As Bernice came back to Wright's after the revelations of Dave, she felt as if she were entering an alien world. It was no longer the place where she had spent most of her waking hours for the last year. Or perhaps it was the same place, but she no longer felt part of it.
There were already new security guards, brought in from an outside firm as 'more cost-effective'; the previous security men, like so many others, had been 'let go'. The new ones wore stern, black uniforms, and looked like a cross between the police and priests. They also manned the reception desk - no cheery Brendas, Glendas, Lindas or Ledas any more, though Bernice was too wrapped up in her own thoughts to take in this revolution. What she did notice were people milling everywhere: it felt like one of those great periods of migration in history when whole nations were on the move.
She got in the lift, and as the doors were closing she saw what looked like the publisher who had an office next to Martin's. But now he was completely naked except for some scraps of carpet wrapped around himself. He was being chased by a couple of the security guards. He looked like some sacrificial victim pursued by priests who would presently drag him to the altar for ritual slaughter.
As she approached her office, hers only for a few hours more, she met Mr Slide. He was carrying a box full of the few possessions that were left his office - he had obviously begun his preparations for departure some time ago.
"Hope you found that dead aunt," he said with that slightly cross-eyed look and the faint smile playing across his lips.
"No, not yet," she said. "What about yours - any legacies?" she asked.
"Well, yes," he said, smiling more broadly. "One of them did leave me rather a nice legacy which I shall start enjoying next week."
"You don't waste any time, do you, James?" she said, half in admiration, half in exasperation.
"When you're in a hurry, you can't afford to," he said in explanation.
"But where are you in hurry to get to?" she asked, honestly intrigued by this fascinating but annoying person.
"To the job before the job after," he said. "But I'm sorry that I couldn't warn you in time about all this - I only heard about it very recently. This one had really been kept under wraps," he said, almost impressed that they had managed to keep it from him and his contacts.
"Oh don't worry, James," she replied, "it was probably better this way."
"Anyway," he continued, "it's been a real pleasure working with you. You're a pro, Bernice, so to speak." He stood there, holding his cardboard box.
"You're not expecting a farewell kiss, are you by any chance?" said Bernice.
"Are you?" he countered, unperturbed.
"Goodbye, James," she said, offering him her hand, perhaps hoping to provoke an inelegant movement from him as he juggled with his box or put it on the ground. "Good luck - not that you'll need it."
"Goodbye," he said, shaking her hand with a firm grasp as he effortlessly balanced the box on the upturned palm of the other hand. "If you ever want to set up with me - in business, that is - let me know: we could conquer the world together."
"I don't want to conquer the world," said Bernice as he transferred the box to both hands again. And with that, they parted. She wondered what would eventually become of Mr Slide, where his ambitions would finally lead him. She wondered what would become of her....
She entered the editorial department, which she found empty. Normally everyone would have been there after lunch, but in the current climate she hardly expected things to be normal. Not only was the room empty, but it looked as if the hordes milling around in the reception area had already been in and pillaged everything. All of the personal touches had been ripped off the walls, the desks had been cleared - with a pang Bernice noticed that the battered rag doll on Janice's desk that had been her constant companion during the last year had now gone, a sure sign that it was all over - with drawers left open like wounds. There were a few boxes and bags where her team had put their belongings for collection later that evening. But it was no longer an office, just a room with a few desks and chairs in it.
She quickly packed her own possessions, trying hard not to think of all the things that had happened there in the last twelve months, the good times, the bad times, the excitements and disappointments. But the pull of her memories were too strong for her. In the silent room it was as if she could hear the last lingering echoes of all the laughter and cries that had sounded here. With a stab of pain and fast-burgeoning nostalgia she thought once more of Charles' recent words, his honed managerial sympathy. She felt again the icy clutch of shock she had experienced when reading Pete's last letter, of how the great surge of adrenaline born of their victory over New Business that had swept over her as the office erupted in manic cheers had evaporated that moment.
She thought of that other tremendous high, the launch of her magazine. Of that weekend of madness when they had recreated the first issue in 72 intense hours after the fire at the typesetters. Of the weeks of accelerating activity leading up to the launch, of her staff coming together, melding into a team, of the peculiar rituals called interviews when these strangers were picked out - by her? by Fate? - and became her colleagues, her friends, and more....
And finally she thought back to that day almost exactly a year before when she had visited Wright's for the first time. Only 12 months, and yet how long ago it seemed. When she thought again of her 'chat', her initial doubts turning into enthusiasm, her growing excitement, her underlying driving ambition, her will to succeed, she was taken aback by how alien it all seemed - how unconnected that far-off Bernice Stuart now seemed to her.
As she gazed around the office she saw its anonymous forlorn state as a terrible symbol of her wasted hopes. So, had she achieved so little, was it all written in water? She felt tears beginning to well up in her eyes as she started to luxuriate in her sense of failure. But no, she thought, snapping out of this feeble self-pity: she - they - had achieved something. They had created a magazine, something almost alive, something with a soul, something that had not existed before. They had created it against impossible deadlines, under-resourced and overcoming immense obstacles. They had at moments during the last year lived more intensely than they ever had before, and probably ever would. They had truly done the business, and she realised finally it was in the doing that their deepest joy and glory lay.
And so, having failed not to think about the past, she tried now not to think about the immediate future, and of her imminent encounter with the team, with Yasmeen - and with Chris.
