Free Working Wonders by Jenny Colgan Page A

the main boardroom – distinguishable from the rest of the plastic grey building only by a singularly incongruous stag’s head attached to the wall – Gwyneth was already there in a pale grey trouser suit with a lilac coloured top. He didn’t know anything about women’s clothing, but he noticed there was a subtle difference in the suit she had on and the dumpy two-pieces Fay used to wear. He bet she smelled nice. Right before she grassed him up of course, the cow.
    Gwyneth was sitting next to the chairman, so it looked like they were in it together already, Arthur thought glumly, taking a seat across the table. There was another, younger man, sitting at one end, obviously there to take minutes. Nobody said good morning.
    The chairman, Sir Eglamore, seemed an amiable enough old buff. He studied his notes, then glared at them incredulously.
    ‘Is this in shillings or – drat it, what are those blasted things called?’
    His softly spoken PA leaned in. ‘Euros, sir.’
    ‘That’s right. Blast their eyes. That Tony Blair, you know. Should be hanged.’ He sneezed. ‘Who’s in charge of this affair, anyway?’
    ‘Me,’ said Arthur.
    ‘Ah, young Arthur, am I right?’
    Arthur nodded, already surprised. Well, he was one up if the top brass could bother to find out his name.
    Eglamore pulled his half-moon spectacles further down his long nose. ‘You’ve got a long way to go, then.’
    Arthur nodded vehemently. ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘Not the best of starts, is it?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Hrumph.’ Eglamore turned his attention to Gwyneth. Arthur looked at her curiously.
    ‘And we thought this was the best man for the job, did we?’
    ‘Um, yes.’
    ‘On the basis of …?’
    ‘Um.’ She looked embarrassed. ‘Many reasons, sir.’
    Sir Eglamore made a noise like an angry horse. ‘Photocopier incident, wasn’t it?’
    ‘Um, yes.’
    ‘So what do you think now, hey?’
    Gwyneth looked at Arthur, then straight at Sir Eglamore.
    There was a pause. Then she said, ‘He’s still the best man for the job, sir.’
    Both Sir Eglamore and Arthur’s eyebrows shot up in the air.
    ‘What’s that, what?’
    ‘And he fits candidate requirements.’
    ‘And accidentally losing sixteen million pounds is a candidate requirement, is it?’
    ‘It seemed the right thing to do at the time,’ said Arthur and Gwyneth simultaneously. Then they looked at each other.
    Sir Eglamore studied his papers for what seemed like a month. Then he looked at them from under his craggy eyebrows.
    ‘Well, I don’t approve … but I don’t know how we can back out now. I’ve told all my friends at the – well, yes, you don’t need to know about that.’ He plumped up the papers on his desk, slightly embarrassed. ‘Of course, it won’t be happening again, you understand? Or even anything like it. I don’t know what all this modern fuss is with photocopiers, anyway. Just get a couple of the boys to copy them out by hand. Keeps them quiet and out of mischief.’
    Arthur could have wept with relief. ‘I’ll try and stay away from all heavy office equipment, sir.’
    ‘I’m going to put someone in place to watch out for you. In fact, my nephew is looking for a job. He can come and cast an eye over your figures, what?’
    He looked rather dodgily at Gwyneth for a second, who effortlessly ignored him. ‘Yes, yes, I’ll send Rafe along to you. Heard he’s the best man for the job, what.’ He turned to his PA. ‘Right, right, next? And do hurry it along – it’s venison for lunch.’
    ‘Rafe? Who the hell is Rafe?’ said Arthur, once they’d got back to his office. ‘It sounds like Sir Eglamore’s helping out the local orphanage! Who asked him to interfere, anyway?’
    Gwyneth shrugged. ‘No clue,’ she said. ‘Presumably one of Sir Bufton Tufton’s useless inbred Cyclops children.’
    ‘Yeah,’ said Arthur. ‘He’ll be a complete burden. And anyway …’ He knew this much from countless boring personnel conference evenings