Back At The Coalface

15

Back At The Coalface

    Kyle Bannerman’s new girlfriend had organised a cocktail party for the gallery where she worked, and since Ben was invited, he went: why not?

    “Sushi?” said Kyle glumly, proffering a platter of it.

    “No,” replied Ben with loathing.

    “You’re right,” he agreed. He looked round desperately and finally set it down on the plinth—putative plinth, possibly an integral part of the thing—of an artwork. Ostensible artwork.

    “Does anybody buy this crap, Kyle?”

    “Yeah, she hadda book the goddamn caterers a month in advance, would you believe? Waiting list long as your arm.”

    “Not that—though you have a valid point. No, the art.”

    “This crap? Yeah, they chuck away tens of thousands on it. Doubt if anyone actually likes it—well, hard to, huh?” He glanced at the nearest objet and then quickly away, wincing. “Buy it as an investment. Five years down the track its price will either have tripled or it’ll have sunk without a trace.”

    “Goddit.”

    “Taking of traces,” said Kyle in a meaning voice: “you really dumped that bitch for good?”

    “Yeah. Why I’m free to attend this thing at a moment’s notice.”

    “Gabriella was panicking, hardly anyone had replied to the invitations, thought the bosses might sack her,” he explained.

    “People don’t, though,” said Ben mildly.

    “Tried to tell her that. So go on, give us the gory details!” he grinned.

    “Uh… There wouldn’t be anything drinkable, would there?”

    “No,” said Kyle simply. “Californian fizz, orange juice, or mixed Calif—“

    “Thanks.”

    Grinning, his co-worker prompted him: “Go on, Ben!”

    “Well, uh, what more do you want to know?” said Ben on a weak note. “I told you I told the bitch that I didn’t want a future of any kind with her, and she could take her crap and get out with it, didn’t I?”

    “Yeah, but not the details! Well, number one, did she?”

    “Huh?”

    “Take her crap and get out with it?”

    “Oh! Well, not exactly. I mean, there was a lot of it.”

    “Yeah, and didn’t you say she better grab it by noon or else?”

    “Words to that effect. Well, I got out of it and had breakfast at Mike’s Diner.”—Kyle gave a startled laugh: the office hadn’t heard that bit.—“Yeah. Then I just sat on for a while, had another coffee, and eventually had a belt—why not?”

    “Good,” said Kyle simply.

    Ben looked at his broad, pinkish, naïve face in some amusement, but merely said: “Yeah. By then it was getting on for twelve—”

    “The deadline,” he agreed.

    “Something like that. So I called a locksmith.”

    Kyle choked. “Not really?” he managed weakly.

    “Yeah really. You’ve no idea what she’s like!”

    “I’m beginning to, guy,” he admitted.

    “Uh-huh. So then I went on back to the apartment and since Mortimer was hanging round the lobby, gave him the good tidings—the guy actually smiled,” he said in awe. “Though he did point out that legally I was obliged to provide keys to the management corporation and his gracious self, but I was prepared for that. So the locksmith turned up—there was no sign of Tracy,” he said quickly to the appalled look that had just begun to dawn on Kyle’s face—“and changed the lock for me at only Saturday rates times five, plus and the usual bribe to Mortimer—but it was more than worth it!”

    “Sure!” Kyle agreed, shuddering. A waiter was hovering, so he liberated a bottle of Californian fizz, remarking: “It’ll give us gas, but at least it’s alcoholic, my knees have gone weak in sympathy. Fill ’er up?”

    “Might as well.”

    Kyle filled them both up and urged: “Go on! Did she come back?”

    “Not that day, no. It gradually dawned she wasn’t going to, and, in fact, that males’ deadlines are as nothing to Tracy Inglis and her ilk.”

    “Ball-breakers all,” he agreed sympathetically.

    “Yuh.” Ben drained his glass and belched horribly. “Christ!”

    “The bosses only gave her a liquor budget big enough for—“

    “Self-evident,” said Ben, grinning at him. “Go on, give us a refill, I’ll die gassy but happy!”

    Obligingly Kyle refilled his glass. And his own. “But what about all that crappola in the apartment? I mean, most of it was hers, wasn't it?”

    “Yeah. Down to the bed.” said Ben wryly.

    “Shit.”

    “Yeah. Well, there was no way I was gonna set myself up for being liable for anything, so I called up a removalist company—well, several—until I found one that could offer immediate weekend service including packing, plus and storage, at the cost of only megabucks times fifty.”

    Kyle drained his glass. “Times kazillions, I’d of said!”

    “Or you could put it like that,” said Ben smoothly.

    “And did they come?”

    “Yeah, sure they came. They did a beautiful job of packing her bloody china, I’ve never seen so much crumpled tissue paper and wads of newsprint and bags of little plastic bobbles in my life! Oh, and those other bags: kind of airbags: I always wonder what sort of poisonous gas they might have in them, when you have to puncture them to fit them in the garbage bin.”

    “Yeah, me too,” said Kyle in a terrifically relieved tone. “Mom won’t puncture them at all, and she’s always ordering crappola online, drives Dad out of his tree. They have to have recycling bins where they are, only these bags, they count as plastic film, and the bastards won’t take them.”

    “Good, let’s hope Tracy has the same problem.”

    “Yeah! Uh—hold on, Ben. When you say china…”

    Ben swallowed a sigh. “Every item of tableware and kitchenware you might have set eyes on in the apartment, Kyle, including the dinner-set, all the glassware except my whisky tumblers, and every last skerrick of crap in the kitchen drawers and cupboards.”

    “Jesus,” he said in awe. “Uh—the cutlery as well?”

    “Yeah.”

    “Jesus.”

    “I didn’t want any of it,” Ben assured him mildly.

    “No, but— So what did that leave you with?”

    “In toto? My clothes, what few CDs of mine she hadn’t chucked out, ditto my DVDs and my few precious old videotapes—there’s no hiding places in that loft, unfortunately. She can’t stand anything smacking even faintly of humour or SF.”

    “SF?” he echoed doubtfully.

    “Classic science fiction. Star Trek. The originals,” said Ben heavily.

    “Oh! Thought it might be something like ‘Sex something.’ Sorry. Brain-dead. Been listening to Gabriella ear-bashing me about this do for the last ten millennia. Uh—wait. You don’t mean she did manage to throw out your Star Treks?”

    “Yes! –Sorry, Kyle, didn’t mean to shout. Don’t think I’ll ever get over it. And my tape of Ghostbusters.”

    “I can let you have a copy of that, I transferred my tape to DVD ages ago.”

    “Really? Thanks, Kyle, that’d be great!”

    Solemnly Kyle produced his pocket diary and made a note of it. Ben didn’t smile: he knew he was like that. Slow, steady, and utterly reliable. Unfortunately this seemed to go with a penchant for the wrong type of bird, he reflected as Gabriella’s giggle was heard over the clamour of shouting gallery guests full of bad Californian fizz. –Not that the pot should be calling the kettle black.

    Carefully Kyle refilled their glasses again. That just left a trickle in the bottle, so he drank it. “Aah!” he reported. BURP! “Christ!” he gasped.

 

   “Yeah, fierce stuff!” Ben agreed.

    “So, um, the bed was hers…”

    “Let me put you out of your misery,” said Ben kindly. “All the furniture was hers.”

    “God,” he said numbly.

    “No, it was horrible, Kyle!”

    “Yeah, but you mean you haven’t even got a couch to sleep on?”

    “No—well, not then, no; I have now. Second-hand. Very second-hand, actually, came out of my old friend Tom’s garage. –They gave me a bed for the night,” he explained. “Well, and laid on an extempore celebration dinner, too: he and Joelene can’t stand Tracy. Franks, French fries, plus and sweet-potato fries because their kid loves them—he’s right, by the way, taste like pure ambrosia—followed by three kinds of Ben & Jerry’s topped with the Canadian cherries Joelene had a can of in the cupboard and couldn’t think what to do with! Topped again with real, genuine spray-can cream that Tom bought on their last trip to the supermarket in case an emergency came up!”

    “He sounds like a real good guy,” said Kyle on wistful note.

    “He is. Uh—would you like to meet him, Kyle?” asked Ben uncertainly. Kyle must be around eight years younger than him and Tom.

    “Sure!” He grinned hopefully.

    “Uh—well, gee, nothing stopping me holding an apartment-warming party, is there?” Ben realised.

    Kyle beamed. “That’d be great!”

    Well, yeah, it would. Why the Hell not! No sushi, no dainty nibbles of any sort, no bad Californian fizz, of course—and no Tracy!

    Kyle then returned to the previous topic. “So did she come back to the apartment and try the lock?”

    Ben cleared his throat. “Not sure. I think she may have done, but she'd never let on about that sort of humiliation.”

    “So have you heard from her at all?”

    “Mm. An email. I’ve preserved it—thought (a) it was worth preserving if ever in the future I forget how bad it was with her, and (b) I better keep it in case she started legal proceedings.”

    “She can’t claim breach of promise or like that in this day and age, can she?”

    “No, it’d be property-related, I think.” Ben showed him the email.

    An appalled expression spread over Kyle’s naïve, wide face. ’Cos what it said was: “Ben. I’ll expect an apology for your infantile outburst when you’ve come to your senses. Kindly try for an adult, responsible attitude. I’m with Mother and Father but do not call me there. Father is very seriously annoyed over this. Tracy.”

    After an appreciable pause he croaked: “She signed it, anyroad, Ben.”

    “Mm? Oh: the legal bit! Right! I replied with the intel that I’d sent all her stuff to storage professionally packed, plus and with a scanned copy of the receipt, and warned her that I’d only pay the storage for the first month.”

    “Jesus. Wasn’t she furious?” he said numbly.

    “Dunno. There was no reply but I had an automatic message that she’d opened it, so she must’ve.”

    “And—and was that it?” he croaked.

    Ben shrugged.

    “Jeepers-creepers,” said Kyle with feeling.

    “Yeah. Well, she may yet be up for another round of argument, but with luck goddamn Father Inglis will talk her out of it. But who cares?”

    “You’re right,” the young man decided. “Hey, what say we go on to your Mike’s Diner after this?”

    “Solid food, ya mean? Sure! –If you’re free, Kyle.”

    “Yeah. Gabriella’s hired cleaners for the clearing up.”

    “Ya mean she’s not gonna stay and monitor their every move?”

    “Nope. She’s not like Tracy, ya know,” he said confidently.

    In that case, never mind the giggle—there it went again—maybe he better hang on to her!

    “Uh—but will she like Mike’s?” ventured Ben.

    “Sure!” Kyle lowered his voice, “Underneath the arty crap, she’s just an ordinary girl, actually. I mean, she’s gotta put up a show for the bosses and the clients but she doesn’t believe in the modern art shtick.”

    Suddenly Ben laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Lucky you! Great, Mike’s for three it’ll be!”

    Kyle cleared his throat. “Um, four. Um, her sister. She’s okay!” he added quickly.

    Er… surely the whole object of this evening’s exercise hadn’t been for the well-meaning Kyle—he was rather like one of those large, floppy-eared, over-affectionate dogs—to get him, Ben, involved with the sister? If so, when it didn’t happen, he’d realise his mistake, wouldn’t he?

    It would never have happened but for the football game. The meal at Mike’s had been fine. Kyle’s girlfriend’s sister—Megan was her name—had turned out to be just an ordinary, pleasant girl, brown-haired, with a cheerful round face; quite pretty, but you wouldn’t give her a second glance. True, she was dressed for the gallery thing in an extraordinary collection of garments with very odd earrings but, she explained cheerfully as they sat down in a booth and she removed said earrings, this was merely camouflage, to bulk out the numbers for Gaby! She had been introduced as Gabriella so Ben had looked at them dubiously but Megan quickly explained that she only used that for the gallery. “Dumb gallery”, actually. In other words, Megan was okay. She said goodnight cheerfully at the end of the evening and went off with the other two, so that was that. Ben went home with no regrets and a certain feeling of relief. Well, he hadn’t had it for a while, what with Tracy’s diet, pardon, régime, not to say the rows, and Megan appeared to be a nice, uncomplicated girl, and quite pretty— But he wasn’t gonna take up with anybody on whatever basis, however casual, he was gonna think seriously about Isabella, and whether she really was too young for him and whether it would be stupid to try getting in touch—and like that.

    Except that Kyle had tickets for a game and he couldn’t go because the bank was trying him out assessing a small go-ahead electronics operation somewhere just out of Atlanta, GA, that looked like it might be a go for Venture Capital to put some venture capital in! Probably two guys in a garage, yeah, only it was a great opportunity for him, career-wise— Laughing, Ben bashed him on the shoulder and accepted the spare ticket.

    His seat turned out to be next Megan’s. The one on her other side was empty: Gaby couldn’t make it: had a bad cold. The game was only so-so, but Megan appeared thoroughly to enjoy it, to the point of standing up and bellowing: “Geddim off the field!” A greater contrast to Tracy’s attitude to a football game could hardly be imagined. Put it like this. Unless it was Yale versus something equally Ivy League, where she could expect to meet people who counted, she wouldn’t have been there at all. Megan was entirely sympathetic when Ben told her this, to the point of squeezing his arm with one fuzzy-mittened hand and saying: “Gee, she sounds awful, Ben!” Tracy never wore mittens—well, when skiing some place appropriately up-market, Aspen or some such, she wore special hand wear, purpose-designed, but no-one in his right mind would have classed them as mittens.

    “Hey, do you ski, Megan?” he asked, à propos.

    Her eyes went very round. “Me? Heck, no! Do I look as if I ski, Ben?” –Loud giggle.

    No, she didn’t. She was plumpish—the padded windcheater in very loud colours she was currently wearing sure emphasised the fact, but Ben didn’t have any objections to it—and shortish, and very unathletic-looking. In fact he would have taken a bet she’d never even been on an exercise bike.

    “I’ve got no sense of balance at all,” she confided. “Besides being hopeless at all sports!” –Another giggle.

    “Glad to hear it.” At this point he felt he might even dare to ask— So he did, “Fancy a hot-dog?”

    “Thanks, I’d love one, Ben!” she beamed.

    After that it seemed only natural to head for Mike’s and beer after the game.

    Beer and hamburgers—exactly why Mike’s were always juicier than anywhere else, God knew, but they were: juicier and somehow meatier—Yeah, Megan, the best hamburgers in New York, N.Y.!—and then, since Megan wasn’t driving—loud giggle—Irish coffee, why not? Warmed the cockles of your heart!

    Be that as it might, it certainly warmed something else, so after that Ben’s arm somehow got round her plump shoulders and shortly after that—it seemed only natural—they were on Ben’s pile of two mattresses, one second-hand from Tom’s uncle and one actually new and shop-bought, well, virtual shop, he hadn’t had time to get out and find a real shop—and Megan’s clothes were on the floor with his and that was that. He did retain enough sense to use a condom, yes, but no more than that.

    Somewhat unfortunately they both fell asleep almost immediately. Which did mean that she stayed the night in his apartment—yes.

    Ben looked at the curly head on the pillow next to his in horror. Okay, horror plus and a hard-on, he was neither unnatural nor immune, but—

    Shit.

    Uh… If he stayed right here he might— Yeah. He extricated himself from the bedclothes very quietly and crept through to the bathroom very quietly.

    When he came back fully dressed she was just sitting up, very tousled, blinking.

    “Oh, it’s you!” she said with a grin. “Gee, I couldn't figure out where I was, for a minute, there!”

    “No,” he agreed palely. “I guess we both had too much to drink last night, Megan. Double Irish coffees on top of beer wasn’t a good idea.”

    The poor girl’s round face fell but she agreed nicely: “No, I guess it was kind of a mistake. Well, gee, I didn’t mean to sleep over, Ben.”

    “That’s okay, there were two of us here. So, a quick shower and coffee?” he added hastily before she could read anything into the “two of us” bit.

    Meekly Megan agreed to this. Hastily Ben thrust his robe at her and went over to the kitchen area, where he began to be very busy making coffee.

    It was horribly clear that neither of them could think of anything to say over the coffee. He called a cab for her and that was that.

    Well, she did say: “It was great, Ben,” with kind of a hopeful look on her round face, but Ben just replied in a kind of cheery, uncaring way: “Sure! See ya round, Megan!”

    And that was that.

    Jesus, what a louse!

    James Kingston stuck it out as long as he humanly could—they’d all thought that having got rid of the Tracy bitch Ben would be a box of birds. But when young Kyle got back from wherever, and appeared to be very pissed off with Ben indeed, whereas heretofore the whole office had recognised he thought the sun shone out of the guy’s ass, he called the boy into his office and ordered him firmly to shut the door.

    Looking very cowed, Kyle did so. “Um, sir, I honestly think we’ll get our money back: I mean, sure they’re not much more than two guys in a garage right now, but they’re real practical, and on top of the hardware side as well as the software, and their prototype works like a dre—”

    “Not that!” said James dismissively.

    Kyle blinked.

    “Look, siddown, Kyle. Our IT specialists agree with your opinion of those guys’ doo-hickey—you’ve got computer science qualifications yourself, haven’t you?’’—Kyle nodded humbly.—“Yeah, well, it’s only waiting for the bosses to sign off on it to go ahead: stop worrying about it. Ya done good,” he said heavily. “It’s not about that.”

    Kyle had brightened but now he looked anxious again. “Yes, sir?”

    Unfortunately he was just a bit too junior to be told to call him James. Oh, the Hell with it! Father was thinking of retiring, though nobody in the firm had been told that as yet, and it was time a faint breeze of change at least trickled through Fluss, Evert, Maze. True, it was their old-fashioned caution that meant they hadn’t lost anything in the GFC, plus and the fact that they did not lend to individuals, in fact they didn’t deal with individuals at all, they weren’t a trading bank; and unlike some they had not bought up multi-megabucks worth of entirely spurious not to say unsecured mortgages, not to say playing with futures and any other silly game the whizz kids of Wall Street had cheerfully chucked their firms’ dough away on.

    So—not a wind of change, no. But they could at least humanise the dump a bit more.

    “Call me James, Kyle, this isn’t the 19th century,” he said heavily.

    “Yeah, sure, James!” he gasped, turning a vivid shade of pink.

    “What’s gone wrong with Ben Anderson this time?” demanded James bluntly.

    Kyle gulped.

    “Well? Shit, the Bitch of The Western World hasn’t gotten her claws into him again, has she?”

    “Nossir! Um, I mean, no, sorry, James, she hasn’t. Well, it’s dumb…”

    “It usually is,” said James drily, though not without considerable relief.

    “Um, see, I gave him my ticket to the football game, and um, Gaby, that’s my girlfriend, she came down with a real bad cold, so it turned out it was only him and Megan. She’s Gaby’s sister. I mean, she was gonna come with us anyroad, only when Gaby couldn't make it that just left her and him.” He swallowed.

    “Right; and the game was followed as night the day by drinks and bed, was it?” sighed James.

    “Yeah. More or less, yeah. Far’s I can make out they went to Mike’s again, and— Well, I knew she liked him, she told Gaby that—see, we did all go there one other time for franks and beer, only he didn’t seem interested in her.”

    “Right, but this time he apparently was interested in her?”

    Kyle scowled. “Yeah, but not enough!”

    Uh… Things couldn’t have changed that much since his own youth, surely? “Huh?” groped James foggily, hoping it wasn’t gonna be some strange 21st-century sexual— Rubbish!

    Very flushed, the young man burst out: “Turns out he only wanted a one-night stand, and now he’s dropped her! And I thought she’d be just right for him! I mean, gee, she’s just a nice ordinary girl, and I thought—I mean, me and Gaby thought—that after that awful Tracy she’d be just right for him! She wouldn’t ask for more than a guy could afford! I mean, sheesh, that Tracy look him to look at china at Tiffany’s, would you believe, and started in on something that was designed for the White House! I mean, not just ordered, well, that wouldn’t be cheap either, and considering she made him pay half for all that furniture that he’s let her have— But what I mean is, this was designed specially! Megan’s the sort of girl that wouldn’t even think of having a goddamn list!”

    “Sounds real nice,” said James kindly.

    Kyle nodded hard. “She is! But he brushed her off like she was a bug or something! I was away on my trip for the firm, of course, but she told Gaby all about it. Gaby said the poor little thing cried for a whole hour and her eyes were so swollen up she could hardly see!”

    “Yeah,” said James heavily. “Well, I can understand why you’re so pissed off with the dumb bastard, Kyle. But just try not to let it affect your attitude at the office, okay? We don't need two sets of gloom being spread round Venture Capital.”

    “Um, no. Sorry, James,” he muttered.

    James sighed. “Kyle, you’re probably so mad with him you can’t see it, but Ben’s real miserable. I’d say he's not only regretting it, he’s thoroughly ashamed of himself for ever letting it go that far in the first instance, and then for dumping the girl like that in the second instance.”

    “Good, he deserves to be,” said Kyle sourly.

    “Yeah, well, shows he’s got some decent instincts left.”

    “Um… yeah, I guess it does,” he said, a surprised look coming over that wide, naive face.

    “I think so. And he’s pretty much on the rebound, it’ll be some time before he’s on an even keel again.”

    Kyle agreed gratefully, thanked him gratefully, and was dismissed kindly.

    James sagged. He looked at his watch. Jesus, was that the time? He rang home, fully prepared to apologize grovelingly for not having rung earlier to let her know he’d have to catch a later train.

    “Yeah?” said a sulky young voice that he knew only too well.

    “Good afternoon. Is that the Kingston residence?” asked James in a fake-Limey accent.

    “Ya not funny, Dad!” snarled his daughter.

    “Sorry, Susie, honey. So you’re home from school already, huh?” he said kindly.

    “Get real, Dad!”

    Not asking why he should get real at this particular point in Earth history, he asked to speak to her mom, but the answer was that she was in her workshop and the door was locked and—getting louder—there was nothing to EAT!

    “She’ll’ve had an inspiration. Try the cookie jar, Susie, that’ll keep you going—“

    “No! You never LISTEN, Dad! There isn’t anything! And Harry’s eaten the last of the Coco Pops!”

    “Okay, try the cornfl—“

    “There aren’t any! And no milk! You’re not LISTENING, Dad!”

    Possibly because his eardrum was perforated. “I see. Literally nothing. Just calm down, Pumpkin. I’ll be home on the next train, and I’ll pick you and Harry up and we’ll eat out. If your mom’s immersed in her clay stuff we won’t disturb her. After dinner we can buy some basic supplies.”

     Short silence. Then she said: “Like, milk and cornflakes and bread?”

    “Uh-huh.”

    “Ice cream?”

    Jesus, wasn’t here even any— “Anything you think we need immediately.”

    “Um, yeah! Sure!” Susie agreed, very startled. “Um, can we go to Mario’s, Dad?”

    Mario’s probably shouldn’t even have been anywhere near their neighbourhood at all. It was completely down-home, made all its own pizzas, even to the bases, had no shiny booths, only ricketty tables and chairs, the former covered in the traditional red and white checkered cloths, provided only paper napkins, and did the best spaghetti with meatballs James Kingston had ever tasted in his life. It was usually crowded, though not with their up-market neighbours, more usually with the people who cleaned their houses and did their gardens.

    “Sure!” he agreed.

    “Harry’ll probably order that fancy meat thing, with spaghetti and meat sauce as well,” she warned.

    “Let him. You can only die once.”

    Susie gave a startled guffaw, thanked him effusively, and rang off.

    James closed down his computer and prepared to depart.

    “Slight family emergency,” he said to Alysse, his up-market P.A. “No food in the house and Denise is immersed in clay to the eyebrows.”

    Alysse immediately reminded him about those predictions that would be wanted first thing tomorrow.

    “I’ll bear that steadily in mind, Alysse, thank you,” said James smoothly. “Good-night!”

    And with that he was out of there.

    It was, of course, all round the office before his toe had barely touched the pavement outside their building, but James would hardly have been surprised to hear it. He might, however, ,have been rather surprised to hear himself being hotly defended by two very different personalities.

    “Shut up, Cy!” said Kyle hotly to the sophisticated Mr Goldschmidt’s sneering report.

    Mr Goldschmidt’s smoothly-shaven, Joop-anointed jaw sagged: he was quite some years older than Kyle Bannerman and considered himself very much his superior, not only in work-related matters.

    “He’s lucky to have a wife that wants more out of life than stupid trips to Réunion and dumb named luggage!” continued Kyle hotly. “And if you think that’s being under her thumb you must need your head read, that’s all I can say! And her little figurines are not pathetic! My Mom just loves the one she gave me for her, and if ya wanna know, my girlfriend asked me to get her one, and she works at one of the most exclusive galleries in town!”

    Mr Goldschmidt’s well-shaped eyebrows rose. “Oh?”

    “Yeah!” Triumphantly Kyle fished in his pocket and produced one of the gallery’s cards that Gaby had begged him to “distribute casually” about the office but that he hadn’t dared to. “Here!”

    With that he stalked away and left him staring numbly at the card.

    Ben overheard the gossip in the inadequate kitchen area on their floor, used chiefly by those who were desperate for coffee. It contained a small sink bench, an electric jug, an elderly drip coffee machine, a small refrigerator, the contents of which were the subject of constant accusation and recrimination, and several jars of coffee, all different brands, most with people’s names on them on peeling white sticky labels.

    Katrina, an up-market young woman who acted as P.A. to him and Cy Goldschmidt, was in there giving one Millie, a humble person who was merely a secretarial assistant, the complete low-down. Low being the word. Young Millie was very red and was trying to lodge an incoherent protest.

    “That’s enough,” said Ben coldly. “Secretarial staff who spread gossip about their bosses will very soon find themselves out the door. Denise Kingston is a lovely, natural woman, and very talented. She and James both adore each other, likewise their kids. I’ve never seen a happier home. No way is he under her thumb. And far from not providing for her children, or whatever your unlikely phrase was, she’s a superb cook. Go back and get on with your work, please, Katrina. I need fourteen copies of that report by close of business today.”

    Not saying that she wasn’t secretarial, she was a P.A., Katrina went.

    “Not you, Millie,” said Ben kindly as she made a move towards the door.

    “I did try to say I didn’t believe her!” she gulped, turning a sort of mottled puce.

    “I know, I heard you. Good for you. I’m afraid a place like this is a hotbed of gossip.”

    “Mm!” she agreed, nodding violently.

    Ben sighed. “Don’t turn yourself into something like her, will you?”

    She gave a startled blink. “Uh, no! I don’t think I could!”

    He certainly hoped not, but he’d seen it before. The New York gloss usually won out. Apart from the lucky ones who married their childhood sweethearts and were able to shake the dust forever.

    “I don’t guess there’s any milk, is there?” he asked resignedly.

    Millie swallowed. “Um, no. I mean, it’s all got people’s labels on it!” she gulped.

    It would have—yes. Ben picked up his jar of coffee. Empty.

    “Have some of mine!” said Millie quickly.

    Ben was going to accept, but thought better of it. “Thanks very much, but I’ve got a better idea,” he said, producing his wallet. “Why don’t you run down to Starbuck’s and get something for us both? Make mine coffee with skim milk, and you have whatever you like.” He smiled a little. “However fancy; and never mind what it costs. Okay?”

    “Yes! Thank you! Only I’m supposed to be doing that copying for Mr Goldschmidt!” she gasped.

    Nominally Cy and Ben were equals in the hierarchy. However, John Murtrey had recently made it very clear that they weren’t and that the firm was not very pleased with the unfortunate Cy. In fact he had been told off to take his orders from Ben until further notice.

    “Don’t worry about that. I’ll tell him I asked you to go, okay?”

    “Yes! Thank you very much, Mr Anderson!” she gasped, scuttling out.

    Ben leaned against the bench and sighed. Mr Anderson—yeah. Made him feel about eighty, and hoary with it. How old was little Millie?

    Er… actually, probably about the same age as Megan, he realised with a wince. Ouch.

    The thing was, if he sent the girl a bunch of flowers as an apology she’d take it the wrong way, girls always did. No, he was just gonna have to remain a louse forever, in her eyes and his own. A louse and a half.

Next chapter:

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