"Yes!" cried Bernice as she came off the phone one afternoon. Martin confirmed the rumours that James had heard. It was official: New Business had been closed.
"But I don't understand," said Chris, blissfully unaware how Dave's departure had probably been his salvation. "It was massive - surely they were making pots. The second issue was even bigger than the first." It was, but it was also not better than the first in terms of its spirit, thought Bernice. It lacked that indefinable something that made a magazine into something more, something that entered its readers' lives and became part of them, a companion, a friend almost. New Business was big and impressive but at its heart was a void.
"Well, appearances are often deceptive in publishing. The more pages you have, the more it costs to produce, and the more you have to earn in advertising and newstrade sales to pay for it. Evidently the numbers weren't working out." Suddenly she thought back to a similar conversation she had had with Pete shortly before he left. Everything they said, partly defensively, had been true after all, it seemed. Morgan-Banacek had come in hard, analysed, decided it wasn't working and were now pulling out. Poor Pete, she thought.
The editorial department decided to go down to the Dog and Duck to toast their victory. But first, Martin arrived, bearing the usual champagne. Things are obviously not so tough, Bernice thought ruefully.
"Congratulations to you all," he said expansively. He was mightily pleased. The cuts he was being forced to make would have threatened the existence of The Business seriously had New Business chosen to slug it out. Its sudden disappearance made life a lot easier. He was also glad that the team had something to celebrate, to take their mind off Dave's departure a couple of weeks ago. Dammit, he thought, let's really give them something to cheer about.
"Oh, by the way, Bernice, if you want to take your team out tonight, I can recommend a really good Mexican restaurant in town - it would be on me," he said, revelling in this largesse.
"Thanks, Martin, I'm sure would love to, right?" she asked the troops. Right, they said.
The phone rang.
"That'll be the phone," said Chris.
Bernice picked it up. It was Pete. She suddenly felt embarrassed by the obvious sounds of victory in the background.
"Oh, hi Pete, how are you?" Stupid question she thought, too late.
"Well, I can hear you've already had the news. Well done, you deserved to win. We didn't have what it took in the end. Look, I'm sorry to disturb you now in the middle of...this, but look, I wonder whether we could meet up tonight. I need to have a chat with you."
Damn, she thought, not tonight: she was hoping that after the meal she could sort things out with Chris - he was still rather subdued in the office.
"Yeah, sure," she said, conscious that he needed some consolation after this blow. "How about sixish?" She could still get away in time to join the others, then.
"Do you mind if we make it a bit later, please? I've got some things to, er, tidy up here. And then there's the journey down. Is eight OK - if it's not, don't worry, we'll, I mean, some other time," he said sadly.
"No, eight's fine, Dog and Duck?" she said mentally gritting her teeth. Damn, damn and double damn.
After they had finished the champagne, Martin asked Bernice to come into his office.
"Great news, eh?" he said.
"Certainly is," she said, wondering where this was leading.
"Given that the main raison d'être for them has now disappeared, perhaps we could drop the supplements, yes?" he said.
"But Yasmeen - " began Bernice. They had been her pride and joy, and to take them away from her now like this was bound to stir things up. The last thing Bernice needed was Yasmeen going off the boil. "She has put her heart and soul into these, we can't just kill them off, Martin," she said, knowing full well what his reply would be.
"I know, it's very regrettable, but it's a luxury we can't afford. I'm sure," he began, "that you'd agree that it's better to make savings here than elsewhere...?"
"Is that a threat?" she asked angrily.
"No, not at all, just a reflection of reality. I'm under constantly increasing pressure to cut costs. How I do so is up to me" - great freedom, he thought - "but I need your help in this."
It was no use, she thought, things are going to pot here. And she understood why Mr Slide suddenly had to cope with a spate of dead aunts.
She came out of his office depressed, her initial exhilaration gone. Why is it, she wondered, that every silver lining has to have a cloud?
She went back to the office and asked Yasmeen to go with her to the coffee lounge. She explained the situation, and that they would have to drop the supplements.
"But you can't!" cried Yasmeen, more angry than Bernice had ever seen her. "They're mine. I've worked my guts out for them - weekends, evenings - and now you just want to kill them. It's not right, it's not fair."
"I know, it's not fair. But I have no choice," she sounded just like Martin, and realised that they were both just part of a huge chain of command that in fact was simply a conduit for passing down decisions from someone, somewhere who never had to live the reality of those decisions. It was what someone had once defined as pornocracy: power without responsibility.
She tried to console Yasmeen by offering her the chance to put together the flatplan, the arrangement of the book itself, as well as the editorial for the next issue, due out on July 14. These were real concessions, but Yasmeen was not in the mood to be conciliated. Great, thought Bernice as they went back in silence to the office. Now I have two sulking children on my hands. It's really a privilege to work with professionals.
The office finished off odd bits of work - fortunately it was the end of the copy cycle, so there was no more to write for this issue, and they were not due to start the next issue until the following week - and then made their way across to the Dog and Duck. As they did so, they met Tiny Tim.
"Oh, Bernice, great news," he said, smiling his small, perfectly polished little smile. "You may be interested to know," he continued conspiratorially, "that the reason they closed New Business was that it didn't come up to snuff: as usual, Morgan-Banacek did some heavy research around the first two issues - in-store plus random telephone stuff, fairly reliable. And to their horror they found that not only did The Business beat New Business hollow, but even Business Monthly was ahead in terms of number of readers - but not ahead of us..." he added, deepening his smile and its conspiratorial tinge.
"But how do you know all this?" asked Bernice, delighted at the news: were they really already ahead of Business Monthly...?
"Oh, let's say a little bird told me...toodle-pip," he said as he moved his graceful little frame into one of the lifts.
As they left the building they passed Mr Slide, wearing a black tie again.
"Another 'funeral', James?" Bernice asked.
"Fraid so," he answered "another aunt."
"Is there an epidemic or something?" she asked, surprising the others by her apparent callousness.
"Could be," he replied unperturbed. "There's certainly a few more teetering on the brink. And how are your aunts?" he asked.
"I'm increasingly worried by their state of health," she said.
"Good, you should be," was his closing remark as they parted. The others were mystified, but felt that it was tactless to probe anything relating to deaths.
The mood was a strange one when they got to the pub. Bernice was depressed despite Tim's revelations, Yasmeen and Chris silent and moody, Janice, Kate, Terence and Wobs quite high, and George, well, just George. Was victory always so hollow?
"Penny for your thoughts, George," said Janice once they had got they drinks.
"I was just thinking about poor Dave," he said, "how it's sad that he's not here to share this celebration. And that it was a pity he left as he did, after all his troubles."
"What troubles?" asked Bernice, woken up by this new information.
"Oh, I thought you knew," he said.
"No, I know nothing," she said. "What?"
"Well, it happened a couple of years back," George began, "I was working on The Retired Gardener. Dave was working in the office next door. I won't say that we really knew each other, but we said 'hello' in the corridor. Certainly when the terrible accident happened I could see how he went to pieces. Tragic, really."
"What accident?" asked Kate.
"Well, I don't know how to put this," George went on, obviously finding it difficult to start. "Dave had, no, Dave was engaged at one point with this charming woman - she was his editor. But it didn't work out - stresses and strains, that sort of thing. So they split up, but obviously were working together still, which made it hard.
And then one evening Dave was giving her a lift home in his car - "
"But Dave doesn't drive," said Bernice.
"No, not after... not now, no," said George. "Anyway, so one evening he gave her a lift home - they both lived in Brighton. They were driving along the seafront - it was winter, I think, and it was quite rough weather. There was this freak wave that came over the seafront wall, just as Dave was driving by. And then what happened is not entirely clear. He seems to have lost control of the car, or it was swept away by the sea, I don't know. Anyhow, the car crashed into a bollard, and the poor girl was fatally injured. She died later in hospital. Dave was badly shaken, of course, but otherwise unhurt. Except inside, of course. He never got over it.
His work went to pieces - he was such a good journalist before the accident - he started drinking, turning up late at the office. It was terrible. And now all this. It just doesn't seem fair, does it?" concluded George, quite upset again as he thought of all Dave had suffered.
"If only I'd known," said Bernice, wondering why there was nothing in his personnel file about it. But she was not sure what difference it would have made. His work would still have been unacceptable, and presumably he would still have got into a brawl at the press conference - and she wondered again exactly what had happened. Dave would say nothing, and when she rang Gervase to add her own apologies all he would say was that they were talking about exclusives when Mowley had 'gone bloody berserk' as he put it. So perhaps it was related to that dratted story, she thought, whatever it was - she would probably never know now.
After talking in a desultory way after these revelations, they decided that it was time to be moving up to town. Bernice explained that she had to see Pete, and that she hoped to join them later, and that they should go on without her. The others said goodbye and sent their best wishes to Pete.
He turned up half an hour later, mercifully halting Bernice's increasingly dark thoughts. At least her situation was better than his, she thought when she saw him enter the pub. He looked so tired and beaten. As he threaded his way through the usual raucous, indifferent crowd, his forlorn figure suggested to Bernice nothing so much as some bedraggled mongrel creeping into a room to obtain shelter from the storm outside.
"Pete, what can I get you - the usual?" - the usual was orange juice.
"Oh anything, I don't mind," he answered listlessly. His eyes seemed terribly vacant, as if he were staring at something beyond her and the pub.
She returned with his drink, and he said:
"Look, I won't beat about the bush. They're getting rid of us all - well, apart from the Yanks they brought in - they're just going back, joining some other so-called launch. I've got nothing - I mean just the minimum legal redundancy. They're bastards, they're total bastards," he said almost whimpering. God, this is going to be painful, she thought with a certain self-pity. She did not need this.
"I just wanted to ask - I know it's not reasonable - but if there was any possibility of coming back - I mean, I don't expect to take my old job, though I notice that you haven't filled it yet - but anything...I'm really desperate Bernice. I don't know what to do. If there's anything Martin wants to know about Mor-Ban - " he offered, using the internal name of the company.
It was pitiful to watch him, to see his desperation, his abject fear of what lay before him: a wife, still unwell, and three children to support. She wished so much she could do something for him.
"Pete, I'd love to have you back, but things have got tough for us too. You heard Dave, er, left? So we're two down now, and that's not my choice, but something that has been forced on me. I just know that Martin wouldn't let me take someone else on. I'm sorry."
He hung his head as if she had been his last hope, and now he was literally hopeless.
"But listen, I've had an idea," she said - a crazy one that had just come to her, and probably not one that she should act on, but she had to help the poor man.
"We've been doing some research recently" - well, last Christmas, actually, but that was a detail - "into The Business, and it turns out that the things that readers like most are those with a human angle, while the more dry stuff they tend not to read. So," she continued, wondering whether this was a good idea or not, "what I thought we could do was to have some kind of office saga - you know, a serialised novel about life in the office. In many ways it's just the logical extension of everything we've been doing - a kind of practical demonstration of the theory. I was wondering whether you'd be interested in writing it for us?"
"Me??" said Pete, looking at her with a strange stare. "I'm a journalist, not some damn novelist."
"But I thought you were writing this novel about - " said Bernice, shocked by the strength of his reaction.
"Oh that," he said desperately, "that was a dream I gave up on years ago. You try planning and writing a novel when you're working and you've got kids and things to do around the house..."
She didn't know what to say.
"Well, I might be able to find some freelance stuff," she said uncertainly.
"Freelance? Freelance? You expect me to support my family on the odd article here and there? Listen, I need a proper job, a salary..."
She was frightened by the sheer desperation in his voice. She hoped that it was just a product of his initial and justified shock following the closure. Perhaps he would be more amenable to her suggestions next week.
"Look, Pete," she said, "I can see that you're exhausted. Go home to your wife, your family, just rest. Take the weekend easy - forget about all this - do some DIY, just take your mind off things."
He nodded weakly.
"Thanks, Bernice," he said finally. "Thanks for your help. I know you'd help if you could, but I had to ask." He got up. He was very pale.
"Are you OK? Do you want me to see you home?" she asked. It was a stupid question.
"No - no, it's OK, really, I'm all right now, I can see things more clearly," he said in conclusion. "Thanks, Bernice, thanks for everything...." And with that he made his way through the by now crowded bar.
God, thought Bernice, what a mess. If only she could do something. Her sense of impotence, of failure even, began to grow. The prospect of a jolly evening with the boys and girls effectively celebrating Pete's downfall filled her with nausea. She decided to go home and drink herself into oblivion. Perhaps everything would be different next week for her too.
Meanwhile, helped by a generous supply of Margaritas, the others had more or less forgotten about Bernice, and certainly about Pete. They were just eating the passable Mexican food and enjoying themselves and the moment. Kate - not drinking the Margaritas - announced quite early that she was leaving - she was getting tired in the evenings. George, ever the gentleman, immediately offered to see her to the station. She thanked him and said that really wasn't necessary, but he insisted. Terence said that he was going too, so George could stay if he wanted, but the latter decided he had to be going anyway, so all three of them left together.
The other four drank more Margaritas, and ate more Mexican food, until finally they too decided it was time to go. They hailed a couple of taxis: Wobs and Janice took one, and Chris and Yasmeen took the other.
When the second taxi got to Yasmeen's bedsit, Yasmeen got out and turned to say goodbye to Chris. But instead of doing so, on the spur of the moment, and aided by the numerous Margaritas, she said: "Would you like to come up for a coffee - we can call another cab later."
"Why not?" said Chris, feeling better than he had for months. Why not indeed? No harm in that. But as they ascended the stairs to Yasmeen's room, she turned and smiled at him, a particularly warm, generous, inviting smile that shone out in the half-lit stairway. Hello, thought Chris, suddenly feeling strangely at home, she's not...trying...to..., is she? And instantly realised that she was. As they entered her room, he became rather too aware of her young and ample body, its sinuous curves, its softness.
Then, to his credit, he thought: but I mustn't - and shortly afterwards, did.
