Minimalist Gossip Magazine Cover (49).pdf (13) - Flipbook - Page 73
wealth of occasions, because it’s a desire I’ve always failed to comprehend. And I’m not
saying that I’m right. Christ, not at all. I’m a coward – lifelong declared – and it was this
fact as much as any political or moral stance that fuelled my disbelief.
Mike, he argues, wanted to do his bit, to see the world, to assist a greater good… he
came home six months into his tour after being shot through the shoulder while he was
out on patrol. He showed me the scar once. I felt nauseous and amazed. Obviously, as
my life had been one undemanding stroll down civvy street, it was the first time I’d ever
seen a bullet wound. The skin was all gnarled and purple, like a grotesque knot in
rotting pine. As ugly and fascinating a sight as I imagine it’s possible to witness. After
recuperation, Mike came to work for my team. Even though he’s young, there’s a visible
dignity to Mike which I believe only the experience of war at a bellicose first-hand can
bring to a man. In some ways he reminds me of those old fellows at the Remembrance
Day services: unshakeable and upright; poised with stoic respect. Rachel, I believe, can
see this as well. I think they may have dated. Think. Nothing’s certain.
I always kind of hoped that if she was going to shag someone from the office, then it
would have been me she’d chosen first. But that's the problem, you see. That's the rub,
and I'm as guilty as everyone else. Because round here it seems like jumping into bed
with each other is all that people do. There's no romance, no courtship. We’re missing
the magic of those old black and white movies. The loss of lingering looks across a
crowded room. An absence of hands brushing beneath the moonlight. Because I've
searched high and low across this company. I really have - in every department and
down every corridor, through every inch of the office and the warehouse which
stretches beyond. But, try as I might, however hard I look, I just can't seem to find any
love in Context.
***
The day after the shit got kicked out of me, I'm sat in the MD’s office with bandaged ribs
and a face which resembles the surface of Mars. Darren is also present, noticeably
shamed and silent. The MD asks me if I want to press charges. I tell him no, that I don’t
want to see any names – specifically that of this great and very public company –
dragged unnecessarily through the mud. The MD claims to be grateful for this. I wonder
if the American investors will feel the same way.
The MD looks like he’s about to tear me a new arsehole. He has something of a
reputation, you know. Apparently, should the situation warrant, he’s akin to a tornado in
the boardroom. How much do you want, he begins, to leave Context Industries and
never speak to anyone about any of this ever again? Neglecting even the pretence of
hesitation, I name my price – the price I’ve had in mind from the very beginning. And for
that, the MD quickly counters, we’d want everything. Watertight NDA. We'd want the
photographs. My head snaps towards Darren, who still holds his gaze to the floor. I
didn’t think he’d have had the guts to fully explain the situation. But people surprise you,
though, don’t they? I, for instance, was surprised when I discovered that Darren, our
fifty-five year old Financial Director, was enjoying an illicit homosexual affair with young
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