‘Can you imagine …’
‘No,’ said Arthur quickly, trying very hard not to think about sex and Gwyneth in the same context at all.
‘And you’re meant to be leading this bunch of reprobates – look at them. They’re slagging you off right now.’
‘They are not,’ said Arthur, looking out of the door nonetheless.
Sven was holding up his chocolate biscuit plate and saying, ‘Please sir, I’m little orphan Arthur. Please can I have a European City of Culture?’
The others were laughing.
‘I’m never going to get them to do anything, am I?’ said Arthur.
‘You just have to get tough with them.’
‘That will never work.’
Gwyneth turned round and stalked into the open area outside the meeting room. She stood before them with her hands on her hips.
‘Right, you’ve had your chocolate biscuits. Now fuck off, and Arthur wants two-page memos from each of you on your preliminary ideas for the bid, on his desk, Friday morning. Here are copies of the guidelines, budget not an issue, just brainstorm.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Marcus, and the rest of them shuffled off obediently.
Gwyneth turned round again to Arthur, who tried not to show how impressed he was. God, but this woman was annoying.
Arthur was stretched over the empty bed, one of the few pieces of furniture Fay had left behind. It still smelled, faintly, of her conditioner. There was a long brown hair lying across the pillow. He picked it up. It felt for a moment like a trap – like she had left it there to see if her bed would be disturbed; to see what would happen.
Later, he was dreaming of horses again. He was pounding over the land. It was winter again, and the frosted wind caught against his throat. This time, he wasn’t alone. He looked down and realized his arm was around a girl. She was cowering into him and holding him tight, but oddly, he felt no emotion towards her. Suddenly he realized it was Gwyneth. Her fair hair was blowing over the cowl of her cloak. He groaned once, in his sleep, and turned over.
‘I can’t believe they’re actually all here,’ said Gwyneth that Friday. ‘And they’re all pretty much legible. Sven’s has something on it …’
‘I think that’s dog slobber,’ said Arthur.
‘Oh, God,’ said Gwyneth, dropping it as if it were acid. Arthur watched her, remembering the fragile creature he had held in his dream three nights before, not this smartly dressed efficiency machine standing before him.
‘Why do you do this?’ he asked suddenly.
‘What? Pick up pieces of paper typed by dogs with dirty paws? I have absolutely no idea, I assure you.’
‘No, I mean, your job. How did you get into it?’
Gwyneth looked at him. ‘Well, at university, I spent my summers working for …’
‘I don’t mean your job interview answer. Just … why?’
She shrugged. ‘Well, why does anyone become a management consultant?’
Arthur sat back.
Gwyneth was looking at him like the answer was obvious.
‘I genuinely don’t know.’
‘I think it was … the travel, the glamour … meeting new people …’ Gwyneth looked around the office.
‘Oh, yeah.’
Gwyneth flopped into a chair. ‘You know, I used to believe that, and now – look. Trapped in sunny Coventry.’
Suddenly, something in her face shifted. She looked like she was having an internal battle within herself. She glanced around as if she’d forgotten where she was, she looked at Arthur, she looked at the floor. Then, in almost a whisper, she leaned over and said, ‘Oh, God, sometimes I hate it.’ Then, she kind of shook herself. ‘Gosh, I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I didn’t mean that. It’s just, you know, sometimes I think maybe I should have become a vet after all.’
‘A vet . You wanted to be a vet ?’
‘What’s so funny about that?’
Arthur looked at her immaculate suit. ‘Gwyneth, all you do is complain about dog slobber.’
‘That is not all I do.’
‘Have you any idea what the slobber
‘No,’ said Arthur quickly, trying very hard not to think about sex and Gwyneth in the same context at all.
‘And you’re meant to be leading this bunch of reprobates – look at them. They’re slagging you off right now.’
‘They are not,’ said Arthur, looking out of the door nonetheless.
Sven was holding up his chocolate biscuit plate and saying, ‘Please sir, I’m little orphan Arthur. Please can I have a European City of Culture?’
The others were laughing.
‘I’m never going to get them to do anything, am I?’ said Arthur.
‘You just have to get tough with them.’
‘That will never work.’
Gwyneth turned round and stalked into the open area outside the meeting room. She stood before them with her hands on her hips.
‘Right, you’ve had your chocolate biscuits. Now fuck off, and Arthur wants two-page memos from each of you on your preliminary ideas for the bid, on his desk, Friday morning. Here are copies of the guidelines, budget not an issue, just brainstorm.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Marcus, and the rest of them shuffled off obediently.
Gwyneth turned round again to Arthur, who tried not to show how impressed he was. God, but this woman was annoying.
Arthur was stretched over the empty bed, one of the few pieces of furniture Fay had left behind. It still smelled, faintly, of her conditioner. There was a long brown hair lying across the pillow. He picked it up. It felt for a moment like a trap – like she had left it there to see if her bed would be disturbed; to see what would happen.
Later, he was dreaming of horses again. He was pounding over the land. It was winter again, and the frosted wind caught against his throat. This time, he wasn’t alone. He looked down and realized his arm was around a girl. She was cowering into him and holding him tight, but oddly, he felt no emotion towards her. Suddenly he realized it was Gwyneth. Her fair hair was blowing over the cowl of her cloak. He groaned once, in his sleep, and turned over.
‘I can’t believe they’re actually all here,’ said Gwyneth that Friday. ‘And they’re all pretty much legible. Sven’s has something on it …’
‘I think that’s dog slobber,’ said Arthur.
‘Oh, God,’ said Gwyneth, dropping it as if it were acid. Arthur watched her, remembering the fragile creature he had held in his dream three nights before, not this smartly dressed efficiency machine standing before him.
‘Why do you do this?’ he asked suddenly.
‘What? Pick up pieces of paper typed by dogs with dirty paws? I have absolutely no idea, I assure you.’
‘No, I mean, your job. How did you get into it?’
Gwyneth looked at him. ‘Well, at university, I spent my summers working for …’
‘I don’t mean your job interview answer. Just … why?’
She shrugged. ‘Well, why does anyone become a management consultant?’
Arthur sat back.
Gwyneth was looking at him like the answer was obvious.
‘I genuinely don’t know.’
‘I think it was … the travel, the glamour … meeting new people …’ Gwyneth looked around the office.
‘Oh, yeah.’
Gwyneth flopped into a chair. ‘You know, I used to believe that, and now – look. Trapped in sunny Coventry.’
Suddenly, something in her face shifted. She looked like she was having an internal battle within herself. She glanced around as if she’d forgotten where she was, she looked at Arthur, she looked at the floor. Then, in almost a whisper, she leaned over and said, ‘Oh, God, sometimes I hate it.’ Then, she kind of shook herself. ‘Gosh, I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I didn’t mean that. It’s just, you know, sometimes I think maybe I should have become a vet after all.’
‘A vet . You wanted to be a vet ?’
‘What’s so funny about that?’
Arthur looked at her immaculate suit. ‘Gwyneth, all you do is complain about dog slobber.’
‘That is not all I do.’
‘Have you any idea what the slobber
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