The Beard (3 page)

Tom balked and grunted in some form of protest.

“Shower, now!” was the sinewy response. “Or do you want me to go and get a glass of wine?”

Terrified by the prospect, Tom turned around and, dragging his feet along the painted wooden floor, disappeared behind the bathroom door. Amy stood listening, until she heard the shower come on. As soon as it had, she knew that she was in for a pleasant day of getting her own way. It was her favourite type of day.

“You look like shit,” Derek said as he sidled up to Tom’s desk. “Heavy one, was it? How much snatch did you ensnare, eh? Bet you were at it all weekend, weren’t ya?”

Derek wasn’t a man you could easily warm to. Having recently been divorced, his opinion of women fluctuated between two things: they were either bitches or whores. (Unless he was feeling particularly dark, in which case they were all bitch-whores.) He was of a mind that every other man on the planet thought just like him – and if they didn’t, they would one day. They’d soon turn to his way of thinking once they’d been done over by some “gold-digger/whore/bitch/fake”, etc. He would, therefore, snort with derision at anyone who claimed that they were happily married or, God forbid, in a monogamous relationship. For that matter, he’d deride anyone who simply said they were happy.

Despite Tom having explained, at length, that he had a girlfriend called Amy, Derek would nod at him, smile and say, “That’s right, son, keep your cards close to your chest.” Usually, it would be followed by, “Because you can be sure that she’s drinking some other sap dry – from his wallet and his pants.”

The bitterness of Derek’s split was often laid bare for all to see. While it had been a loveless marriage,
he was evidently missing it now that it was over. Mercifully, all the people who worked for him were men. This ensured that he didn’t isolate or terrorise anyone. It had often been discussed what the workplace would be like if, after his divorce, he’d managed any women.

For Tom, one of the immediate and distinct downsides to his work was the fact that his desk was adjacent to Derek’s office door. As such, whenever Derek wanted to share a particularly filthy joke or a piece of degrading and graphic, internet-streamed Eastern European porn, it was Tom he called in. “Look at her – you can see she loves that,” he would say as Tom scrunched his face in disgust at the lurid act on display.

Derek’s bitterness emanated from the fact that his wife had taken all his money and repeatedly slept with men behind his back. In fairness, he’d been an odious man immediately prior to the split, so she was widely accepted to be within her rights. Having decided that his single status was, in fact, no fault of his own, but that he’d been betrayed, Derek proceeded to “live like a king”. From what everyone could tell, this involved getting fat, drinking too much and frequenting seedy bars late at night. Invariably, this was to court the company of the very sex he claimed to despise. Prior to the marital turbulence, he’d been relatively genial and a damn sight thinner.

Sadly, however, his new world vision revolved around the belief that women should know their place. Often, and mostly in public, he’d declare that this was “at the end of a bloke’s cock”. The endless ranting of a bitter, deranged, middle-aged singleton usually concluded with muscular shoulder nudges or a homophobic comment. This would inevitably end up with him accusing his employees of being closet gays because they weren’t drinking as fast as he was. The fact that no one in the bar was keeping apace with him seemingly slipped his attention. As any woman would be “lucky” to have him in her life, he saw no reason to do anything about his appearance. This was something that drew ire in the summer months, as his body odour was almost a breach of health-and-safety regulations. His noxious musk was, as he repeatedly claimed, “the scent of a man”. This was yet another of his weapons to “score a direct hit on the minge”.

Although he’d mellowed with the passing of time, his on-going views were sufficiently rooted in the past to require carbon dating. They also made the office a fairly unsavoury place to work.

As the economy
wasn’t exactly buoyant and well-paid jobs in contract publishing were few and far between, no one left. While producing trade magazines covering such scintillating topics as rubber, asphalt and reinforced steel didn’t exactly set the world alight, it was flexible, well-paid and local. The problem was, Derek owned the company, so any complaint about him would be addressed to, and dealt by, him. Chances of a complaint being upheld were marginal at the very best.

No one ever said that they enjoyed working there – certainly not on a Friday afternoon. Fridays traditionally saw a trip to the pub after work. At the beginning, it had been a fitting reward for a hard week’s labour.  However, as events had progressed and Derek had changed, participation had dwindled. Derek would use a variety of tactics to ensure that he could “get the lads together” for a monster push on the town’s “snatch”. This was a prospect as bleak as moorland in the winter, but without any of the views. A favourite tactic was to close the office early to ensure that every unwilling employee attended. Every Friday, the staff would become substitutes for Derek’s former friends, the “dickless idiots” he’d also lost in the divorce. Heaven help anyone who said that they had no plans for the weekend. All employees had to make sure that their weekend was full from 7pm on Friday until at least 8am on Monday morning. Any unguarded comment about availability would land the victim in a seedy bar, with Derek getting drunker by the shot. Even annual two-week holidays had to be fully occupied by family, friends and functions. Derek had been known to try to gatecrash someone’s “staycation”. “We’re not just workmates, we’re mates,” he’d say, chilling the blood in everyone’s veins.

While a drink after work wasn’t, in itself, too horrific, watching Derek attempt to demonstrate his consummate skills at flirting and seducing women was agonising. “Watch this, lads,” he’d say, before digging deep into his box of 1970s chat-up tricks. Without a single exception, he’d be rebuffed. The responses ranged from a polite refusal to a drink in the face. Each time, even dripping with a white-wine spritzer, Derek would run “to the pack” and declare, “Bloody lesbian!”

Watching his spirit crushed week after week wasn’t exactly a satisfactory culmination to a week spent writing about asphalt.

“So, was it just Amy you were banging, then?” Derek continued, determined to get some morsel of filth for his mid-morning extended toilet visit. (Yes, he was that grim.)

Ignoring the rather distasteful foray into his private life, Tom picked up a pile of post and thrust one of the letters under Derek’s expectant nose. On top was an email that had been sent out to everyone but Derek. It had mistakenly been printed out and left on top of his post.

“What’s this?” he said, scanning the lines expectantly, as if uncovering hidden treasure. “Ted’s having a leaving do? Brilliant. It’s been an age since we all had a piss-up.”

He wandered into his office as everyone looked up and at each other. Everyone was thinking the same thing – how to get out of it. A few shook their heads, others just sighed and looked to the heavens. Then, breaking them from their imagination, came an office-wide
‘ping’. Everyone glanced nervously at their respective screens to see what the email was, all the time knowing exactly what it was – and who it was from.

             
Lads,

Ted has worked for this firm for a breathtaking 23 years. He’s off to cruise the planet on his boat and get captured by Somali pirates. Before he does, he’s having a piss-up, to which we all must attend. This is mandatory for all employees. It’s about showing Ted some respect and to wish him well on his voyage of the damned.

              D

As soon as the impact from every word was felt, the graphic designer who sat opposite Tom whispered, “Why did you show him that, you
stupid arse? We were meant to keep it quiet.”

Tom looked on as horrified as everyone else. “I didn’t realise it was on his post! Which knob printed it out?” he hissed, as eyes scoured the room for the guilty party.

The ping of the in-house email system echoed around the office once again and, in unison, everyone looked down at their screens.

     
             
Lads,

I know it’s a piss-up but bring your wives, girlfriends and whatever
snatch you can score up for the night.

             
If you can’t produce a woman, I’ll assume you’re an arse bandit.

             
D

A weary silence hung over the room as everyone digested the information. Would Derek behave better with women around? Would they act as a protective shield? What would happen?

The silence remained in place, with every staff member caught in a comatose state, mentally projecting the evening’s horrors.

From the back of the office, the new trainee quashed the quiet with simplicity. “Bollocks,” he said loudly, as everyone nodded in muted agreement.

For Tom, the immediate concern wasn’t Derek’s vulgarity, it was Amy. He knew that the only way she’d accompany him to this event was if he went to her tedious work function. He wasn’t only obligated to go to his own evening of horror, but hers, too. This wasn’t good.

Although this was the purpose and foundation of “the deal”, it made him feel very isolated and alone.

It was striking that a simple work’s do had, in a matter of minutes, held a mirror up to every fissure in his façade – and, as before, he didn’t like what he saw. There had to come a time for change.

The question now, as ever, was simple: when?

“You want me to spend my very precious leisure time with your boss?” Amy’s capacity for hypocrisy was immense. “What is it?”

Tom tried to dress it up, but knew that he’d only be storing up grief for later. “Just some bloke’s leaving do.”

Amy stopped stirring her coffee and looked up. “Way to sell it,” she smiled.

“You should be grateful. I’ve already excused you from another function later in the year by saying you have a work commitment in Paris.”

“Ooh, Paris!” said Amy. “I love Paris! But what will I be missing?”

Tom shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Oh, nothing much. Just an awards ceremony.”

“Awards?” asked Amy. “That sounds fancy. I might have to come back from Paris for that.”

Tom looked back at her dispassionately. “Trust me, you won’t. It’s the Asphalt Service Sector Awards. It’s usually a waste of time, but we’re up for a few gongs.”

Amy sat down in front of Tom, who was perched on one of his kitchen chairs. “So, let me get this right. You’re nominated for an ASS award? Yes?”

Tom stared blankly back at her. “That’s not the first time I’ve heard that. That’s very unoriginal.”

“Well,” Amy shot back, “I’d hate for my lack of originality to make an ass out of me.”

Tom’s stare didn’t alter. His nonchalant gaze continued, unimpressed at Amy’s attempt at humour – something she was notoriously bad at. If she were ever to tell a joke, she’d invariably start with the punchline. If she ever did manage to tell a joke well, everyone was too tense, waiting for her to goof up, to actually laugh.

Amy was determined to have her day in the sun on this one. “So, what are you up for? Biggest Ass of the Year? Ass-Lover Award? Er, Ass…”

Tom continued his flatlining look at Amy. “You done?” he interrupted. “Look, I’m going to your do – it’s just a favour for a favour.”

Amy had no argument to offer. She leaned against the kitchen shelves, stacked with out-of-date jars and packets, and sighed. “Yes, I know,” she said thoughtfully. “But your boss?”

Tom sighed. It was a sigh of total understanding. He and Amy had been in a bar once when Derek invited himself to join them and spent the entire evening with them. Amy had vowed then never to spend time with him again.

“I know, I know,” implored Tom. “I don’t want to go any more than you do. But he said that if we couldn’t score up some skank, he’d assume that we were gay. I’m not having him spend weeks making gay jokes. It’s bad enough as it is.”

Amy frowned. “Is that meant to make me feel better about going? That you can score up a… sorry, what did you call me, a skank?”

“No,” said Tom quickly. “Helping me out is meant to make you feel better. Just as I feel enriched knowing that I’m rescuing you from the tedium that’s your, er, your work thing.”

“Thing?” said Amy with venom. “It’s more than a thing.”

Tom realised that any moral high ground he’d been standing on was eroding. “It was just a slip of the tongue!” he pleaded.

Amy stood up and leaned over the table towards him as he nursed a mug of coffee. “So, what exactly was it I asked you to attend? Huh?”

Tom searched in the furthest reaches of his mind. He could feel Amy’s breath on his skin, which was nearly as intense as her laser-like stare. He knew that it was an evening function and that she had to go, but that was about it. “You’re up for an award,” he said, plucking something out of the air.

“Very good,” said Amy drily. “Keep going.”