“Because as I’m sure you’re aware, there’s nothing he likes more than you enjoying yourselves.”
“I thought he was out,” Lech said.
“And that makes you feel safe? That’s nice. Monthly reports up to date? He wants to see them this morning.”
“Even though he never reads them,” said Louisa.
“Yes, well, the perks of leadership.”
“Yeah, right,” said Shirley. “The . . . schmerks of schmeadership, more like.”
“Needs work,” said Lech.
“And you need plastic surgery. But you don’t hear me going on about it.”
“Upstairs in ten minutes,” Catherine warned, leaving them to it. She had work to do, there was always work to do, even if it consisted of the pointless rearrangement of unnecessary information. Lamb insisted on seeing paperwork, because if he ignored everything she gave him onscreen she wouldn’t know about it, whereas when she found a meticulously formatted report she’d printed out at 4:45 tipped into his bin at 4:50, he was clearly making a point. As he no doubt was now, in a different way, by turning up early: When she walked into his office, intending to empty the inevitable ashtrays—an umbrella term which covered anything with an interior space—he was already in occupation, slouching in his chair like a sleeping bag someone had stuffed with potatoes. There’d not been a squeak while he’d climbed the stairs, not even from the back door, which screamed like a startled goose most days.
Hiding her surprise, she asked, “How did the meeting with Taverner go?”
“She implied I look fat,” said Lamb. “This caused me to feel unsafe.”
“I’m sure you’ll get over it. Anything else of importance?”
“Nah, not really.” He put a cigarette in his mouth, but didn’t light it. For Lamb, this was on a par with giving up. “Just chucking her weight around. There are days when I wonder if they shouldn’t bring witch trials back.” He rolled pious eyes heavenwards. “But of course, you’re not allowed to say that any more.”
“Political correctness gone mad,” Catherine agreed. “What’s this morning’s meeting in aid of?”
“Just general morale boosting.”
Oh God. She headed back to her own office and collected printouts—progress reports on the various projects Lamb had instigated—and returned to his room with them.
“More recycling?” he said. He was holding a disposable plastic lighter now, as if fighting a rearguard action against her eco-activism, but hadn’t yet put it to use. “What’s the matter?”
“What makes you think anything’s the matter?”
“I can read you like a . . .”
“Book?”
“Newspaper. They get thrown away afterwards.”
“Silly me. Nothing’s the matter. Barring the usual, that is.”
“Ah,” he said wisely. “You’d be referring to what I’m supposed to call my ‘team.’ The silly custards.”
“Coming from you, that’s suspiciously benign.”
“Well, ‘bastunts’ doesn’t really work. And here they come.”
They trooped in, Lech leading the way, then Shirley, Roddy, Ash. Louisa hung back on the landing, muttering into her phone. Lamb raised an eyebrow, but all avoided his gaze, preferring to concentrate on the surroundings—the corkboard with its display of tattered clippings; the dismal picture of some dismal bridge some dismal where; the desk lamp teetering on a calcified pile of telephone directories, a concept which Ashley, for one, had difficulty getting her head round; the blinds pulled over the skylight, muting the daylight to a drab shroud. Stuffing her phone into her pocket, Louisa attempted to enter the room without being noticed. She did not succeed.
“I’m sure that must have been a nuisance call, from someone who just wouldn’t let you go,” Lamb said. “Because otherwise, you’d have been deliberately wasting your colleagues’ time. And that would be really fucking rude.”
And you hate fucking rudeness, she silently offered. “Sorry, yes,” she lied. “Cold caller.”
“You know how I get rid of them?” Lamb said.
“Pretty sure we don’t want to,” said Lech.
“I pretend to come.”
“Not sure that would work for me,” said Louisa.
“Or me,” said Ash.
“Or me,” said Shirley.
“Or me,” said Roddy. “. . . What?”
“Valuable as this no doubt is,” said Catherine, “perhaps we could skip the preliminaries? I’m sure there are things we could more usefully be doing.”
Shirley snorted; Ash rolled her eyes. Lech said, “Like what, throwing ourselves out of a window?”
Lamb tutted. “Let’s not lose hope. Remember, you’re only ever one spiked drink away from a happy ending.”
“Is there an agenda for this meeting?” Ash asked. “Because I’ve got, like, an office full of boring stuff I could be boring myself to death with.”
“There, see?” Lamb’s beaming face included them all in its benediction. “Our newest recruit, and already she’s as welcome as a banjo on a soundtrack. Now, group huddle. No, not literally, it’s not an excuse for a wank. Let’s just take a moment to be grateful for what we’ve got here.”
The shared incomprehension of everyone else in the room might have powered the whole of Aldersgate Street, had the appropriate technology been available.
