LITMIR.BIZ

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you see?’

      ‘Ha ha. Is this a good time?’

      ‘Time …’ mused Lynne. ‘What a funny question. All times are exactly the same.’

      She stared out of the window. Today she was wearing six layers of different colours of brown. They floated all over her chair. One layer looked like it might be made out of a piece of sacking.

      ‘Er, yes they are,’ averred Arthur. ‘Except you know, they’re not. When you’re doing something or, you know, waiting for black eyes to heal.’

      ‘Is that what those are? I thought you were turning into a panda. I saw that happen once …’

      Arthur threw up his hands in defeat. ‘Fine, I’ll come back later.’

      ‘No, no, come in.’

      Arthur mooched in and slouched onto the sofa. There was an expectant silence.

      ‘Well?’ said Lynne.

      ‘I don’t know … Can you give me some therapy or something?’

      ‘What, just like that?’

      Arthur shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

      ‘Jolly good,’ said Lynne. ‘Right. You get confused between umbrellas and your penis.’

      ‘I do not!’

      They both looked out of Lynne’s windows, where it was raining.

      ‘Just as well,’ said Arthur.

      ‘Quite,’ said Lynne. ‘Well, you get that kind of thing with off the peg therapy.’

      Arthur sighed. Lynne peered over her spectacles.

      ‘Do you want to talk about it or do you want me to psychically guess that Ross took a swing at you and you’ve split up with your girlfriend?’

      ‘That’s creepy,’ said Arthur. ‘Well, what do you recommend, seeing as I’m supposed to be starting the most difficult job of my career this morning and I look like George Dubya eating a pretzel.’

      ‘Talk to your girlfriend,’ said Lynne. ‘That’s probably better than talking to me.’

      ‘What! That’s the most useless advice I’ve ever heard! You’re the worst therapist ever!’

      ‘What do you want me to say? Well done for betraying your girlfriend?’

      ‘I didn’t betray her. She bloody said that too. It’s not like I did anything.’

      But his face gave him away.

      ‘Well, exactly. You should have done something. You should have split up with her years ago.’

      ‘Okay, well, thank you Germaine Greer but I happen to completely disagree. All she ever had to do was ask, then she did ask and I told her.’

      Lynne shook her head. ‘You’re going to regret that.’

      ‘What? I thought I could say anything in here!’

      ‘Not what you said. What you did.’

      ‘Yes, I’m sure I will regret it, if I lose the sight in one eye.’

      They were quiet. Arthur was seething. This was a hard time for him, goddammit. Didn’t he deserve a bit of sympathy?

      ‘You’ll be late,’ said Lynne.

      The huge cubicle room was not just quiet, it was completely, utterly silent. It was hard to believe there was anyone in there at all. From the second Arthur stepped through the door, heads disappeared into files, up close against computer screens, probably even in some cases straight under the desks, using the ‘if he can’t see me he can’t fire me’ technique. Arthur went forward gingerly.

      ‘Hello!’ he said as usual to the grumpy temp at the front of the office. But instead of grinning and giving him some cheeky answer, she looked up, startled.

      ‘Er, hello Mr Pendleton.’

      He squinted at her. ‘Um …’ Of course he still couldn’t remember her name. ‘You don’t have to call me Mr Pendleton.’

      She looked at him. ‘What, do you want me to go back to calling you “Not Too Much of a Wanker”?’

      From somewhere he could be sure he heard a very quiet giggle.

      ‘No, I stay away from my Native American name when I’m working,’ he said, heading past her.

      ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I just didn’t recognize you with your sunglasses on.’

      ‘I’m not wearing … oh, forget it.’

      He was conscious of her eyes on him as he started to make his way through the maze. And everyone else’s, for that matter. As he was nearly at his desk, he realized with a cold shock of horror that of course this wouldn’t be his desk any more – he’d be expected to go to Ross’s old office. But he was already too far along in the opposite direction. Oh crap. He felt his face go puce and the back of his collar felt damp. He decided to try and pretend that he was just on his way to pick up a few things and actually said, ‘Huh, just going to pick up a few things,’ tentatively out loud as he was going along, feeling more and more that he should just carry a sign saying ‘Dickhead! Hate me forever!’

      Of course, as usual, the smell hit him first. No. Of all the cruel tricks to play on him. Sandwiches was sitting lugubriously in his chair – or rather, what had been his chair – stinking the place out and looking up at him with a mildly quizzical air. He was wearing one of Arthur’s ties. Sven was nowhere to be seen.

      ‘Sven!’ Arthur yelled, breaking the silence in the room.

      The fat blond head raised itself incrementally over the partition, like a Wot! cartoon. ‘Oh … Hi, Arthur!’ he said, with elaborate unconcern.

      ‘Sven, you know how we had that talk the other day about who was the boss?’

      Sven nodded.

      ‘And I couldn’t ask you to remove your dog?’

      ‘Uh huh.’

      ‘Remove the fucking dog.’

      Cathy put her head round the cubicle. ‘Arthur … Mr Pendleton … Hello!’

      ‘Hi, Cathy. You don’t need to call me Mr anything.’

      Cathy came round the side of the partition. ‘Um … Arthur …’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘Um, it was just … Well, I spoke to the girls in the typing pool and … well, we just wondered if there was any way we could keep Sandwiches. You know, for therapeutic value.’

      ‘What? What’s therapeutic about a methane machine who eats staplers?’

      Sandwiches obligingly spat out the stapler he’d been attempting to maul. A long trail of drool still connected him to it, and he regarded it closely.

      ‘We thought,’ Cathy shrugged, ‘seeing as you’ll have a new office, you won’t be near enough to smell him.’

      Arthur shook his head. ‘You’re telling me you actually want that thing in here?’

      Sven regarded the scene carefully.

      Cathy snapped her fingers. Sandwiches took a careful glance at Arthur to make sure he was watching, then shuffled on his stubby legs off the chair and rounded the partition – his bottom disappearing last, like the slinky dog in Toy Story. Arthur stood back so he could see. Sandwiches was fawning up against Cathy’s legs, rubbing his head and giving his best pathetic dog eyes. Cathy leaned down and scratched his head.

      ‘It’s more affection than I get from my husband,’ she said, trying to laugh, although the statement was so obviously true it was painful. She knelt down

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