The Writers' Circle

CHAPTER TWO


	'Shall I bring the car round, sir?'
	'No thanks, Thomas, I'm having the meeting here. This one I want on my turf. They're not going to like it.'
	'I think not, sir.'
	'Get Mrs. T. to serve breakfast - cooked - for five at nine. No, make it eight-thirty. Plenty of coffee. And lunch at twelve. No. Twelve-thirty.'
	'For five, sir?'
	'Yes. Five.'
	'Very good, sir. And which suit will we wear today, sir?'
	'No suit today, Thomas. I'll wear jeans and a T-shirt. The black one that Cathy used to like. The one with the Panda on the front. The wildlife one.'
	'Are we swimming this morning, sir?'
	'No.'
	'Very good, sir.'
	'Thank you, Thomas. I'll have a shower. New blade this morning, I think. I'll give the old hair a wash, too.'
	'Not going to Mr. Vincent's, sir?'
	'No time. I'll do it myself. And I promise not to cut my ...'
	'Will that be all, sir?'
	'Yes. Thank you.'


	The new blade was a bad idea. Tony cut himself on his left jaw. A double nick. The new, super triple-blade razor was good, but when it cut, it cut three times. In the shower, the blood ran down his chest and mixed with the soap and water and swam pink down the drain. He watched it but he didn't care. He wasn't thinking about it.
	It was seven o'clock or thereabouts. The others would be arriving at eight and on time and he hadn't exactly planned what he was going to say. He knew his strategy but he wasn't sure of his opening words. He wasn't sure exactly how he was going to tell them. But he wasn't too worried. He always worked better without a prepared script. He liked everything 'off the top'. He had never yet failed to find the right words. Twenty years in sales had taught him that.
	Some 'two-in-one' shampoo squirted into his left eye. It stung his eye. He forced his eye open and looked directly into the spraying water. He tried to wash the soap and conditioner out but he couldn't wash the stinging away.
	After the shower, he went, naked, to the full-length mirror. His eye was red, bloodshot. His jaw was bleeding, still. Tissue for the jaw and eye-wash for the eye. Neither really worked.
	When he went into his bedroom, Thomas had prepared his first breakfast. Black coffee and Kellogg's Corn Flakes. It had been the same for twenty years, well, almost. He had only been drinking his coffee black for the last ten years or so. But coffee and Kellogg's Corn Flakes it had been since he was eighteen.
	'Come in.'
	'Breakfast in the dining room, sir?'
	'No, in the breakfast room.'
	'And lunch?'
	'In the dining room.'
	'Very good, sir.'


	Ken, Bob, Brian and Gerry would arrive together. One car. Gerry, Finance Director, would drive - tee-totaller. Bob, Technical Director, would be the first to speak. Gerry would stay silent. Ken, Human Resources, would try to think it through carefully. Brian, Sales Director, would trust his instincts, his feelings and his friendship. Brian he could trust. Gerry would follow Brian. Ken would think about what he could get out of the situation, how he could profit. Bob would be scared, but he would speak first and try to prove that he was not scared.
	Tony had planned his home turf to break the news. He was going away for a year. Holiday. Nine months travelling. Three months alone on a remote island off Australia's north-west coast. That will be the hard part for them. They would have to manage without him. An army without a general.
	It shouldn't be a problem but it all depended on Brian.
	At eight ten, the meeting began. Everyone was on time, except him.
	Tony knew them all too well. He had had to. He trusted them and was going to trust them more. With his business. With his future. If all this went wrong, he would be too old to start again. So he told himself.
	'Jesus, Tony, tell me you are joking.' Bob, excited.
	'No joke, Bob. I'm serious.' Tony wasn't smiling.
	'Why? Why now, for Christ's sake?' Bob. Still excited.
	After getting similar reactions from the others, Tony faced the one question he hoped would not come.
	'Have you heard from Cathy?' Calm and clever Brian.
	'No.' 
	'Has this anything to do with her?' Brian. Still calm, still clever.
	'Maybe. I don't know.' Tony knew that Brian could see into him and he didn't like the question.
	'For Christ's sake, Tony, why didn't you ask her to marry you?' Bob. Nervous.
	'She'd have said, "No", and if I had asked her to marry me and she said, "yes", then she wouldn't have been intelligent enough to be my wife.'
	Silence.
	'That's clever, Tony, very clever.' Ken. Not sure.
	'Where did you read that?' Brian. Sure.
	'I didn't. I just thought it up, then. You like it?'
	'Sure. Would Cathy?' Brian. Certain.
	'I don't know. I won't have a chance to ask her. Will I?'
	Brian raised his left eyebrow and then his head. He looked at Tony. Well, looked down at Tony. In fact, they all looked down at Tony. He was at least six inches shorter than the shortest of them. 
	'You can't kill a ghost by running away from it.' Brian knew he was on safe ground. He knew that Tony didn't like to hide from reality. That's why he liked him so much. It made him easy to know, to understand. Not to control.
	'What if she comes back while you are gone?' Gerry. 
	'It doesn't matter. She's gone and I'm going.' Tony tried to sound more convincing than he sounded. 'I'm going. One year. I'm not asking you to agree. You just decide if you want the terms I offered or not. By lunch time.' He sounded tough but prayed that they would all accept.
	
	Breakfast was served at 8.30. They sat down at 8.40. They talked about other things. Tony didn't like business talk over breakfast. That was for Americans.
	After breakfast, Tony gave his instructions. Each was told what was expected of him. Good and the bad. Best and worst case scenarios. All prepared. Tony's homework.
	
	Lunch was late. Thomas and Mrs. T. had done their job. They were ready on time; Tony was not. 

	

	Thirty-eight and looking through forty's window. Tony was afraid. No wife, no woman. Work. Money. Those around him helped him make the money but not as much as he helped them. 
	Now, his third company, and big. Computers now. He had started with typewriters back in the late seventies. Word processors in the early eighties. Sold out to a big rival company. Then into photo-copiers. That's where he really made his money. Sold out to a big rival company. Now, faxes, mobile telephones and portable computers. Bought a few big rivals and almost controlled the market in the South West of England and South Wales. Twenty-five salesmen and their families depended on him, or on his company. Technicians, clerks, secretaries all depended on him. 
	He was tired.
	He had fought the war of business every day for the past twenty years. Soldiers get R. & R.; he got none.
	He knew his bedroom ceiling better than any woman's body. He had stared at that ceiling for so long - finding ways, grouping answers, planning strategies. Long after the body beside him had answered a small need and R. & R.'d into the world of the pillow, he scoured his ceiling, finding things. He hated his ceiling.
	Thirty-eight and looking through forty's window. The view was not sunshine and rolling green hills. The view was Autumn and it was followed by ... He didn't dare think that far ahead, not on his bedroom ceiling, he didn't. Too many answers there. He didn't want them, yet. But Autumn was coming fast.
	He made money, they made money. They bought big cars, he bought bigger. They watched t.v. and knew what to do. They read the newspapers and followed the orders it gave them. They listened to the politicians and taught themselves how to believe them. They were all on the money-go-round and it turned, turned, turned, turned. Getting off was dangerous. All riders do so at their own risk.
	Thirty-eight and looking through forty's window. He had been running in the battle-field so fast and so long that he did not see the casualties. No-man's-land was where he thrived. Out there, alone. Attacking. And he didn't see the casualties. He didn't feel his own wounds. The ovine soldiers all fighting for the money-go-round, go-round, go-round, go-round.	And the casualties stayed on. And nobody saw them. The casualties.
	Spiritual cripples. A system of crippling. Give them money and shroud their souls. Follow the soldier in front - he's doing so well - you must keep up with him. Double your pace. No time to stand and stare.
	At forty's window there is time. For some.

	By the end of the day, they had all come round to Tony's thinking. Brian in charge, Gerry next. Good luck.