So while Dan Scowcroft, unaware of the disappointment that awaited him the following week, and his team processed most of her staff, Bernice went to see Martin for her Exit Interview. This was nominally to allow her to give a full and frank account of her feelings about her time at Wright's, but in the present circumstances neither she nor Martin seemed much inclined to go through with these formalities.
When she entered Martin's office for the last time, she noticed that the map of the aquatic Aztec capital city had been removed from the wall. Martin was sitting at his desk, surrounded by computer manuals and printouts. All publishers had been asked to submit revised plans together with a proposed launch and its schedule. Following Dave's advice he was desperately trying to come to grips with project management software as he resuscitated his magazine for actuaries. Bernice also noticed a small box next to his micro with a number of flashing lights on it.
In his hand Martin held a champagne glass full of a fizzing liquid. Bernice's mouth dropped open at this apparent callousness: how could he celebrate at a time like this? Martin saw her look of horror and said with a certain bleak humour: "seltzer."
"Was that your colleague from next door that I saw earlier today, running nearly naked through - " Bernice began.
"Probably," interrupted Martin, not wanting to waste time discussing such peripheral matters. "Listen, Bernice, following our conversation this morning, I've had a word with my new boss" - Bernice wondered what that meant - "and we're able to offer you something else."
"Your 'new' boss?" she asked, ignoring the second part of his sentence.
"Er, yes."
"What's happened to Charles?"
"He, er, has left," said Martin, uncomfortable.
"When?" asked Bernice.
"Lunchtime."
"That's rather sudden, isn't it?"
"Well, a lot of things are happening rather quickly now," he said ruefully.
"But did Charles know when he spoke to us this morning?" she asked.
"He did, yes." Poor bastard, thought Martin, remembering Charles when he had come to say goodbye. He had been a shadow of his former self; he looked smaller, older, as if he had aged in a morning. And he had been railing wildly against the 'bloody masons' - to whom he attributed all his problems. It was not a pretty sight to see someone who had once been so powerful, so calm and assured, an all-powerful father-figure, reduced to this wreck, close to tears, a mere man. It had been a terrible reminder to Martin of his own precarious position.
"I see," said Bernice, appreciating his courage in playing out the role of MD to the bitter end. In his downfall she felt rather more respect for Charles, and understood now why he had stood alone at the bar in the Dog and Duck: he was a pariah. She wished she had known, and had gone up to him to thank him for his bravery that morning.
"You mentioned 'something else'?" she asked finally.
"Yes. You see, there are going to be some big changes around here," he paused to think of his own big changes, "as a result of which the company is looking to create some new publishers. I've recommended that you be one of them, and my new boss has kindly accepted the recommendation." He paused, waiting for her reaction.
"That's very kind of you, Martin, but I can't be a publisher." She had no hesitation.
"Why ever not?" he asked, mildly annoyed after his efforts, but not entirely surprised. And he was really too tired to care much now.
"I...just don't think I'm right for it," she went on. "I think I failed as an editor - no, please, let me finish - I didn't really serve my staff well. And the reason I failed is that I don't really fit in well with the way a big company like Wright's works. I think a publisher probably has to fit in even better, so I would probably been even worse as a publisher than as an editor."
"I think you're being too harsh on yourself," said Martin, but impressed by her integrity nonetheless, and admiring her. "You launched in very difficult circumstances. The worsening economic situation made things even more difficult. You did well, Bernice, believe me."
"What about James? I'm sure he'd love to be a publisher..."
"He certainly would" - he exclaimed, as if he'd had far too many discussions on just this point already - "but first of all James resigned last week, and secondly I didn't really regard him as having the, er, right material." Oh Mr Slide, she thought, so ambitious, and so successful in many ways, but still, in Martin's eyes at least, missing that magic ingredient 'X'.
"Well, I'm sure there are lots of others who would like to be publisher - what about Ron Feltham?" she said jokingly, sure that he was the last person in the world likely to be made publisher.
"Ron," said Martin with some difficulty, "has already been made a publisher in one of our other divisions...."
"What?" She was appalled - or would have been if it had mattered anymore. "What the hell is happening here, Martin?"
"Don't ask me, Bernice, I'm just a pawn," he said sadly.
"And what about you, Martin, what will become of you?"
"I...am being sent to...Panama" - he pronounced the word with difficulty, as if spitting out a pill too bitter to swallow - "...there's a division of Panglom there. We're all being networked - that's what this box is for" - he tapped the small one with the flashing lights - "so we'll all be part of a bigger whole. Or something..."
He didn't seem very enamoured of the idea. Poor Martin, she thought.
Poor me, thought Martin, as his eye caught the Wright's Manager's Diary motto for the day: "A skier who never falls is not going fast enough." Bloody useful that will be in Panama, he noted. And seeing the diary he had a sense of all the days that had passed at Wright's, the sheer number and weight of them. He thought of his first meeting with Bernice, of how in command he had felt, what with his risqué questions - questions that he would never have dared ask her now, so changed was their relationship, so different their respective positions. And he thought even further back, over the last decade at Wright's, when his career had seemed to be a constant rising curve. Now he felt trapped; he had burnt his boats - just as Cortes had done, he remembered with flash of sardonic humour - and was part of the machinery of the company he worked for. A graceful descent from the upper levels of management was not a possibility - Charles had shown that; all he could do was to look upwards and keep on clambering in the hope that he might find a ledge somewhere where he could sit out his days unnoticed and untroubled.
But for the moment he realised with growing concern that he had a more pressing need: his digestive system had still not recovered from Mexico, and despite the seltzer he felt an all-too-familiar urgency building up in his lower body. He needed to get somewhere, soon.
"So you're going to the land of Cortes - well almost," began Bernice during his silence, now feeling far better-disposed towards Martin as she saw that he more than her suffered as a result of his position as a middle manager. She felt that she had been unfair to him over the last year, that perhaps he had always tried to do his best by her and the team, and never acted wilfully or maliciously. Now that it was time to depart she perversely felt that she would like to find out more about him, what he was really like. She began to relax in her chair as if settling in for a long chat about Panama, the new Wright's-Panglom and his career - almost as if it were his Exit Interview.
Martin groaned inwardly, almost sweating with the increasing effort required to avoid a horrible accident. A year ago he would have given a lot for this ease she now felt. But now, it was no good: he would have to get rid of her, and fast.
" - I'm sorry to interrupt, Bernice, I'd really love to discuss this further, but there are one or two very urgent things I must, er do, so if you don't mind perhaps we could call it a day it's been really good working with you and I wish you the very best in you future career and goodbye - " he said, almost pushing her out of the door and breaking into corporatespeak because he was unable to think of his own words at that moment.
He waited as long as he dared to let Bernice pass down the corridor to the lifts, and then shot out of his office towards the gents.
"Damn you, Montezuma," he thought grimacing strangely as he passed an astonished Bernice who was just emerging from his secretary's office after wishing her farewell.
