Bernice survived Christmas somehow, working mostly. She found that she was unable to turn off the nervous energy she had generated in the previous months, and was anyhow glad to have something to fill the void in her life caused by Chris's absence and the fact that she was no longer going in to the office. When she finally went back after dutiful days spent with family, and unsatisfactory ones spent with long-neglected friends, she was surprised to see that Glenda, the receptionist, had gone.
"Glenda?" she said interrogatively.
"No, Linda," the woman said as if Bernice had misheard her name from someone. "Glenda left at Christmas."
"Why?" asked Bernice, still slightly hypnotised by the situation.
"Well, she married - " began Linda.
" - One of the men on security?" Bernice jumped in.
"Oh, but you knew..." Linda continued.
"No," said Bernice as she continued on her way, "but I do now...thanks...see you."
Chris came in soon afterwards - without a broken leg as she had feared, though also without a noticeably better mood. "Hi," was all he said to her, avoiding her glance like a sulking child, depressing Bernice yet further.
Then, once all the other writers were back in the office - both Kate and Terence had taken advantage of the scheduled lull in production to grab some well-deserved holidays over Christmas and the New Year - and the typewriters started clattering, the phones ringing and the coffee boiling, and that familiar general office buzz filled the air again, Bernice found herself caught up in the maelstrom of day-to-day work, succumbing to its addictive power to push other, less ordered parts of existence into the background. Looking around at her team, at her friends and colleagues, Bernice felt that it was as if they had always been there, and always would be: that was business - that was life. But at least the threat of the launch from Morgan-Banacek acted as a new focus for their efforts. Once she had told the office the little she knew she was pleased to see that they took it in their stride, only Dave looking slightly perturbed at the ramifications that immediately began to present themselves to him.
Her previously arranged meeting with Martin, Tim and James that first morning to discuss the upcoming launch of Morgan-Banacek proved more comforting than fruitful. None of them had come up over the Christmas break with any brilliant ideas in the face of this new competition, but equally none of them seemed unduly awed by the prospect, despite the huge resources they could expect to be put behind the project. In part this was because as seasoned professionals they knew that it took more than just money to make a great magazine - though money always helped.
The appearance of a new entrant touched her personally rather sooner than she had expected. Later that first week of the New Year she received a call from Hayley on the switchboard.
"Bur-niss, Hay-ley, he-ur," she said, her sing-song voice fracturing words and grouping them into strange clusters in a way that made her English sound like some ancient bardic tongue.
"I've-got this fun-ny wo-man he-ur - " What? thought Bernice, a comedian? " - I-think she's-called Sub-m'rine Ship-per, or sum-fing...shall-I ask-her what-she wants?" she offered helpfully.
" - No, no, that's OK," said Bernice hurriedly, terrified at the thought of what bizarre conversation might result, and worried at the likely prospect of the caller giving up in despair. "Just put her through, thank you Hayley." She almost said 'Hay-ley' as if the name were only correct with its back suitably broken. There was a click, a pause, and then from the silence emerged a voice.
"I'd like to speak to Bernice Stuart, Editor of Ze Business," said an unknown female with a strong German accent.
"Speaking," said Bernice, not really thinking about who it might be.
"Aaah, Miss Stuart," continued the voice - that's Ms to you, commented Bernice to herself - "my name iss Sabine Schimpfer. I vork for the international executif search company Radical Searches - you may haf heard of us." Nope, thought Bernice, still not really taking in what the woman was saying, imagining it might be some press invite or yet another PR call checking that some earth-shattering press release about training videos had arrived and would immediately be allocated the front page. "Ve vere vondering vhether you vould be interested in meeting up for a - wie sagt man? - ja, a chat."
My god, thought Bernice, suddenly grasping the situation, I'm being headhunted. Although she was shocked, in a way, that somebody had dared to insinuate that she might want to abandon The Business quite so shamelessly, she was of course also deeply flattered. Headhunting was a sign of having made your mark in the outside world, of having reached a certain prominence such that these predatory international organisations would, in their cursory sweeps for clients, come across your name, and ask you to come in for a chat. Martin's approach a few months back didn't really count as true headhunting in her book, if only because he was a publisher able to offer her a job on the spot, and not a professional scalper who was just conducting a initial trawl.
Although the woman was unwilling to discuss the matter further over the telephone, it was almost certain that they were working for Morgan-Banacek. And so Bernice justified to herself her acceptance of the invitation to have a 'vorking breakfast' up in London the next week as an information gathering exercise. It would also be useful, the more Machiavellian part of her thought, as a reminder to Martin, whom she told before going, that while not threatening or anything she should not be taken for granted.
Although Martin was taken aback and deeply worried by this turn of events, fully aware that Morgan-Banacek were able and quite likely to offer a far larger salary than he could, he played it very cool. Knowing that he could neither threaten Bernice nor afford to bid against the rival, he simply said that she would have to make up her mind on the company, but that their employment policies were well-known not to be the most liberal. What he meant - and what Bernice knew from preliminary research - was that Morgan-Banacek hired and fired as readily as most companies changed their washroom linen, and with as little compunction. Working for them was a high-gain but also a high-risk venture.
So it was with very mixed feelings that Bernice went up to Winston's, one of the smaller London luxury hotels which, like Martin, being unable to compete with the excesses of its larger rivals, didn't try; instead it promoted itself as a home from home, and the staff were expected to recognise you and greet you by name after they had served you even once. Needless to say, such an almost oppressively friendly approach appealed to foreigners enormously, who allowed themselves to be deluded that this was how real Britons acted at home, and that they were simply guests of a rather well-off host. Nothing of course could have been further from the truth, but Winston's thrived on this fiction nonetheless.
The dining room, called for similarly misguided reasons the Refectory, was a kind of cross between a cream teashop and a library. There were books everywhere, mostly with titles and authors that made you wonder whether large sections of the British publishing industry regularly lost its marbles, producing works that clearly no one ever read, and which turned up as remainders in second-hand bookshops with a depressing regularity. In the middle of the room surrounded by solid tables and chintzy chairs was a fountain - that indispensable accoutrement of every English dining room.
Going up on the Underground Bernice had been concerned that in such a public space she would have difficulty finding her two headhunters - the woman was bringing a colleague - but she needn't have worried. When she was shown to the Refectory by a bellhop dressed in white tie and tails - who seemed desperate to know her name, as if he wanted to ask her out afterwards - she spotted the pair immediately.
Sabine, who was in her early 40s, was dressed in a black pin-stripe trouser suit, had her ash-blonde hair swept back, and was smoking a cigarette using a holder pinched between thumb and forefinger of her left hand, which was covered in a shining black leather glove. Her right hand wore none, and lay in her lap. Her companion, who rose when she approached and introduced himself as Pierre Duhamel, was large, in his 50s, and wore his grey hair as a crewcut, so that he looked liked an ageing American pretending to be a teenager. The other striking thing about him was his shirt, which was an indescribable colour of the kind worn only by Frenchmen who regard their nationality as a cast-iron guarantee that anything they wear will be stylish, despite the clear evidence to the contrary.
"Berrrenice," he said rather familiarly as she sat down, but made it sound like the start of a quotation from the French play of the same name. "We are so glad you could come for zis little let us say tête-à-tête today," he said, pressing the fingertips of his hands together and looking at the ceiling as if he had stuck a prepared speech up there. Sabine, meanwhile, said nothing, pulling occasionally on her cigarette and trying to give the impression that she was not Pierre's junior, which she was, but was an equal letting her colleague speak for them both.
"We are here, today, to speak off an opportunité, a grreat opportunité I sink I may grrant myself the liberté, a grreat opportunité, for let us say ze rright person. We rrepresent a company - a larrrrge company - let us call it Company Eeeks" - by which Bernice guessed he meant X - "and this company Eeeks is desirous to launch a majeur business journal, no not journal, magazine in this country. And so it 'as asked us to find an Editeur, and we 'ave looked around and we 'ave seen your work, and your Ze Business is rreally verry good, you know, verry good. And so we were wanting to 'ave zis little...talk, just a talk, nosing more, to find out whezer you are interrested in talking some more." He let what he probably thought was a quizzical smile play across his features, though Bernice found it rather ridiculous.
"Well, M. Duhamel," she began, "let's put our cards on the table" - his brow furrowed - "I mean let's not beat about the bush, that is, to speak plainly" - his brow relaxed - "this company X" - she almost said Eeeks - "is, if I'm not much mistaken, Morgan-Banacek" - Sabine blew a long, long stream of smoke high above her, as if she were a small train about to leave a station - "and the magazine we are talking about is New Business, is it not?" No point messing around, she thought.
"Ah, Mademoiselle," said Pierre with chuckle, "you are so naughty. I cannot, cannot speak of details at zis hour. But let us suppose, yes, let us say zat your assumptions are corrrect - I do not say zat zey are, I do not say zat zey are not - and let us talk about zese sings."
"OK," said Bernice, "let us talk about these things. I am of course deeply flattered to have been asked to come along today" - steady on, she thought, not that flattered - "but you must understand I have a problem. How would it look for me to leave - to abandon - my current post and join a rival title such as New Business? It would be treachery of the highest degree" - she found her speech becoming more and more florid, as if infected by the Frenchman's example - "my name would be worthless, my position untenable and my new post would be a joke."
"I understand," said Pierre, "but let me assure you zat our client's proposal is not in any way a rrival to Ze Business. In fact, zey see it as complementary. If you were working on zis New, zis new title, zere would be no conflict," he assured her.
"But by your own admission it is a business title: I do not see how it could not be in competition."
"Let us just say zat our client is confident zat ze rright person for zis job will make it so different zat zere will be no competition, none at all." It seemed a threat as much as a statement.
"OK, leaving that aside for the moment, can you tell me a little more about the job?" Bernice thought she might try fishing while she was here.
"Perhaps you could tell us what you would expect ze job to be, or perhaps you could describe first your current job as Editeur?" countered Pierre, using the old question against question technique. Bernice wondered whether they were in fact now getting to the nub of the issue, the reason why she was here: did they just want to pump her for information, as she hoped she might do? If so, she was going to have to disappoint them.
"I think that rather than do that it would be better if I let this matter rest now. It is probably clear to you that I am quite happy in my current post, and that I have no real intention to leave it. Once again, thank you for the invitation to talk, but I don't really think there is much more to say."
"Ah well," said Pierre with that kind of ineffable regret only the French can summon up, "zat is a pity, a grrreat pity. But if it must be, it must be. We sank you for your visit, your time, and we wish you well in ze future" - because you are going to need it once Morgan-Banacek gets here was his unspoken implication.
"Yes, well, good luck with your radical executive search," answered Bernice, "I shall be most intrigued to learn who meets your criteria" - and shall have enormous pleasure in taking their trousers down, she thought with uncharacteristic crudeness. It was a phrase that Mr Slide had used once or twice: was she really so influenced by him?
She shook hands with Pierre, who seemed to bow very slightly, and with Sabine who barely deigned to give her hand. As she left the suffocatingly friendly hotel with the bellhop running after her to enquire if there was anything else he could do - to what lengths would he go? she wondered - Bernice pondered the question of what the leather glove concealed. An iron fist, she rather suspected.
During Bernice's meeting in town, Chris too was experiencing head-hunting, though of a rather different kind. He had gone along the corridor from the editorial office to do some photocopying - since that terrible weekend after the fire he dutifully kept copies of everything that he wrote. The photocopier was kept in a small dark room, lit only by a flickering fluorescent strip lamp overhead. Constant use of the equipment made the room hot and stuffy with a strange smell that burnt the back of the throat. Chris disliked going in there, and tended to rush through any jobs he had as quickly as possible.
When he arrived he was slightly annoyed to find the machine already in use. He was about to leave when he noticed that the person using the photocopier was Becky, aka the Ceiling Woman. They had exchanged the odd glance in the corridor and on the rare occasion when one of them found themselves in the other's office - usually Becky in editorial, since Chris was rather standoffish to ads in general and Mr Slide in particular.
"Hi," Becky said with her deep, rather breathy voice. "Sorry, if I'm in the way. I'm nearly there," she added, smiling a rather intense smile.
"Please," said Chris, feeling himself strangely held by that glance. He was suddenly aware of the heat of the room, of the closeness of their bodies. And what a body she had: she was tall, with a classic hour-glass body he found deeply attractive. Chris felt himself both drawn to and slightly threatened by this self-confident figure that stood so calmly by him. He liked women with a certain presence - which was partly why he found Bernice so appealing. But Becky was something else: her self-assurance was almost too great, her obvious capacity to look after herself menacing almost. The thought of Becky and Fivepence together flashed through his mind, the image fascinating him by its sheer awfulness.
"Ever used one of these?" she said, pointing at the photocopier.
Was she making fun of him? he wondered, or just a bit simple? From that steady, hard look in her eyes and the way she was holding her body, her firm bust pushed towards him, she certainly didn't seem so simple. He decided to play it coolly. "Er, yes, once or twice," he said, smiling slightly uncertainly. Perhaps she was mad? The room suddenly felt much too small.
"OK, then," Becky went on, "I'll go first then." And before Chris could say or do anything she had hiked up her tight-fitting skirt, pulled down her knickers and sat on the glass of the photocopier unit. As Chris looked on with disbelief, she calmly pressed the copy button, her gaze fixed on him. A garish green light swept across the room, casting devilish shadows. Becky leapt off the machine and re-arranged her clothes deftly as a wide-eyed Chris watched the resulting image roll slowly out of the machine. As his brain slowly returned to something approaching a normal state he became dimly aware of her last words' implication: "First?!?" he thought, and realised that experienced as was, he was clearly completely out of his depth here.
Like a startled rabbit he was suddenly moving rapidly towards the door, muttering something about having to go to a 'meeting with the boss' - although what actually came out was a 'beating with the moss.'
Quite unperturbed and unsurprised - 'bloody journalists' was all she said - Becky gathered up her photocopies along with the new self-portrait. One more for the collection, she thought. As she left the photocopier room she wondered idly whether it was nice to be beaten with moss.
