Staff Meal

STAFF MEAL

Phillip Crane clicked the right mouse button and cut &; pasted
numbers from cell C4 to F4. His colleague, Sue, a credit controller,
had gone to the West End to see Jackie Mason perform. "He's a genius,"
said Sue.

"Is that right?" replied Phil.

"Oh, yes." Sue then described Mason's routine about going to a
Starbucks.

Phil interrupted. He said, "It's not going to be funny."

Sue frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

"Just don't do it."

"You&;#8230;."

"Okay, you're going to try and be like Jackie Mason and you won't be.
I'll have to politely chuckle but you'll know yourself it wasn't funny.
You're not a comic. I'm not sure Mason is either. He's the pits."

Sue straightened her back, said "unbelievable" and resumed tapping her
keyboard.

Phil had given up on pretences. He would be himself and no one else.
Previously, Sue had reported, via e-mail, his attitude to their
immediate superior, the financial controller, Denise. Sue claimed he
was arrogant and his work was sloppy. Supposedly, the desk "said it
all". His desk was messy but then Denise had mentioned to Phil that Sue
made plenty of mistakes herself, that she wasn't as efficient as she
liked to believe. To Phil, Sue had complained about Denise. She was
unprofessional. "The woman," she said, "was a joke."

The man in charge of all three of them, Vincent, the financial
director, was thought to exist "on a different planet". This was not a
compliment.

It took a while for Phil to suss the make up of the accounts
department. Each person bitched about the other. To his face, all was
sweetness and light. Behind his back, the knives were drawn. He used to
involve himself in the bickering and slander but now he rose above it.
In any event, his band, The Cracks, of which he was lead singer, would
soon, he was certain, be offered a contract and then farewell Denise,
Sue, Vincent, mind numbing spreadsheets, invoices and stroppy
creditors.

The gig last Sunday, at The World's End in Camden, had gone quite
well.

He typed in a formula. Although his mental arithmetic bordered on the
retarded, even he could see the total didn't look right. He added the
numbers using a calculator, and the total on the spreadsheet was
incorrect. He hated Microsoft's Excel.

Vincent was taking the team for lunch at Pizza Express in Leadenhall
Market. He sent an e-mail and only Sue seemed pleased. "We put the
hours in," she said, "and it's good to be appreciated."

Phil disagreed wholeheartedly. These lunches were painful. They were
not friends by choice. Chance brought them to the accounts office and
not one of them would keep in touch if they had any say in the matter.
Seeing his colleagues five days a week, eating their sandwiches,
drinking tea, offering round biscuits, talking about DIY, the gym,
losing weight, it was torture. Lunch was the period of escape, the
chink of light, a reprieve from the banality of the office
straitjacket.

When Sue had said "we put the hours in", she meant that she put the
hours in and deserved recognition. In all fairness, she did. Following
processes, raising invoices, checking payments on the bank statements,
pestering debtors, each task received a noticeable amount of commitment
and dedication. Phil knew that credit control was supposed to be more
complicated than what he did, purchase ledger. She received several
grand extra than him but essentially their job specs were the same. He
paid invoices. She produced invoices for payment. Money spent, money
received. The work required attention to detail, in other words, it was
monotonous, crushingly so, and Phil reckoned the bitching in the
accounts department was a release from the blandness of daily
repetition.

Sue, Denise, and Vincent, were in denial about this, whereas he didn't
seek what he called "the protective cloak of illusions". One of the
songs he was particularly proud of writing, "Nice Like That", captured
this, he liked to think, perfectly.

A section of the lyrics went:

'They walk in line

Servants of time

Living the dream

Kids and ice cream

Taking Prozac

Watching TV

It's nice like that

Avoiding reality'

The crowd at The World's End hadn't been too enthusiastic and the
drummer, Gringo, and the bassist, Fez, called it "a load of bollocks".
Phil said music was about risks. He made them listen to "No Love Lost"
by Joy Division so they understood his inspiration.

Denise came into the office. "Are you two ready?" she said.

Phil saved and closed programmes, then logged out.

"There's a message on your voicemail," said Sue.

"I know."

"You should check the message."

"Hold on, I thought Denise was my boss."

"Will you two pack it in," said Denise. "You're like a couple of
children."

They walked to the lift. Vincent was in the foyer downstairs. The
Estonian receptionist, Eva, a six foot blonde who Paul in I.T. labelled
"a tidy bit of weasel", told them to enjoy the meal.

Phil didn't fancy her. She was blue eyed, leggy - too obvious for his
tastes.
When she wore earrings and tied her hair in a ponytail he thought she
looked like a gypsy. A headscarf was all she needed. Fundamentally
though, she bored him senseless. She was happy when Estonia had won the
Eurovision Song Contest. Really proud. He was, by his own standards,
heavily drunk but he recalled being in the Moon on the Water pub and
the conversation lasting forever and her saying, "It's a very special
thing for a small country, no?"

Very special, he thought, remembering how any attraction he had felt
was extinguished with that comment. He crossed the road, slowing his
pace so he fell behind Vincent, Denise and Sue. They were talking about
HSBC's poor customer service.

He walked by a bookshop. A chalkboard advertised that Roy Keane would
be signing copies of his autobiography next Thursday.

-------------------------------------

Phil watched his colleagues in Pizza Express, crazy and impetuous as
ever, order two bottles of still mineral water. The waitress, a slender
girl with long dark hair and wide brown eyes, asked him what he wanted
to drink. He asked for a bottle of Becks. Denise looked at him. She
disapproved, as he well knew, of lunchtime drinking.

They talked about the genius: Jackie Mason. Vincent said he was witty.
Denise had gone with Sue to the show. Although they criticised and
insulted each other during office hours they often agreed to go to the
cinema, see West End shows, the occasional exhibition. Phil reckoned
they socialised because they were lonely. Denise had come from Cork in
Ireland, didn't have a boyfriend, lived alone, read a lot of Marian
Keyes while forcing herself to complete a novel by Will Self, and was
obsessed by Friends Reunited on the internet. Sue also lived alone and
was cut off from her family. She didn't go to her mother's funereal,
described her father as an "animal" and, as far as Phil could gather,
had only had one relationship with a guy, someone she referred to
bitterly as "the German".

Maybe that's why they put so much into their work. It was all they
had.

"What do you think of Jackie Mason?" said Vincent to Phil.

"Oh, don't ask him that," said Sue.

"Why?"

"Thanks a lot," said Phil to Sue.

"He doesn't like him."

"Did you see him then?" said Vincent.

"No, I didn't go."

"How do you know, then?"

"I've heard him on the radio."

"And you don't think he's funny?"

"Not at all."

Denise said: "Say what you feel. Don't hold back."

"I won't."

"Who do you think is funny, then?" said Vincent.

That, thought Phil, was easy. He said: "Charlie Chaplin. Lenny Bruce.
Early Richard Prior. Bill Hicks."

Vincent smirked, rubbing his finger round the rim of the glass.

"I like Richard Prior," said Sue. "His language is from the sewer but
he is very, very funny."

"He's a top man," said Phil.

"Apart from Chaplin, I've not heard of any of them," said Denise.

"You've not heard of Richard Prior?" said Sue.

"Who is he?"

Sue tried to jog her memory. Mentioning films he'd starred in with Gene
Wilder like
Stir Crazy and See No Evil, Hear No Evil.

"You've lost me," said Denise. Then she added: "I like Jonathan Ross,
he's funny."

-------------------------

The waitress brought the pizzas. Phil looked at the line of her throat,
the shape of her lips.

Sue said: "What are you trying to do me, Vincent? I'm big enough as it
is."

"Enjoy it," he said.

Sue giggled sweetly. Phil noticed that particular giggle was saved for
management. It was as if she transformed into a little girl around
authority figures, male ones at least.

"Mmmm, this is fantastic," said Denise.

"They do good pizzas," said Vincent.

The restaurant was packed. Wall to wall professionals. Bankers,
brokers, consultants, analysts, venture capitalists. Suits, neat
haircuts, wedding rings, polished shoes - money. Phil wondered how much
longer he could bear this environment. He swigged his Becks, seeing the
smooth tiled floor, the chrome surfaces and spotless mirrors. And this
was only a place for pizza. If Vincent had genuinely wanted to treat
them, he would've taken them to Caravaggio's, or the restaurant at the
top of the old Nat West tower.

Vincent said: "So how was your gig at the weekend?"

"Fine," answered Phil. He regretted telling his colleagues about The
Cracks. Especially Vincent, who was once in a band himself. Record
companies, so the financial director claimed, queued up to sign
them.

"You know," said Vincent, "I was listening to an old tape of my band's
stuff at the weekend and we were, even if I say it myself,
exceptionally good."

Denise said: "That's very modest of you Vincent."

"No, I don't want to sound&;#8230;.Oh, I suppose it does. But when I
think of who tried to sign us, then I do occasionally stop and wonder
and think: 'If only'."

Sue said: "Why didn't you sign then?"

"Haven't I told you before?"

Denise, Phil and Sue herself knew the story backwards. Sue said: "I
think so, but what was it again?"

"Well," he said, "we were victims of overconfidence. The band consisted
of two lawyers, myself - the accountant -, and an architect, and when
we were offered a contract we became too clever and choosy and all the
in fighting started. We should've thrown caution to the wind and
accepted the contract offered. A scout from Virgin, sent to see us play
at, where was it? That's it, it's now a terrible All Bar One but it was
a proper wine bar in Mayfair. The scout came and saw us play and
declared we were the next Simply Red."

"Really," said Sue, "that's amazing."

"You could've been on Top of the Pops," said Phil, unable to disguise
his sneer.

"We could've, yes."

Denise said: "I can just see Vincent with all the groupies after
him."

"Now, now, as much as I may've idolised that lifestyle, I think my wife
would've disapproved somewhat."

"You could've kept it a secret," said Phil.

"I tell my wife everything," replied Vincent, curtly.

"As it should be," said Sue, finishing her pizza.

Phil drained the dregs of the Becks.

Reflectively, Vincent said: "You know, I do wish I had kept at it.
Because that's my real love, music. If I made the money, I'd love to
open a recording studio and have musicians record there. A modern
Motown, if you like. Because that was the best music, Motown."

"I like Motown as well," said Sue.

"Arrr, nothing comes close nowadays. But there you go, I'll never be
that rich. It's interesting to think about what you'd like to do, isn't
it? Phil here, he's similar to me. Music is in his blood. What about
you, Sue, what would you liked to have done, if you'd had the
opportunity?"

Phil exchanged looks with Denise as if to say: Not this again.

"Oh, Vincent," Sue said. "You can't ask me that."

"No, go on, you must have something that you wanted to do."

Phil listened. Sue had answered this question before. He enjoyed
watching her squirm.

"Well, you know, I'm a sucker for musicals," she said. "I mean, god,
Barbara Streisand&;#8230;Lisa Minnelli&;#8230; I saw Rent how
many times? London and New York. The dancing, singing&;#8230;the
energy. To be involved in that&;#8230;But hey, look at me, I have a
butt the size of Cleveland. Who am I kidding, right?"

She started tearing a serviette into strips.

"And you," said Vincent to Denise, "what would you like to do?"

"Me?" she said.

"Yes, you."

"What I'm doing, I suppose. Accounting."

"Please. Who in their right mind wants to be an accountant?"

"Vincent, it's true. I've never wanted to do anything else."

"I can't believe you, there must be something, please tell me there is.
Who could be that sad, wanting to actually be an accountant?"

Phil looked at Denise, then at Sue who, out of her own pocket, at the
age of forty one, was paying for night classes to become an accountant.
Vincent had refused to let the company pay her study fees.

"You don't have a dream? You don't want to be anything else?" he
said.

Exasperated, Denise said: "Alright, alright. A painter. I'd like to be
a painter. My uncle does paintings back home and I've always thought
it'd be alright to learn."

Phil raised a hand to his mouth, smaning.

"A painter," said Vincent. "I'm trying to picture you with your beret
and palette."

Denise had clearly, thought Phil, made that turkey up under
pressure.

"I'm going to the little girls room," she said.

"Our very own Monet. Who would've thought it?" said Vincent, pouring
water into his glass.

Sue's serviette was in shreds.

The waitress asked if they were done and Phil passed her a couple of
plates. "There you are," he said, wondering what her favourite position
was in the sack.

Vincent requested the bill.

Returning to the office, Eva asked if they had enjoyed the outing. The
four of them, waiting for the lift, said it was very nice, thank
you.

As the lift ascended, Sue complained about a stomach ache. She was
bulimic and when they reached their floor she headed to the ladies.
Phil guessed she was going to finger her tonsils. It happened after the
last staff meal.

Vincent entered the sales office.

Denise and Phil walked along the corridor to accounts. Phil said: "When
can I see your paintings."

"Shut up."

"Come on."

"You're the limit, you know that?"

"Bring them in."

"It's so annoying, Phil. He doesn't give in, does he?"

"I just don't think he's aware of other people."

"Who knows&;#8230;.. but answer that voicemail," she said, gesturing
to the red light on his telephone.

"Yes master," he replied.

"Sue's going to whine for the rest of the day," said Denise.

"Yep," said Phil, dialling his password. There was one message. It was
Gringo, the drummer. The Cracks had found a new lead singer.

He was out of the band.