Jonathan Lee - High Dive

‘How can I help then, Mr Peterson?’

‘The Lady,’ he announced, ‘is now upstairs.’

‘Oh. Already?’

‘Amendments to her speech. End-of-day phone calls. It’s a busy time. Will there be coffee?’

‘Of course.’

‘Dark roast, or …’

‘Well, there’s a selection.’

‘French?’

‘I’ll show you some options, Mr Peterson.’

Edward Peterson looked a little crushed by this. One more decision to make.

‘Who showed her up to the room, Mr Peterson?’

‘Your colleague,’ Peterson said, pointing.

John strolled towards them. ‘Yo,’ he said.

‘ Yo? ’ Moose said.

‘It’s a greeting,’ John explained.

Moose couldn’t let the disappointment swallow him. He tried to smile. He sighed. Tomorrow, he thought. I’ll speak to her tomorrow. ‘You, John? You showered her upstairs?’

‘That I definitely didn’t do.’

‘Showed, I mean. Showed .’ His tongue was still asleep. ‘Is the PM OK up there, in the room?’

‘Yeah. Seemed happy.’

‘You showed her up there with who? With Freya?’

John shifted his weight from foot to foot. ‘I think Freya had something else on, maybe. I took her up with the boss, along with her secretary person. Cynthia?’

Edward Peterson nodded, the sharp drama of his chin swinging down like a pygmy pickaxe, or something very similar that made sense. Moose once again rubbed his eyes to bring reality back.

‘All good fun,’ John said.

‘Good fun?’

‘Yeah, she’s actually —’ John hesitated, flicked a glance at Peterson — ‘she’s actually really chilled, Mr Finch. I talked to her about wetsuits.’

‘Wetsuits.’

John opened his mouth. Moose held up a hand to indicate that he had no interest in hearing about wetsuits, dry suits, any kind of suit. ‘And the boss is …’ he said. ‘Our GM is here right now, John? That’s what you’re saying?’

‘Yeah. With this Baker bloke.’

‘Baker? There’s a baker here?’

‘Surname,’ John said, grinning. ‘Yeah, he’s the one who’s taking over, right?’

Moose shook his head.

‘The GM position,’ John said simply. ‘Richard Baker.’

Silence.

‘Yeah,’ John said, a new uncertainty in his voice. ‘You’ve met him before, right? Or he’s met you, anyway. He came in the other day, too. He’s the one taking over as overall manager here, is what he said. Came in with Mr Price from Head Office. They announce it before Christmas, right?’ After delivering these lines, John stood there. He looked increasingly unsettled by the silence around him. ‘Your new boss!’ he added cheerfully, then frowned again when this latest effort failed. ‘You knew the GM was stepping down, right?’

‘Now,’ Peterson said, ‘about the dinner tomorrow night. I have to tell you that it’ll be the Lady’s birthday — did you know? — so there is a change of plan, alas, and she will not in all likelihood be attending.’

‘Not …’ Moose swallowed to steady his voice. Baker? Price? ‘Not attending, did you say?’

‘There’s actually something else planned now, at the Metropole. There’s a preference for the dining room there.’

Behind Edward Peterson, champagne was being poured. It surged right up to the rim of each flute, full of cocksure fizz, only to subside back down into a single meagre gulpful.

Someone was holding his hand, he realised. Freya was next to him now and holding his hand. Warm. He wasn’t feeling well.

‘The dinner?’ Freya said to Peterson. ‘You’re saying she can’t make the big birthday dinner in her honour?’

Peterson made a clicking noise with his tongue, sucked in some more saliva. ‘If by she you mean the Lady, then yes. Who’s in charge here, actually?’

‘You’re saying the Prime Minister can’t make it,’ Freya said.

‘I’ve said it now at length, yes. People here seem to have a talent for repetition.’

‘Just like that. Can’t come.’

‘Excuse me?’ Peterson said. He looked around as if to ask if this latest outrage was being recorded. The answer was yes. A security camera had its boxy gaze fixed upon them.

‘Do you know how much work goes into these things?’ Freya said.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘This has been planned for weeks,’ Freya said. ‘People’s work. All this food, basically. This changes a lot of things, so it would have been good — polite — to have known sooner.’

‘Sadly,’ Peterson said, ‘there are pressing national and international issues. Things going on beyond your plans.’ He touched the tip of his chin.

‘You’re not even sorry.’

‘Extraordinary,’ Edward Peterson said, laughing. ‘Perhaps I should be speaking to the new manager.’

‘The who?’

‘Mr Baker. The new —’

‘You could have told us in a different way,’ Freya said.

‘I don’t think I know who you are.’ He blinked. ‘Now, Mr Finch , second issue. We could do with that human with the tattoos from Kalle Infotec back here, to set up three further fax machines in the temporary office, and my own recommendation would be, let’s see, that we start by —’

On and on Edward Peterson went. Moose, if not quite having an out-of-body experience, was definitely having an out-of-joint one. The GM job had gone to someone else. Could it be true? He knew it was. It was over.

There was a fold-out table he’d positioned against the wall several hours ago. A dozen laminated name badges remained. They were arranged in three rows and the spaces between the rows were exactly right.

‘Mr Peterson,’ he said, squeezing his daughter’s hand, ‘we’ll sort everything out. You needn’t worry.’

‘Good,’ Peterson said. ‘I’m glad we’ve reached an understanding. I look forward to seeing the coffees you have to offer.’

Before turning away from this exchange, Moose took a final look at Edward Peterson. There was something about his sly expression. Something about his reiterated request for caffeination. Something about the sharp, damp, satisfied pout that cost its owner so little effort. Something about Peterson’s pleased brown eyes moving from him to Freya, from Freya back to him, as if deciding which of them he was most inclined to deride. There was something about all of this that caused a guy rope in Moose’s professionalism to begin to creak and twist, and murderous thoughts to begin to blossom.

He thought of the Captain talking to Sir Keith, and he thought of his daughter having to put up with this young man’s rudeness. He thought of the hopeless promotion he’d put so much energy into, and of the possibility that his promised advancement had been nothing but a dangled incentive, a way to keep things ticking over while the current GM eased into a notice period. He thought about these things and the cancelled dinner tomorrow and about whether he’d been pushed out because of his health, or had simply never ever stood a chance at becoming GM, and felt he needed to say something, to convert some of his thinking into words, not just for himself but for his view of the world — a view which had no room, he realised now, for careless people like Edward Peterson. After a dozen long seconds in which a variety of semi-clever insults were considered and dismissed he said, ‘Mr Peterson?’

‘Yes?’

‘Second thoughts, go fuck yourself.’

He came close to following this up with a punch but was worried he might hurt his hand.

FREYA WAS IN the ladies’ loo, crying and applying make-up, staring into the mirror. The door opened. Marina.

‘What are you doing, darling?’

‘I’m crying and applying make-up,’ she said.