It had been a strange day for Bernice after that beginning, and so it felt appropriately odd to be coming back to Southdon from her central London office at the end of it for her meeting with Kate. Before, the town it had presented itself as nondescript suburbia giving way to something that looked like it had dropped out of New York: a dense and rather incongruous patch of tall and gleaming office blocks that led to Southdon's nickname as the Manhattan of Surrey. Now it was dusk, and the office buildings were variously lit up in the random patterns picked out by the lights left on by the departed workers. As she idly took these in she thought what a waste of electricity, and made a mental note to write a stern editorial on the subject at some point.
As Kate had indicated, the Dog and Duck was truly awful, its unique virtue being closeness to the station. It was one of those characterless buildings from the 1930s that had no real architectural style, and what little it possessed once had been scraped away during its conversion to a pub. As part of a chain, it followed the established designs, which amounted to a kind of absence of style. When the chain had gone bankrupt some years back, it was sold off and bought by an independent who removed some of the fittings without replacing them with anything more attractive. The result was a bizarre hodge-podge of elements, none of them really matching anything else.
As she entered this no-man's land Bernice found herself sitting in a long rectangular space lit by strip lamps, decorated with freckled mirrors or reproduction Victorian music hall bills. One or two anaemic plants cowered in the corners. The plastic seats were pitted with cigarette burns sporadically, and the whole place was soaked in a general smell of stale beer, stale tobacco and disinfectant from the Gents. Mindless and unrecognisable pop music from a juke-box periodically sent out thumps and yelps into the room. The place was nearly empty, with just a few melancholy souls drinking at the bar, and a few groups scattered around the tables in the corners and odd angles made by pinball and cigarette vending machines placed here and there. She wondered who they were, what their histories were, and why they were here. At least she had an excuse.
Bernice always felt slightly constrained when she met up with Kate. They had worked together for some years, and already been through a lot during this time, and she loved her dearly, and yet Kate was so reserved in many ways, especially at work - Bernice didn't even know when her birthday was. She knew only that she had read German or something similar at London University, that she had been married many years ago, was now divorced, and that she lived near Southdon. Neither she nor the friends they had in common knew much more about Kate's private life, and Kate never volunteered much. Which was frustrating for someone as inquisitive as Bernice, both on a personal and professional level.
When Kate arrived at eight o'clock on the dot - she was even more fanatical about punctuality than Bernice - a few greasy male heads turned at the bar to observe the latest piece of female flesh that had appeared for their delectation. In fact though very diffident about her looks, Kate was extremely attractive: small and compact with short dark hair, flashing black eyes and a full-lipped mouth that was usually puckered into a sardonic smile, she seemed to give off a kind of controlled energy that almost made her glow in the dark and drew glances to her everywhere she went even though, as now, she was usually dressed in the most anonymous of jackets and jeans. She ignored her new admirers and joined Bernice.
"The usual?" asked Bernice.
"Absolutely," said Kate.
The usual for Kate was Guinness, another thing that Bernice never quite understood. For her, of course, it was gin and tonic, which though something of a cliché for a journalist, she drank without even the slightest self-consciousness.
"So, how are you doing?" she asked with that high, enthusiastic voice of hers.
"A difficult question to answer - and one that rather depends on you," answered Bernice.
"Hm, mysterious tonight, are we? Do tell." Between the two of them had sprung up a mythology that Kate was the sensible serious one, while Bernice was some kind of nervous wreck prone to assuming outrageous positions. Which tonight was not so far off the mark.
"But first of all, how are you? I haven't seen you for ages," Bernice replied, not quite sure how to introduce this madcap proposal.
"Ah well, you know, pretty much the same. My life doesn't change much - the usual bits and bobs of freelance."
"How are you enjoying that?" asked Bernice pointedly.
"A strange question. Depends: on the copy I get, how good it is, who it's for, what the cretinous typesetters and printers are likely to do with it - the usual stuff."
"Ever thought of doing something different?"
"What, like sumo wrestling? What's this all about, Bernice?", asked Kate with interest rather than annoyance, her eyes narrowing as she raised her chin interrogatively.
"Well, I have been asked by a certain publishing company not a million miles from this pub - "
"Writing for Wright's, eh?"
"Right.... Anyway, strictly between you and me" - she added unnecessarily, since Kate was the soul of discretion - "they want me to launch a business title against Business Monthly - "
"Really? Tough one. Mind you, deserves to get knocked out, full of errors - they wouldn't know a subjunctive if it bit them in the leg."
"Quite. So I said I'd do it if I had the right production editor: you." Bernice paused.
"Flattered. But I'm not really sure I want to go back to being a salaried employee - that sense of somebody owning you. I rather like my freedom."
"I know what you mean, but I live under the delusion that we could make something a bit different between us - you know, put together our own team."
"What is the team - just as a matter of interest?" asked Kate, clearly more than a little interested.
"Well, art editor and sub only on production I'm afraid."
"Hm, pagination, what, 150?"
"Nearer 200 overall."
"Hm. Possible, but hard work for all concerned. Still with the right people. When would all this be happening?"
"Oh in a couple of months' time," said Bernice as casually as she could.
"Yes, sure. But seriously, I need to know time-scales."
"Er, I wasn't kidding, Kate: we would have ten weeks to be precise. Starting from now."
Kate said nothing. Her gaze rested above Bernice's head as if there were a sign up there warning people not to get too close with this lunatic. Except in certain special circumstances, she tended not to lose her equanimity. And yet the silence she favoured instead was often worse than an violent expressions of rage or disgust.
"Kate, say something." Bernice was unsure how this was going.
"Why?" Kate asked finally.
"Why what?"
"Why ten weeks? What not ten days - let's make it a bit of a challenge...."
"Who knows, some corporate timetable, some complicated cross-linkage, tax avoidance, tax evasion - it could be any one of a thousand reasons. But look, it doesn't really matter does it?" continued Bernice. "I mean we're just the hired hands; everything that comes down to us - deadlines, budgetary constraints - are arbitrary in some sense. Part of the fun is beating the system - the structure - on its own terms."
"Yes, but those deadlines and budgetary constraints must at least be feasible. Three months isn't."
"I've thought it through today, and it can be done," said Bernice a little defensively.
"Thought it through on the back of an envelope, it sounds like," said Kate unimpressed.
"Kate - " Bernice had hoped that Kate would be supportive, but now felt the impossibility of the task before her redoubled by this clear-headed thinking and refusal to deny the facts.
"Sorry, I'm just trying to work it through myself. What have you got so far in the way of staff, or launch materials?"
"Everything that I have is in this bar."
Kate looked around with exaggerated desperation. "Bloody hell," she said, "you have got problems." Bernice's spirits rose at this obvious sally.
"Well, that was why I was hoping you might share them."
"Hm," said Kate, thinking deeply. Bernice began to see hope in these ruminations.
"Well, I have to say that I cannot see any reason on earth why I should join this madness. It is certainly going to be absolute hell over the next few months, and we might even fail at the end of it all - good as we are, we are not gods, you know?" Bernice realised this only too well. "You do realise this might well be a case of what we in the trade call hubris - pushing your luck too far and getting thumped as a result?" Both Kate and Bernice were grinning now. "But on the other hand, my diary was pretty empty for the next few months anyway, and as a freelancer I hardly have a lot to lose, have I? So hubris or not, let's give the bloody thing a try."
Bernice just had to hug Kate, who was suitably embarrassed as all the greasy males turned to observe these girlish high jinks.
"We must have another drink to celebrate. Do they have champagne in this place?" she wondered out loud.
"Champagne? In the Dog and Duck? I think you really are crazy."
Bernice pulled herself together: it must be the euphoria of the moment - or perhaps Martin's residual influence. Talking of whom, she remembered her promise to call him.
"So what is it then? The same again, or something a little more risky?" Asked Bernice " - Remember it's on expenses now."
"Right, let's live dangerously, make mine...two Guinnesses - and have a double yourself."
Bernice didn't mind if she did - even if the lugubrious barman eyed her suspiciously when she ordered them, as if such quantities were unbecoming for unaccompanied ladies in his establishment.
After she had carried them back to Kate at the table, she said she had a phone call to make. "Got to check in with your boyfriend, eh?" said Kate with unwonted cheekiness.
"I should be so lucky," said Bernice, " - I'll tell you about it afterwards." Not that there was much to tell about her slow and worryingly painless separation from her long-standing live-in boyfriend Rick. But now she wanted to pass on the good news to Martin.
She found the public phone box just inside the door, a rather disgustingly dirty little space with crushed crisps on the floor and one or two cards offering various 'professional services' stuck around the phone. Ignoring these and other distractions she called Martin. When he answered, she could barely hear him for the extremely loud - and outdated - pop music in the background.
"Sorry, I can't hear you," she said.
"Sorry," Martin said, "I'll turn it down." Which he did. "I just like to relax with a drink and a little progressive rock in the evening, you know, 'Yes' and that kind of thing."
"Yes," she said uncertainly, worried about Martin's failing grammar: how much had he been drinking? And only drinking? She hoped that she was not going to have any nasty surprises working for Martin.
"Anyway, I thought I'd let you know that I've just got myself a production editor - " Martin wanted to shout 'yippee', but decided that it would be unpublisher-like - " and so it looks like you've got an editor."
"Fantastic. Great. Pity you can't join me in a quick glass of champagne - " he toyed momentarily with the idea of inviting her over for a drink, but then remembered the other one, Kate, there, and was unsure what protocol demanded, so decided to let it drop. Besides, something else had come into his mind.
"Er, one thing we forgot to mention - partly because things were up in the air - was starting dates. I suppose you are on a pretty horrendous notice period as editor...." Martin, realising to his horror that this might mess everything up.
"Well, funny you should mention that. I checked today in my files when I got back to work. Curiously enough - and rather ironically for a company that publishes magazines advising companies about employment matters - it seems that my notice period has never been changed from when I first joined the company. It's still one week. So I think that I'll be able to join you next week," she said rather pleased with herself.
"Great. Well, I really think we are on the way, Bernice."
"Yes, Martin" - he just loved it when she said his name - "I really think we are." God knows where we will end up though, she thought. "Bye, then, enjoy the champagne and see you next Tuesday unless you hear to the contrary. Oh, by the way, can we please get a multiple ad in The Guardian next week for the editorial staff? Do you want me to draft one?"
"No, that's OK, thanks," he said, he would do that - he preferred to retain control over such things. Just as he would start the advertising, marketing and production wheels moving. Yup, he thought pondering these matters as he turned up his music again and broke open another of the many bottles of champagne he kept in his fridge - 'a case just in case' as he put - this is what being a publisher is all about. He raised his glass in the faint glow cast by the Lava Lamp he had kept from his university days.
"A toast. To -"
And then wondered out loud to himself: "Hey, what are we going to call this bloody title? "Hm, executive decision required, I think: business title, what can we call a business title that's memorable, short, snappy." He paused for barely a second: "Got it: The Business. Perfect. Yeah: so, to The Business, and to all who sail in her - particularly to my brilliant, bold and beautiful Bernice..."
He was mildly drunk now, and not just on champagne.
