Warhol's Prophecy

5

‘WELL, I HAPPEN to think it matters quite a lot,’ snapped Robert Gibson into the mouthpiece of the receiver. ‘I’ll explain why, and I’ll try to keep it simple for you. Our company is called BG TRUCKS, right? Every day, lorries and removal vans go all over the country with that logo painted on the side of them – like a mobile advert, right? You’ve just sent us headed notepaper that says BEE GEE TRUCKS, which makes us sound as if we only do removals for that pop group who did the soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever. It’s a spelling error, understand?’

The person at the other end was having difficulty.

‘BG TRUCKS is different to BEE GEE TRUCKS,’ Rob said, spelling out the disparity. ‘Are we clear now?’

The voice at the other end still couldn’t see the problem.

‘I’ll make it very simple,’ Rob continued. ‘If this headed notepaper isn’t replaced, then you get no money. N-O. No. Know what I mean? Or should I say k-n-o-w what I mean?’ He hung up.

‘Dickhead,’ Rob snarled at the phone, then he leant back in his seat and stretched his arms, feeling the beginnings of a headache gnawing at the base of his skull.

The responsibilities of management, he mused.

Eight years earlier he wouldn’t have needed to deal with such petty concerns. Eight years ago, his only concern with the haulage business was in driving trucks, not working out where they should be at what times of each day, for fifty-two weeks of the year. His and his partner’s decision to start up their own business had been vindicated by its success, and so far they had encountered few problems. Business had been plentiful to the point that they’d had to employ two more drivers the previous year, and there was certainly no sign of that business drying up. And why should it? They provided a good service for their customers, and at cheaper rates than most of their competitors.

At thirty-four, Robert Gibson could, if he wished, consider his life to be a success. A thriving business, an expensive house and a loving family. Life didn’t get much better, did it?

He exhaled deeply.

Did it?

He looked across his desk.

A photo of his daughter smiled back at him. It had been taken at her birthday party just nine months earlier.

Hailey had taken it. The two of them there together, laughing happily.

The perfect dad.

He smiled, then his thoughts were interrupted as his office door opened.

‘Every time I walk into this bloody office you’re staring at that photo,’ said Frank Burnside.

‘Do you blame me?’ Rob asked.

Burnside shook his head. ‘No, I don’t. She’s a beautiful kid. It’s a good job she got her looks from her mother and not you.’

‘Ha-bloody-ha. What do you want?’

‘You know those two other vans we were after? I spoke to the boss at the garage, and he now wants five grand each for them.’

‘Tell him to fuck off. No, better still, give me his number and I’ll tell him to fuck off. Three and a half each, we said. He agreed it.’

‘Well, he’s changed his mind.’

‘Then we’ll change our supplier, sod him. Come to think of it, Frank, don’t ring him. Put it in writing. That makes it more official. Just don’t put it on any of this new notepaper.’ He grimaced.

‘I’ll get . . . um . . . her to type up a letter,’ Burnside said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder.

‘Sandy, you mean. You can use her name in front of me, you know. She is our secretary after all. Don’t try being tactful now, Frank. It’s a bit late for that.’

‘Yeah, well, if you want my advice—’

‘I don’t.’

‘If you were going to have an affair, then why have it with someone who works for us, Rob? For Christ’s sake, talk about shitting on your own doorstep. I mean to say, that’s why her bloody marriage broke up, isn’t it? She was always knocking around with other blokes, and her old man finally gave her the push. You weren’t the first, you know.’

‘Give it a rest, Frank. OK, so she’s divorced. So she’s been around a bit. If it’s a problem, it’s my problem.’

‘Not entirely, Rob. If it affects the running of this firm, then it’s my problem too.’

‘And did it? No. I tell you what, Frank. You stick to worrying about your fucking cholesterol, let me worry about Sandy. That’s all over now anyway, you know that.’

‘Does Hailey know it?’

‘Jesus, what is this? Woman’s Hour? Stick to running this business, Frank. Forget the Agony Aunt routine. Any problems I’ve got with Hailey, I’ll sort them out.’

‘It might seem like I’m sticking my oar in but, if it does, I’m doing it because I care about both of you. I mean we’re mates, not just business partners, aren’t we? If I had any problems with Maggie, I’d talk to you about them.’

‘Hailey and I are OK, right? We’re working things out. I didn’t exactly sit down and consider the pros and cons before I had that affair with Sandy. I didn’t think about any of the consequences, because I didn’t expect to get caught. But I did, and that’s the end of it. Now, if there’s nothing else, why don’t you give Sandy a shout and we can tell her what to put in this letter?’

Burnside paused a moment, then opened the office door again.

‘Sandy,’ he called, ‘have you got a minute, please?’

The two men locked stares, Burnside finally looking away, stepping to one side to allow their secretary access to the room.

Sandra Bennett smiled at both men as she entered, the smile a little more muted as she looked at Rob.

He ran swiftly appraising eyes over her: the slim legs and narrow hips, the shoulder-length ash-blonde hair. Narrow, finely chiselled features, and those eyes – inviting.

An invitation you couldn’t turn down, Rob pondered, shifting in his seat.

She was wearing a black jacket and skirt. Simple. Efficient.

She sat down opposite Rob and crossed her legs, smoothing a crease from her skirt, aware that he was studying her. There was still a part of her that welcomed that gaze, and all that might lie behind it.

‘Take a letter, Miss Bennett,’ said Burnside, grinning.

‘Frank, you’re not usually this formal.’ She smiled.

‘We need to be this time,’ Rob said. He explained to her what was going on with the vans they wanted to buy, watching as she made notes on her pad, stopping occasionally to look at him, unsettling him by the length of one or two of those glances.

Burnside was chipping in with his own ideas but, when Sandy looked up at them after each flurry of scribbling, it was Rob’s gaze that she caught and held.

Finally she got to her feet, and tapped the notepad with her pen.

‘I’ll sort it out,’ she said, smiling.

And she was gone.

‘Give them hell, Sandy,’ Burnside chuckled after her.

‘What else can I do for you, Frank?’ Rob wanted to know, looking up at his partner still standing in the doorway.

Burnside appeared vague.

‘You’re still here,’ Rob continued. ‘So is there something else?’

‘Just be careful, Rob,’ said the older man. ‘Like I said, I know it’s none of my business, but . . .’

Rob cut him short. ‘That’s right,’ he said flatly.

‘If it’s any consolation, I can understand why you did it. I mean, she’s a good-looking girl, I don’t deny that, and—’

‘Spare me the shoulder to cry on, Frank. I said it’s over, and it is.’ He got to his feet, crossing to the door, holding it open for his partner, who hesitated a minute then left. Rob closed the door, but lingered next to it.

Through the glass wall that formed the front of his office, he could clearly see Sandy sitting at her desk, fingers flashing quickly across the keyboard of her VDU.

Waiting for her to turn round and look at you?

‘It’s over,’ he said under his breath.

He wondered if these words of reassurance were for his own benefit.

It was a moment or two before he went back and sat down again.