Flesh and Wood - a new novel by Roger Frederick

an opening

As Jemma sped off to her meeting at Waverley, she was beginning to wish she’d never made a fuss about her new mobile. All she’d wanted was to change networks. Instead she’d ended up with no signal and a crap phone.

The problem started when the entire sales team had been signed up to the new Moby network. They were each given a new handset so they could make free calls to each other (not that any of those wankheads ever chose to ring her, unless they were on some kind of wind up or were accusing her of stepping on their toes each time she converted a prospect).

During the demonstration, downstairs in the large presentation room, the signal strength had been off the scale. The call clarity was excellent. And Jemma had to admit she’d been seduced by the 3G Vorola handset. She liked the way it glided open and the sexy black screen. Best of all the keypad was large and she could dial without chipping her fingernails (a real pisser after a £37 manicure).

Unfortunately (rather like Westing Information Systems), the product wasn’t bad, but the service was at best patchy. She couldn’t get any Moby signal at home or in the gym. And she never managed more than two bars on most of the country lanes she spent her time driving down.

It didn’t bother the rest of the sales team. Sure they were always blagging about contracts with the corporates on the Hallowsmere Technology Park. But they spent virtually all their time in the office - e-mailing virals to their mates, chatting to their coke dealers, intimidating the apprentice software engineers, and sandbagging their orders to hit target.

Although they might occasionally sell a couple of deskjets to an existing client, most of the ‘team’ couldn’t close a door properly let alone a deal with a prestigious blue chip prospect. Those much-hyped orders for hundreds of workstations with integrated IP telephony seldom materialised (unless she was called in to push them through).

Because they never left the office, of course there was nothing wrong with their new mobiles. They all really were having a whale of a time with Moby. And when she raised the issue of ‘signal black spots’ at the fortnightly sales meeting, she was dismissed as Jemma getting on her high horse because she’d been lucky with a couple of deals recently.

Instead of having a rational discussion about alternative networks, the meeting had turned into a slanging match with Andy Booth about the Carlson Hotel Group account (which he’d fucked up with his offensive attitude to the new Indian owners, and she’d just about salvaged).

Although Andy had only acquired the account when Jonny left, and she’d graciously agreed to split the commission with Andy, it was still the biggest account in his territory and his pathetic male ego couldn’t take it. She knew she shouldn’t waste her breath on that women-hating shit. But when he’d called her a Paki-fucker, she’d risen to the bait.

“What exactly is that supposed to mean?” she asked, bristling.

“Nothing,” sneered Andy.

“I believe he may have called you a Paki-fucker,” Jez Nugent volunteered helpfully, while young Jamie (her only ally in the sales team) sniggered. But, he at least had the grace to look uncomfortable as he avoided her reproachful glance.

Jemma felt the back of her cashmere sweater prickle at her neck as her face flushed. Her grip tightened on the brushed gold of her Shaeffer ballpoint, and she stabbed clean through the flowery doodle she had idly scribbled on one of the Westing Information Systems note pads that were permanently laid out on the long glass table that dominated the presentation room.

Struggling to keep her composure, Jemma looked Andy straight in the eye. “It’s exactly that type of infantile, racist comment that almost lost this company one of its most lucrative and long-standing accounts. I suggest if you can’t grow up, you get out.”

“I’d have been happy to leave this meeting twenty minutes ago, love,” said Andy. “But you keep moaning on about your bloody mobile. How much business do you think we’ve all lost this morning having to sit here listening to you whinging?”

Jemma’s voice wavered slightly, but she stuck to her guns.

“I meant the company, not the meeting.”

Andy looked confused.

“I mean, if you’re not prepared to be professional and treat customers and colleagues with respect, is it appropriate for you to continue to work for this company?”

“Hey, hang on,” said Andy angrily. “You think you’re the fucking boss now or something?” He jabbed his finger angrily at her. “I can promise you little lady I ain’t going nowhere.”

He rose to his feet, roughly kicked back his chair, and stormed towards the door. Before leaving the presentation room he turned to address the other men in the room. “Come on lads, meeting over.”

Jez started to rise to his feet. Jamie hesitated, clearly embarrassed.

“Come on,” repeated Andy. “We ain’t going to be dictated to by that stuck-up bitch.”

Jez, Jamie and the others dutifully shuffled out of the room behind Andy.

“Thanks for your support, boys,” she called after them.

Jamie turned and raised his hands lamely in a gesture of resignation.

“Oh, just piss off,” she said.

Jemma sat alone for a while in the presentation room and stared at a diagram of a server cluster clumsily scrawled in red jumbo marker on a tatty flip chart. She sighed heavily, breathing in the stale aroma of toner cartridge and filter coffee. She listened to a lorry reversing in the goods bay and wearily put her head in her arms, so that her forehead touched the cold glass of the table. Anger tightened like a clamp on her neck. She knew she should just ignore the morons. But when she eventually raised her head, she still felt like butting it through the room’s chipboard partition walls (already dented in several places by the corner of the projector trolley). She took another deep breath and dragged herself to the office of Stuart, the MD.

As usual, Stuart listened quietly to her rant, nodding and murmuring, “I know, I know,” in a placatory manner, until a private call was put through to him, and she tactfully withdrew.

Later that day, when she’d got back from her meeting with Netherwicks, Stuart was in the sales room with the door closed. He appeared to be giving the rest of the team a good talking to. But minutes later, as she returned from the kitchen with a mug of tea, they were all laughing and joking together as usual.

First thing in the morning, Stuart buzzed Jemma and asked her to come into his office.

“I’ve got something for you, “ he said, and produced from a drawer in his desk a package wrapped in plain gold paper with a red ribbon.

“It’s not my birthday,” she said, blushing slightly.

“I know,” he said. “It’s just a small token of our appreciation. Go on then, aren’t you going to open it?”

The package looked suspiciously like the Belgian chocolates male clients sometimes tried to woo her with, but as she carefully opened the gold paper, it turned out to contain a phone.

“A ha,” she said, her face lighting up. But then she noticed the large Moby logo stuck to the front of the box.

Disappointment rippled across her face. Stuart looked crestfallen.

“That’s what you wanted wasn’t it? The reason for all that bother yesterday. You had problems with your handset.”

She felt like screaming.

Stuart - it’s not the pissing phone, it’s the pissing Moby network that never pissing works, you pissing imbecile. And no, all that bother yesterday, as you call it, was not about my pissing mobile phone. It was about to me being called a Paki-fucking bitch by that talentless Neanderthal thug you for some insane reason decided to employ on your sales team. She took a deep breath.

“Thanks,” she said, forcing a grateful smile. “It’s a lovely thought.” But she still couldn’t hide the frustration in her voice.

“If you don’t like it,” said Stuart. “I can easily get you another. Just let me know what you want.”

He sounded worried. Maybe he’d heard that she’d been approached by Hendersons to become their Sales Director (an offer that she was now very seriously considering).

“It’s really kind of you,” she said. “But, to be honest, the main problem I’m having is with getting a signal on the Moby network.”

“I know, they’re a couple of blackspots,” said Stuart. “But all the other lads seem to cope all right. And we’ve signed a contract now. I understand the frustration, but if I start making exceptions for you, well...there are already rumblings.”

“What kind of rumblings?” She glared.

“Calm down, Jemma. I fully recognise what an asset you are to this company. And I’d like to talk to you properly about that later, OK? But if I’m going to make changes I’ve got to keep the whole team on board. I know they can get a bit out of hand at times. But, as I say, I’ve made some decisions and I think, at least I hope, you’ll be pleased to hear what I’m proposing.”

“So exactly what are you proposing?” she said.

He smiled broadly and winked. “All in good time.”

“Now I really am intrigued,” she grinned.

He paused. “You got a meeting lined up this morning?”

“Waverley,” she said, “that new health club on the way over to Fettlington. They’re quite pally with Akaash the IT guy at the Carlson Group, and they’re interested in installing a similar membership system.”

“Great stuff. You should be finished by midday?”

“I plan to be,” said Jemma. “Normally I’d suggest taking them out for lunch, but they have their own restaurant of course.”

“Well if they invite you to stay for a bite, don’t worry. But if you’re back before one or two, why don’t we go to Henri’s.”

“What’s the occasion?” she asked. Henri’s was the most expensive restaurant in Westingshire. They only ever visited with their most lucrative clients.

“You’ll see.”

“You are a tease,” she joked, picking up the new phone, but leaving the wrapping paper. “OK. I’ll see you later.”

“Hey,” he said. He tossed her the keys to his bimmer. “Take the 5-series.”

She caught them with her free hand.

“It must be my birthday after all.”

“I trust you,” he said. “By the way, I’ve told Jamie he can have your old handset. Apparently, Moby have set it up so you can just put your old SIM straight into the new phone.”

Oh great, she thought. She didn’t like the new handset. The key pad was too small and she preferred the satin black finish on the Vorola, to the brushed chrome effect of the new one. But on the off chance that the new handset had better reception than the old one, she swapped the SIM cards and was amazed to see it worked straight off and displayed an extra bar of signal.

Hurrying to the car park, she was accosted by Jamie, who was stood outside reception, smoking with Jez and a couple of the support engineers.

“Look I’m running late. We’ll have to sort it out later.”

“But Stuart, said...”

“Oh for God’s sake,” she took the Vorola phone from her hand bag and thrust it into his hand. “You’re welcome to it, but you’ll need to sort out a new SIM card.”

“No worries,” he said, and headed eagerly inside to the sales office.

Jemma eased into the 5-series with its WIS 1 plate, and dumped the Waverley Health Club brochure, her ‘sales bible’ and the new phone on the front passenger seat. She hadn’t been to Waverley before, and the map on the back of the brochure was rather vague. But she knew it was set back from the Fettlington road down one of the gravel driveways. So it couldn’t be that hard to find.

She would normally have punched the postcode into her sat nav, but she could never get the hang of the one in Stuart’s car. Fortunately, the three litre engine in the 5-series was not short on power. In fact, it was deceptively fast. And as she hammered down the bypass she was startled (but rather proud) to see the speedo nudging a ton.

Oblivious to any thought of oncoming tractors, she sped on down the narrow lane that led from the Morrison’s junction to the Fettlington Road. Her mind was half on the Waverley meeting and half on her impending lunch with Stuart.

He’d seemed pretty pleased with himself. She guessed he was going to offer her a promotion of some sort. He seemed to know everything that went on in Westing. And if he’d got wind of Hendersons approach to her, it was a strong possibility.

Even if Stuart matched Hendersons salary package, she didn’t know how much longer she could bear to work with the Andy Booths of this world. However there was probably another ‘Andy’ at Hendersons, who would give her just as much grief. And certainly, if Stuart offered her a directorship at WIS, it would be a hard choice to make.

Anyway, she would find out what he had in mind at lunch. For now, she’d better focus on the Waverley deal. She looked at her watch. Allowing a little time to find the right driveway, she estimated that she would be around ten minutes late. She reached for the new phone on the seat beside her and began to dial. No pissing signal.

Infuriated, she threw the phone down onto the seat. It skidded off the surface of the Waverley brochure, which was varnished like a coffee table. She much preferred a Satin finish. It was more classy. And a lot less slippery.

She didn’t need the phone (she’d already discovered it was as useless as the previous one), but it was irritating her lying there in the footwell. She leaned over the gear stick to retrieve it, but Stuart’s BMW was slightly wider than her 3-series and she couldn’t quite reach.

She looked up briefly to negotiate a bend, then pulled her arm out of the seatbelt and reached over again. She knew it was a careless thing to do at that speed, but no one else ever used the lane. Besides, she knew it so well she could drive it without look...