‘The client didn’t show.’
He tilts his head sideways, examining me with closed lips as if wondering if I’m lying. ‘He didn’t show?’
‘I got a couple of texts through the evening. He was running late, then said he was stuck in traffic, then he said he couldn’t make it.’
I get my phone out to show him, but Graham bats the evidence away without looking at it.
‘So I’ve got to pay for your night in a hotel and there’s not even a sale to show for it?’
‘I’m trying to rearrange.’
‘What was his name again?’
‘Luke.’
Graham taps the mouse on his desk and stares at his screen, scrolling and clicking until he’s found what I presume is the email I forwarded him for the hotel booking.
‘Remind me again why I’m paying for a hotel stay?’
‘Luke suggested meeting in the middle. He was coming up from Cheltenham but said he was too busy during the day. I said I’d go to him but had something in Birmingham last night. It was a compromise.’
I don’t add, ‘It was your idea to put it on expenses’.
Graham hmms as if this is somehow suspicious when it’s actually the norm. Our office is in Lincolnshire, which is, to say the least, out of the way. Few clients come here, so us reps go to them.
He presses back into his luxurious leather chair and purses his lips, glancing towards the certificates on the wall. His office is a shrine to himself. There are diplomas showing off his qualifications, which, from what I can gather, involved attending various weekend conferences. Those type of events in which everyone gets a prize – as long as they pre-pay for it. There are enlarged photos of him with clients that have been framed and mounted, as if they contain someone who’s actually famous.
‘I’ll try calling him,’ I say.
‘You do that. In the meantime, I’ve set you up an appointment for later.’
‘Oh.’
His eyebrows raise at the surprise in my voice. It’s rare that Graham sets up anyone other than Natasha with appointments. He’s her favourite, for what I assume are two very good pushed-up reasons. ‘I’m throwing you a bone here,’ he adds.
‘I know. I didn’t mean it like that. Thank you.’
He passes me a Post-it note, with the name ‘DECLAN IRONS’ and a phone number. That’s followed by a second note with an address. Graham likes his Post-it notes. If I ever went to his house, I wouldn’t be surprised to see the living room wallpapered with sticky yellow squares of paper.
The ‘bone’ he’s throwing is that Natasha picked up a massive new contract last week. Before that, her sales figures weren’t that impressive. The blokes always do okay and Claire ticks by. It’s not quite official, but it might as well be – I am the weakest salesperson in the office. I console myself by imagining Natasha picking up that contract while on her knees, but I know it’s not true. Her success is hers and my failure is all my own.
Graham tells me he’ll forward the rest of the details in an email and then I stand, assuming that’s it. I feel like a naughty schoolgirl waiting to be dismissed from the headmaster’s office. Graham is looking at his screen, apparently oblivious.
‘Shall I go…?’ I ask.
He tuts. ‘How many years have we worked together now, Rose?’
I make a point of counting on my fingers, as if the number isn’t imprinted on my mind. ‘Nearly thirteen.’
‘Right. You’re my longest-serving rep. Others have come and gone. Rats deserting a state-of-the-art cruise liner. I appreciate your loyalty, but that is something that has to work both ways…’
He stares me directly in the eyes and there’s a moment in which I wonder if he’s trying it on. His neck bulges against his tie, the top button of his shirt clinging on for dear life. He isn’t my type at all – and never has been. He divorced a couple of years ago and there were always rumours that he was having an affair with his PA. She left and wasn’t replaced – but I don’t know for certain. There are always rumours like that in places like this. Offices run on tea, biscuits and gossip about who’s shagging who.
What I do know is that Graham tried it on with me four or five years ago when he was married. We were away at a weekend conference and he’d been drinking for eight straight hours. He bought me a drink and then put a hand on my knee, saying he’d always found me ‘intoxicating’ – whatever that meant. He was unquestionably intoxicated. I turned him down politely and, ever since, he’s acted like it never happened. Or, almost. Before that, any small workplace failures on my part were accepted and not spoken of. Ever since, I’ve been questioned on every hiccup.
It’s when he jabs at his screen that I realise I’ve completely misread him.
‘I’m getting CVs every day,’ he says.
There’s nothing cryptic about it: he could replace me with someone younger who’ll work for less money. Our salaries are bumped up with performance-related bonuses – but I’m likely on the highest base rate, simply because of how long I’ve worked in the office. I also get more holidays than anyone other than Graham. He’s happy for all that to continue – as long as I keep selling.
‘I’m trying,’ I reply.
There’s a moment where I think he’ll offer a sarcastic ‘try harder’ – but he doesn’t. Instead, he nods at the Post-it note in my hand. ‘That Declan sounds keen.’
Perhaps I’m expecting it because of my own insincerity around people, but there’s no punchline. It takes me a second to realise he’s being nice.
‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’
He’s expressionless as he turns back to his monitor. I think – perhaps hope – that he wants me to do well.
After closing his door, I wait in the hallway for a moment. I’m not ready to face Natasha and the others yet, so I try calling Luke. There’s a gap of a few seconds, a plip, and then nothing. It doesn’t even ring, let alone go to voicemail. I can’t remember if this is what happens when a phone is turned off, or if someone has no reception. Either way, I tap out another text message.
Hi. Me again. Hope everything is well with you. Did you want to reschedule? I can call if you prefer?
I read it through twice and then press send.
Back in the main office and I skim through the emails Luke sent last week. We never spoke on the phone, let alone met. Everything was set up through emails and texts. When I did try to call, there was no answer and he texted a minute or so later to say he was in a meeting.
None of this is necessarily unusual. At least part of the job is – or perhaps was – travelling the country and having late nights in bars, hotels and restaurants. The twenty-first century is the age that face-to-face everything died.
Luke’s emails read perfectly true. He works at a medium-sized cleaning firm that is hoping to become a large cleaning firm. They want to take all the ordering and finance onto a better system with external hosting that can be accessed remotely from phones and the like. It’s the type of thing my company sells.
I click the link at the bottom of his email and it takes me to the cleaning company’s website. It’s perhaps a bit bare but there’s nothing unusual that I can see. That is until I click the contact button – which only brings me to a webform. There’s a box in which to type a name, another for email address, and a final one to leave a message. There is no specific email address or phone number to use… which is certainly odd for a company trying to drum up business. I hadn’t checked the link before because there was no need – I already had Luke’s name and contact details.
The tingle at the back of my thoughts starts to ring louder.
It doesn’t make me feel any better when I hear Natasha snorting with laughter on the other side of the divide between our desks. I’d normally let it go but instead push myself up so I can see over the separator.
‘You all right?’ I ask.
She’s grinning wide, looking at her phone. ‘Fine, thanks.’
‘What’s funny?’ I ask.