He speaks over me. “You know what would really annoy her?”
“No, what?”
“If I just... quit. Without telling her. Just got up one morning and said...I don’t have a job anymore, you figure it out.” He’s slurring his words now, his face growing flushed and damp, a combination of red wine and outrage.
“Sounds like the only person that would hurt would be you.”
“I’ve got a whole novel in a drawer, you know.” He swigs back more wine. His lips are stained purple from it, his teeth gradually graying. “Sci-fi, like... Asimov, but better.”
I suppress a smile. “Really.”
“Yeah. But whenever I talk about it, she tells me to grow up and stop dreaming, like she doesn’t think I could do it.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t think that.”
“In fact, you know what? Screw it.” He jabs an index finger a little too close to my face for no apparent reason, then gets to his feet. “I’m going to tell them to stuff their job, right now.”
“No, Jon...” I get up too, grab his sleeve. “Don’t be silly. You’re drunk, you’ll regret it...”
He shakes my hand away. He’s so out of it, his eyeballs are beginning to roll as he talks. “Nah, I’ve always hated this job anyway. And my boss is a grade-A tosser. Time for somehome truths.” And before I can stop him, he’s weaving his way over to another table.
“Is he okay, do you think?” asks the girl on my other side, about twenty minutes too late.
I shake my head. “I think we’re about to find out.”
Jon has stopped by another table and is now doing his little finger-jab at an older man, who’s sitting down. I’m guessing it’s his boss. Other people start getting to their feet. One of them grabs Jon’s arm, which doesn’t go down too well. He starts shouting, then grabs a full glass of white wine and slings its contents at the man, who by now is on his feet, too. There is a collective gasp from the room, before it falls completely silent. I’m too far away to see the exact expression on the man’s face, but I’m guessing if Jon’s not already out of a job, he will be by the morning. He’ll probably open his e-mail tomorrow, head throbbing, to see that immortal subject line:Meeting with HR.
I can’t watch anymore, so I grab my handbag, stumble out of the dining room and head for the lifts. It’ll leave my table mates two down for the quiz, but it’s not like we’re playing for a five-star holiday. I mean, the top prize is a hamper full of condiments.
—
I should have done more.”
“Luce. He didn’t jump off a bridge. He got a bit lairy at a work do. Who hasn’t done that in their time?”
It’s about nine o’clock now. I’m lying on the bed in my room, sipping my complimentary water and nibbling a shortbread biscuit. It’s a much nicer room than I’d imagined before we arrived: I’d been expecting a traveling salesman vibe, with flat-pack furniture and warning stickers on all the appliances. But it’s actually very swish and country house, with sturdy furniture and a plush carpet, heavy curtains and designer toiletries.
Max is in his car—apparently he’s had to pop into the office for a couple of files. His voice keeps patching in and out.
“I betyouhaven’t,” I say, in reply to his question.
“Well, no, but only because I like my job. Sounds like this dude’s got a backup plan anyway. He’ll be all right.”
“What—to be ‘Asimov, but better’?”
A pause. “That doesn’t actually mean anything to me. The last book I read wasGale on Easements.”
I smile. “Let’s just say, I should have tried harder to talk him out of it.”
“It wasn’t your job to. You don’t even know him. And hey—when you see his book in the window at Waterstones next year, you’ll be glad you didn’t.”
There was a time, many moons ago, when I dreamed of the same thing for myself.
“You’re a hopeless optimist, Max Gardner—do you know that?”
“Well, wasn’t quitting Figaro the best thing you ever did? You’d never have moved to London. You wouldn’t be working at Supernova. We’d probably never have gone on that date...”
“Yeah. I think everything worked out pretty well in the end.” I smile dreamily. “So, are you pulling an all-nighter? It’s late to be picking up files, isn’t it?”
