19
The keypad on my telephone at home has four preprogrammed numbers: 1 is Mum; 2 is Saul; 3 is Katharine and Fortner; 0 is Abnex. The rest are blank.
I push Memory 3 and listen to the tone-dial symphony of their number ringing.
She answers. “Hello. Katharine Lanchester.”
Here we go.
“I don’t fucking believe it.”
“Alec. Is that you?”
“I don’t fucking believe it.”
“Alec, what is it?”
“Abnex told me they’re not satisfied with what I’m doing. With my work. They’re not convinced I’m doing the best I can.”
“Slow down, honey. Slow down.”
“I can’t get my head around it.”
“What did they say?”
“That if I don’t start pulling my weight they won’t give me a contract when my trial period is over.”
“When did they say this?”
She whispers, “It’s Alec,” to Fortner. He’s there in the room with her.
“Today. Murray called me into his office and we both went upstairs and I was given a dressing down by David Caccia, the fucking guy who hired me in the first place. Obviously Murray’s been on him about me. It was totally humiliating.”
“Just you? Was anyone else criticized?”
I have to think about this before answering. It’s all lies.
“Only Piers. But his job is safe, he’s on contract. He’s not in the same position as I am.”
“It’s possible they’re just giving everybody a scare. Management likes to do that from time to time.”
“Well then, fuck them for doing that, Kathy. I’ve worked my arse off for that company, learning my trade, doing overtime, making up for the fact that I came in through the back door. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do to…”
“To what?”
“I just can’t believe I’m being treated like this. And they have the nerve to pay me twelve thousand a year and still talk to me like that.”
“It is kind of odd. I mean you’re there every night until eight or nine, right? Later sometimes.”
She’s finding it difficult to know what to say. My voice is shaking. I have taken her by surprise.
“Wait a minute, Alec.” There is a muffled noise on the line, like a piece of cloth being dragged across the receiver. “Fort’s trying to say something. What, honey?…Yeah, that’s a good idea. Why don’t you come over here, for dinner, huh? We can talk about it. We haven’t eaten yet, and besides, we haven’t seen you in almost two weeks.”
I wasn’t expecting this. It could all happen quicker than I anticipated.
“Now? Are you sure it’s not too late? Because that would be great.”
“Sure it’s not too late. Come on over. I got a chicken here needs roasting. There’s easily gonna be enough for three. Get a cab and you’ll be here in a half hour.”
They both come to the door. Katharine’s face is a haven of sympathy. Her hair is brushed out and she’s wearing a long black dress with red roses printed on the cotton. Fortner looks unsettled, nervous, even. He is wearing flannel trousers and a white shirt with an old, canary-yellow tie knotted tight against his larynx.
“Come on in,” says Katharine, putting her arm across my shoulders. They’ve obviously decided that she’ll play the mother figure. “You’ve had a shitty day.”
“I’m really sorry to bother you like this.”
“No. God, no. We’re your friends. We’re here for you. Right, Fort?”
Fortner nods and says, “Of course,” like he has something else on his mind.
“You wanna fix Alec a drink, honey? What do you feel like?”
“Do you have any vodka?”
“I think we have some left over from the last time you went at it,” Fortner says, going into the kitchen ahead of me. “You have it straight, Alec, or with tonic?”
“Tonic and ice,” Katharine calls after him, smiling at me broadly.
I am invited to come in and sit down, which I do, on the large window-facing sofa with the coffee table in front of it. All the lamps are on to make the room feel warm and cozy; there’s even jazz drifting out of the CD player. It’s John Coltrane or Miles Davis, one or the other. I light a cigarette and look over at Katharine, who has sat down on the sofa facing mine. I allow myself a courageous little smile, a gesture to suggest that things aren’t as bad as I might have made out on the phone. I want to appear gutsy, while at the same time eliciting their sympathies.
Fortner emerges with my drink in a large tumbler. As far as I can make out they aren’t having anything themselves. There’s an ice-melted glass on the mantelpiece above the fire, but it’s a leftover from early evening.
As Fortner hands me my drink, I smell shaving foam or aftershave on him, and indeed his face does look unduly smooth for this time of night. Is it possible that he has preened himself for me, as if I were the vicar coming for tea? He walks around the coffee table and falls heavily into his favorite armchair, the collapse of a man whose evening rhythm has been disturbed. There’s a smile on his face that his eyes aren’t backing up. My visit has thrown him: he’d like to have gone to bed with a Ludlum and seen the day off. Now he has to reengage his mind and give this situation his full attention.
“So come on. Spit it out,” he says, not unkindly. “What’d they say to you?”
“Just what I said on the phone.” He’s made the vodka strong, at least a double, and I am wary of this. Have to keep my wits about me.
“Go through it again for Fort, sweetie. He didn’t hear our conversation.”
For the old man’s benefit, I retread the shape of the threat from Abnex.
“You know, at least I’ve always told you, that I don’t really get on with the two senior guys on my team.”
“What are their names?” he asks. “Cohen, is that it, and Alan Murray?”
“Harry Cohen, yes. They’re very tight, very good friends.”
“And you feel that they…?”
Katharine says, “Let him finish, honey.”
“From day one they’ve treated me disrespectfully. I get given more work to do than any other member of the team. I have to work longer hours, I have to take more shit. If there’s a letter that needs writing, a phone call that has to be made, if a client needs to talk with one of us or if Abnex needs somebody to stay in the office over the weekend, it’s always me that has to do it. Alan swans up and says, ‘Alec, do this, Alec do that,’ or if he’s not around, Harry does the same thing. Never a please or a thank-you. Just this expectation that I will fall into line. Don’t get me wrong. I know I’m the junior partner. In a sense, I deserve to get given the menial tasks. But I am not appreciated. I am not afforded any respect. If I do a good job, it goes unnoticed. Either that or Harry will take the credit. But if I fuck something up, it sure as shit isn’t forgotten.”
Fortner’s mouth has dropped into a deep scowl, like a horseshoe spilling its luck.
“And I’ve never been sure whether they treat me like this because they genuinely dislike me, or because of jealousy…”
“The latter, most likely,” he mutters.
“Or it could be because they feel threatened by me. I really can’t believe that they think I’m no good at my job. That’s just impossible. If you could just see the fuck-ups J.T. makes. Lost business, bad planning, basic fucking mistakes. But today it’s me they chose to round on.”
