President’s Putter, the seeding of the Ladies’ Handicap Cup, or who might be prevailed upon to sponsor the Youth Tournament that year.

‘They seemed in a jolly enough mood when I passed them on the sixteenth hole earlier this morning,’ the club captain informed the Colonel.

The Colonel admitted to being mystified. He had known both men since the day they joined the club nearly fifteen years before. They weren’t bad lads, he assured the captain; in fact he rather liked them. They had played a round of golf every Saturday morning for as long as anyone could remember, and never a cross word had been known to pass between them.

‘Pity,’ said the Colonel. ‘I was hoping to ask Masters to sponsor the Youth Tournament this year.’

‘Good idea, but I can’t see him agreeing to that now.’

‘I can’t imagine what they thought they were up to.’

‘Can it simply be that Philip is such a success story and Michael has fallen on hard times?’ suggested the captain.

‘No, there’s more to it than that,’ replied the Colonel. ‘Requires a fuller explanation,’ he added sagely.

Everyone in the club was aware that Philip Masters had built up his own business from scratch after he had left his first job as a kitchen salesman. Ready-Fit kitchens had been started in a shed at the end of Philip’s garden and ended up in a factory on the other side of town which employed over three hundred people. After Ready-Fit went public the financial press speculated that Philip’s shares alone had to be worth a couple of million. When five years later the company was taken over by the John Lewis Partnership, it became public knowledge that Philip had walked away from the deal with a check for seventeen million pounds and a five-year service contract that would have pleased a pop star. Some of the windfall had been spent on a magnificent Georgian house in sixty acres of wooded land just outside Hazelmere: he could even see the golf course from his bedroom. Philip had been married for over twenty years and his wife, Sally, was chairman of the regional branch of the Save the Children Fund and a JP. Their son had just won a place at St. Anne’s College, Oxford.