Fragments from my 2017 fictional story
“My Thematic Nights”, recently revisited.
(...)
"What wager did Jerome lose to Nancy?” Terence asked Desmond, peering over the rim of his steaming mocha macchiato.
“Oh, enough of that stuff,” said Desmond wearily. “Once I clock off each afternoon, I do my utmost to leave that snake‑pit behind.”
“Do you?” Terence tossed his head back with dismissive flair. “Every single time we meet, you regale me with tales of that pit! So much so that I’ve slipped in myself to set matters straight on your behalf. So please, spare me that once I clock off each afternoon… " He mocked Desmond’s voice, and this made him open up.
“All right, you asked for it. The wager was to expose your fabricated social standing. Jerome claimed you don’t look like someone who’s ever set foot in a college lecture hall, still less Cambridge. And your flamboyant attire is worlds away from that Chelsea boutique you boasted of when you massaged Nancy.”
Terence’s macchiato seemed to scorch his oesophagus. “Oh, such a big bottom that Jerome!—did he truly say that of me? And I suppose Nancy leapt to my defence, didn’t she?”
“She did not. She delights in making Jerome jealous. Believe me: they are friends, allies or whatever. Still, they compete too!” said Desmond, gently shaking his head, lost for an instant in inner contemplation.
“Welcome to reality, my dear Desmond! Life’s sound does not resemble Try Again by Keane!”
Desmond pretended not to have heard that and added: “An old lady mate said she overheard Nancy saying that a skimmed‑down version of Jerome would be worth exploring. And, according to general chatter, there are two principal contenders for Dick’s high‑back chair when he retires.”
“Is Dick retiring?” asked Terence, suddenly interested, wearing a face as if piecing facts together.
“Sometime before this year is up.”
“And what of your platonic fancy, that short‑on‑endurance wanker Nathan?” asked Terence, referring to the massage session with the alluded one, which had taken place two weeks ago. (Note: that episode is not included here)
“When I say two principal contenders, I’m not considering Nancy. The reason why is, again according to chatter, old Dick is a misogynist.” Terence’s final piece fell into place. His friend continued: “Well, Nathan is on course, ready to outpace anyone else in the race. You must have learned that in the session with him!” said Desmond with a puff of jealousy.
“I’ve already told you. He never opened his mouth other than to praise old Dick time and again. I’m telling you: he’s the original snake in the pit! Ah, and to tell me that he loves working out. Believe me, he does!” Before Desmond pulled a face, Terence rushed to demand sourly: “Anyway. Why did Nancy win the wager?”
“She must have scoured your Instagram or Facebook, where you posted those snaps of yourself in a classroom surrounded by highbrow birdies. She showed them to Jerome before everyone. Oh, and that one where you’re sporting a mortarboard and gown outside the university building! That was surely the impersonation escapade you once told me about—the one that earned you a tidy sum of pounds. I recalled it instantly and only then believed it.”
Terence regained his ever‑cheeky halo. “Yes, when Nancy came to the floor for her session, Dick was present too. She didn’t mind the old man lingering for a little while. And you know me—when someone asks too many questions, I can’t resist giving more string to the kite!” The way in which he exclaimed that made the people on the couch next to them turn. By then, the Starbucks lounge was becoming quite crowded. “Massive hips had to nose into my social pages to see if I concocted it all....”
At this, Desmond sighed in resignation and sensed that trouble began to loom on his quiet horizon. When his ears reopened, his friend was asking in a crescendo of excitement: “So big‑arse Jerome lost and now he’s obliged to…?”
“To take a session with you, right there on the floor. Despite his oath never to let a poof like you lay hands on him.”
“Oh, indeed?”
“Of course. He protested and claimed the photos were forged, but he’ll have to keep his word. Everyone there began pressing him to honor himself.”
“Or to dishonor!” Terence let out a cynical guffaw and rubbed his Mephistophelian hands. The other did not think his friend to be such a daredevil.
A dab hand at acting out (so no wonder he and Terence became friends the minute they met), old Mr Dick could perfectly control his otherwise sly expression when confronted with a situation in which he must appear as a respectable, impartial man, willing even to sacrifice his own vested interests for the sake of the company's. He did not so much as clear his throat as a sign of nervousness.
“Well, I suppose you must have heard that my idea of the massage sessions on the convenience floor has proved a complete success. My people in the department have already enjoyed the benefit. Not sure about the other departments” said Mr Dick with a mild tone of personal triumph.
But one of the board members, Mr Mackenzie, promptly interrupted him.
“All of them?”
Mr Dick gave a gentle wave of the hand, signalling that he was about to speak of the employees in particular if they would kindly be patient. However, one of only two women on the board, Mrs Crawford, echoed the curiosity with her stern gaze, her eyes framed by intimidating eyeliner. Needless to say, at this stage of his career, Mr Dick was perfectly prepared to account for his management to the very Baphomet.
“Well, not all of them: one elderly lady, who is expected to retire in about two years, and my secretary, nicknamed the Amish woman." He let out an almost mischievous chuckle. "As you can imagine, they are not participating." Someone from the board echoed the secretary's nickname with amusement, but Dick shifted his tone to continue his report. "Another employee who hasn't either is one of the latest recruits, a young man—oh, perhaps not so young, as he turned thirty‑six not long ago—namely Peterson. Carl Peterson, that is. Well, Carl…” Someone from outside would think that the old man was being auditioned for a stage role. It was difficult to tell whether his playing for time was spontaneous. “He is quite an unusual type of employee. Though he is efficient, responsible and serious—traits which might suggest he is eligible to succeed me—his game is clearly different from the others’. Well, despite all I have said about this man, he does not seem interested in the post. At least for the time being."
This time Mrs Cunnington asked, softly resting her chin on a closed fist:
“Is there something special about him?”
The old man's brow wrinkled very briefly at that question. This time his reply came across somewhat unfiltered.
“A close collaborator said that Carl is someone to reckon with. The candidates feel the same—that he must be hiding an ace up his sleeve and that, yes, he is a dark horse...” Dick was about to wrap up the list but recalled at the last minute, not exactly in a ‘last but not least’ fashion: “Oh, and there’s someone else who has not taken the session, either. A young gay employee, rather peripheral indeed.”
Another member of the board spoke out of sheer interest.
“And have you not approached this Peterson as you have with that close collaborator?”
“No, no,” said Dick, shaking his head gently. “A personal policy of mine is not to approach my people the way I did with that close one. I would rather let them come to me of their own accord. This way I can foresee their ambitions to sit on the much‑coveted chair, which, by the way, has not been replaced with a better one. Are you waiting for me to say good‑bye first?” Dick could never help raising a seemingly relaxed smile in this type of meetings.
“Well, Richard,” spoke the president, “we would like you to find out a bit more about Peterson’s stance regarding the impending availability of your perfectly comfortable grand chair. Not even my own is as dear as yours!”
Needless to say, the president’s jokes never fell flat.
(...)
"Desmond, you are the only dreamer content with just stomping your arse on your seat and staring at your PC, waiting to one day come across your Blue Prince, while the others are caught up in a pissing contest for the appointment day."
“We have discussed that time and again, Terence,” Desmond replied despondently, without taking his gaze off the rest of the cappuccino foam in his Starbucks cup.
But as if to cheer his friend, Terence said: “Well, at least I suppose you have already gone off your Nathan after all I’ve revealed to you about his secret manoeuvres.”
“Why?”
“Why? I told you a dozen times why! He is just another snake in the grass. If you ask me, with Nathan I would just roll over a king‑size bed and, once done, I would kick his arse and off he would go! Forget him. Have love for yourself, once in your lifetime.”
“Why does he need to act like a lousy teacher’s pet and give the others away? He is perfectly capable at his work…” Terence let out an annoyed sigh and reached for his rucksack hung on the chair. His friend rushed to say “Alright, alright. You’re right, you always are!”
“Anyway, it’s time I left. I have an appointment with Carl. It will be a private session, nothing to do with the company.”
“Carl? Please, no kidding.”
“No, not Carl. But you know what? Dick has become very interested in him. All of a sudden. I understand that Carl is ruled out for the post. But the old man is showing a surprising interest in the one whom every guy there hates, including your hard‑chested Nathan!”
"Dicky… I was wondering…” said Terence, in a perfectly rehearsed “spur‑of‑the‑moment” manner, and quite out of the blue. The old manager promptly cut him off, though with a trace of amusement:
“Oh, my dear Clarence…” said Dick, but Terence did not correct the misnaming and wished he had not spoken so confidently. “Please, don’t call me Dicky before the employees. They’re rather prone to a bit of corridor gossip.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to abuse your trust.”
“It’s all right. You were saying…"
“Oh, er…”
If anyone deserved the Ivor Novello Prize for Outstanding Stage Performance, it was Terence, the charlatan masseur.
“The other day, as I left the company premises, I happened to walk down the pavement towards the bus stop along with one of the boys who works there.”
Mr. Dick cut across him again:
“Are you related to him in some way? They were obliged to sign a formal statement declaring they had no relatives, nor any dealings with people who might hold competing corporate interests against Longed‑For Toys Ltd.”
“I wasn’t aware of such paperwork, truly.”
“I daresay so. It’s a relatively recent trend in corporate management. Two years ago, a new department — Compliance — began operating, and that paperwork has become the norm. Anyway, you were trying to tell me something.”
By now, the long escalator had carried them down to the Underground platform, thronged with people eager to get home, peering into the far end of the tunnel for the train to arrive.
“Oh, what was I going to say?” Terence resumed his feigned spur‑of‑the‑moment occurrence. “Ah, there’s a boy called Desmond, if memory serves. He seemed to recognise me as the firm’s masseur and, naturally, began asking me related questions — what with being hunched over the PC for hours, and then poring over his college books…”
Mr. Dick interjected yet again:
“Desmond? Yes. A low‑profile accountancy student. Nearly fifteen years now a perpetual student, graduation day as far off as Kingdom Come. I’ve a file on him, of course. So, you were saying? Ah, a seemingly unhappy, law‑abiding gay fellow who never reports when he’s discriminated against.”
“Oh, indeed? So, this young man is now just four subjects shy of his degree…”
And once again the old man interrupted Terence:
“It seems the two of you are more than mere acquaintances!” Dick let out a sly little laugh and finally allowed Terence to continue.
“Not at all, really. People generally tend to unwind their long day of stress by chattering their lives away. Well, he said that everyone there is looking forward to your retirement. That wouldn’t surprise you: it’s always the case when there’s an impending vacancy for a senior post!”
“Dear Terence. Truly, there’s nothing novel in your intelligence work. Even when I’m away from the office, long off on holiday, no moth nibbles the shabbiest cloth in the cupboard unbeknownst to me!”
The sight of Nathan sprawling so comfortably before Dick’s desk that day of the notoriously improvised session struck Terence at once.
(Note: “The Skull Triangle” was the nickname used by company personnel to refer to the trio formed by Jerome, Nathan, and Nancy.)
To the Triangle’s dismay — and to confirm the oft‑repeated remark that old Mr Dick could be unpredictable — Carl was commissioned to handle the term's major fiscal payment. No wonder he was under scrutiny.
As Nancy, unbelievably for the first time, had missed the resolution, she whispered to Nathan as she leaned close, her voice barely audible, a delicate yet captivating scent wafting from her neck:
“Who's finally going to tackle the fiscal payment?”
Nathan gave a brisk tilt of the head toward Carl, seated two desks ahead and absorbed in the hard copy of the new fiscal regulation. From the way he pursed his lips and diligently turned the pages, the skull member's displeasure was plain to see.
Nancy distilled her remark in the same soft voice, almost a hiss: “You lot keep your arses glued to the chairs while that one takes advantage.”
Both believed no one had heard, but legend had it that Vicky possessed the ear of the Bionic Woman — and after so many years in the office, in her heyday she was said to catch whispers others thought safely buried in the hum of the room. So much so that, in Carl's early days at Longed‑For Toys Ltd, Vicky had approached him to break the ice with weather comments. Very shortly thereafter she also offered him the women inventory of single, married, and available status. That morning Carl had removed his wedding ring because of a small cut on his finger. Upright as ever, the newly recruited — as they would call him — met Vicky's report with a warm, friendly smile and the words “I'm a married man,” not without underscoring the detail. Anyway, for all the fondness Vicky had secretly grown for Carl, that episode of his marital status advised her never to carry gossip to his ears, even if it concerned the Skull Triangle's harbouring of a quiet wariness toward him — the kind reserved for a newly recruited employee who seemed altogether too proper.
As it happened, Carl had paused in his calculations to get an aspirin from the nurse's office. He lingered there longer than expected, probably because he stopped to chat with the nurse — a fellow from his football team. While he was away, someone dropped a pen, which rolled neatly under his seat. Nancy sprang up to retrieve it, saying, “I'll take it.” But, on gawking like a schoolboy at Nancy’s zig‑zagging hips, Jerome knocked over his own ceramic mug, which shattered on the floor. The crash made her freeze and turn — and 'muppet Desmond,' as Nancy later recounted, had to dash forward and snatch the pen, spoiling their chance to make Carl's keyboard register an ‘accidental’ keystroke.
This time it was Nathan's turn for scheming. He came up with something all too easy simply by observing the habits of his so‑called muppeted fan Desmond — whom he deemed too overt.
Having drunk his herbal tea with a couple of plain oat biscuits, Desmond always went off to the toilet with paste and brush (“he's always caring for himself a bit too much”), so Nathan thought it would be stimulating for Desmond to bump into him around there. And no sooner imagined than done, off was Desmond to the gents. Masterfully hedged, Nathan followed him down. He flung the door open, and Desmond gave a start, caught gesturing before the mirror. Nathan sauntered to the urinals and stationed himself there.
As his fan was doing the final mouth rinse, Nathan took him again by surprise:
“Is your keyboard wireless, Desmi?”
“Desmi??” thought Desmond to himself and turned sideways to check if it was actually Nathan who said that. And yes, it was him, now contorting ostentatiously as he zipped up — a grotesque flourish that seemed less necessity than design, awkward enough to stir Desmond's imagination. Nobody had called him Desmi before.
“No, it isn't. I wish the people from IT would give me one of those. I hear only the Triang… oh, sorry!… er… No, mine is plain wired. The mouse too,” replied Desmond, more awkward than ever. A rare smile from Nathan at his reaction did not help much in his relaxation.
“It doesn't matter, really. Suffice that the bloody keyboard simply works, doesn't it. Now, talking about keyboards… You know, Carl was boasting about his keyboard being the same model as old Dick’s, and that his processing key is not F5 but F13 in his model.”
At this point Nathan approached Desmond too closely, flashing a peculiar grin. He added: “You know, I bet him that the F13 key thing is not true. Now, fearing that he may win, would you come over now and check if such a key really exists? Would you do that for me?”
We cannot be inside Desmond’s head at that moment to fully comprehend what unfathomable process did away with a reasonable “why don't you check that yourself?”, but having his Nathy next to him, stretching his arms in a far‑fetched yawn, well, it just did the trick.
Minutes later, Nathan was back at his desk and from there he attempted to remote‑control Desmond with his gentle voice. Jerome and Nancy had to keep straight faces.
“Now, Desmi, before Carl comes back,” said Nathan, “stay there, take a close look at his keyboard…”
Jerome's almost bursting face had to be hidden behind his monitor. To Desmi, Nathan's smile seemed more charming than ever. He spoke again, even gentler: “See any F13 key?”
“Not really.”
Nathan's voice, now dripping with enticement, edged into the hilarious:
“Oh, but the F5 is there, isn't it?”
“Of course it is.”
“Well, I wonder whether it is as hard as he usually complains. F13, what nonsense! Will that F5 key really be that hard? Would you check it?”
Desmond happened to look at Nathan's expression. There was something in him that… But he suddenly recalled Terence at the Starbucks telling him off for being so, so…
Nancy couldn't help a noisy snort, which caused Vicky to intervene:
“Desmond, go back immediately to your seat! Don't you see they're making a fool of you?”
Vicky's stern, motherly tone snapped Desmond awake. The old woman cast a tentative glare at the Triangle, especially Nancy. This female side of the Triangle promptly stared back, as if to say, “Don't be so sure you can get away with meddling with us.”
In the end, the Triangle had their chance served on a silver tray to devise yet another plan, and they had to act quickly. Jerome was the one who came up with it, thus making up for having botched the first move. Based on the occasion when he had accidentally kicked a faultily installed floor socket and provoked a circuit cut, he thought of recreating the incident at once: before Carl was back from the corridor where he was answering a mobile call and Vicky was not around either. The plan involved Nathan approaching Desmond's desk —something very rare to do— to praise his 'trendy' backpack (which actually was made of a sort of quiltish fabric, rather anti‑Nathan), while Jerome forced the circuit cut by loosening one plug connected to the floor socket and kicking it gently and repeatedly in a calculated way. The minor hazard explosion occurred just as Vicky returned to the office, making her cry out a 'holy mother!' In the resulting darkness, Nathan only had to stretch an arm to reach Carl's keyboard — and the job was done. Minutes later, when the electricity was restored and Carl was again in front of his PC, his heart skipped a beat. To his profound dismay, the entry he was working on had been processed without due checking and just on its rough figures.
“I did not send this! Not yet,” uttered Carl, looking icily at the Triangle cluster, though not aiming at someone in particular.
“No, Carl, you don't need to be suspicious,” said Jerome, a smirk on his face. “Didn't you notice that we had a power blast?”
“Perhaps he didn't,” butted in Nathan. “Happens to me sometimes, when I'm not here but doing something else around there…” Nathan's emphatic shrug and smile were faker than the man on the moon. Facing Vicky's suspicious glare, he continued, a sheepish grin on his face: “I mean, an electricity fault made me lose things I was working on the screen!”
For her part, Nancy acted out being bothered by the smell of burned wires and fanned it away with her palm. She complained: “These breaker switches are flipped back at once, but this odour lingers for a while!”
Carl did not hear; he just foresaw Mr Dick's let‑down expression and the dreaded reverse operation that had to be done. What a predicament!
Truly, oh muppet Desmond — again he was under the spell of his Nathan, blind to the true colors behind those feigned gestures. Just as the Triangle was beginning to savour their victory, his mouth opened:
“Carl, do you remember you once told me to boot my PC to be able to resume my task?”
But Carl's anguish prevented him from paying attention. He just uttered an absent huh. Fortunately, Desmond did not notice the daggers being sent by the trio, so he insisted:
“Your PC and mine are the remote type, as you once commented, so perhaps by resetting it you can clean the trash!” said Desmond, looking at Carl's pallid countenance.
“Shut up, Desmond! There's no trash in sight. All he needs now is to go see Old Dick,” grunted Jerome.
“Well, no, no trash but, but…”
“That's it, Desmond! It's cache, not trash. But not cash either!” said Carl, rubbing his thumb and index fingers. His voice stepped up in pitch out of a lightning emotion. Then, after holding down the power button for a few seconds, the PC restarted, showing the manufacturer logo and opening characters. As the reboot sequence unfolded, the remote server restored the cached buffer of the session. The entry, flagged as incomplete, mercifully reappeared on the screen. Now calmer, he remembered that such recovery may be possible in remote terminals, and Carl's relief grew since the figures returned under his control.
As Carl said “You see, my friend? The entry is back!” Desmond realised, just to see how the threesome grimaced, that he had better stay silent.
Before sitting to enter the proper calculations on the screen and process them with the F5, Carl reached out a hand to affectionately ruffle Desmond’s hair. His normal hue was back and, conversely, Desmond experienced a strangely composite blush: on the one hand, it dawned on him that from then on he might be in trouble with the Triangle (Nathan included); and on the other, Carl’s hand on his head evoked a long‑forgotten kind of loving, as if he were a kid again.
The stormy and intent silence in the office compelled Desmond to open his mouth again:
“Carl, does your keyboard have an F13 key?”
However, for all reply, he just looked back at Desmond with an amused and baffled smile. Little did Carl imagine the mixed feelings stirring inside that mate's head, who stood there not quite knowing how to behave.
Desmond pulled down his trousers and sat on the toilet just in time to avoid staining them with the soft stool that had been noisily and painfully churning in his belly since early morning. What a relief, he thought, as his bowels emptied and left him comfortable. Having cleaned himself with toilet paper, he was about to stand up when the gents’ door was flung open. Instantly the tilework amplified the romp of voices bantering about last night’s football match.
Two voices, in fact: one louder and more excited, probably because it was his team that won. Desmond wondered if that one could be Nathan’s. He was not sure.
"You’re getting worse and worse! Just wait until you play us next time — a complete demise!” the louder voice said, followed by a laugh that broke into a smoker’s dry cough.” The other retorted that he’d better shut his gob, or something to that effect, but the first settled the matter outright: "So, you lost: either this Saturday turn or the dosh. Tell me now!"
Yes, that was unmistakably Nathan.
Soon the sound of the door closing indicated that one of them had left, while the other remained, with the rustle of clothing and the clink of a belt buckle mingling with the noise of him fiddling with the tap. Desmond, his trousers still halfway down, tried to stay silent, wondering who it might be that had stayed behind. Suddenly, the stall next to his creaked open and someone sat down.
A ringtone he knew too well gave away that Nathan was indeed the one behind the stall wall. To Desmond, it was a grotesque oddity in his romantic dreams: his much‑desired Nathan doing what every human must do — unless he were some cutting‑edge humanoid robot or someone capable of sublimating his own waste.
Carried away by such thoughts, Desmond jolted back to reality when Nathan let out a sudden noisy fart, the head of a sintagmatic gas affair. To his utter shock, after the powerful flush that seemed to have washed away for a few seconds this tormenting imagery, there occurred an overflow from the other’s toilet that soon seeped into his own, quickly touching his new Vans shoes. To cap it all, a turd glided across the partition toward his feet.
And was it really Nathan the one sitting next to him, behaving so indiscreetly? Desmond, by now pulling up his trousers and about to flush, struggled not to slip on the unromantic tide — already containing two travelling brown, foul‑smelling logs — as he tried to manage the situation. Meanwhile, his stall‑mate left in haste, hands unwashed, almost slamming the gents’ door behind him.
Knowing Terence’s sense of humour, Desmond could well imagine him saying, with a smirk, “Well, be content—you’ve already been acquainted with the innermost part of your much‑dreamed‑of Nathan.”
Vicky was always aloof from the younger circles at the office, though not entirely when it came to chit‑chat. As for her being anywhere near the Triangle Skull of the Accountancy Department, that was out of the question. Yet when Nancy insisted that Jerome honour the bet he had lost to her and he refused, Vicky butted in, all passion:
“Come on, Jerome! We all saw what the bet was about, and you were wrong. The evidence is on the masseur’s Instagram. He is an Oxford graduate, lives in Soho, and his clothes are authentic, you envious big‑bottomed chap!”
Jerome felt the pressing stares of his mates around him and had to drop a grudging reproof for Vicky.
“Alright, alright! If that makes you happy, I’ll do it. Still, to me, that guy is faker than Carl’s upright married image. Perhaps he fancies the shy and silent office type!”
A scandalous, down‑pitched 'ooh' swept across the office in such a daring vibe that, for an instant, it deflected the fun of Jerome’s submission to the massage. Desmond, for his part, almost choked on the cereal bar he was nibbling at, and Carl, allegedly oblivious to this development, turned from his screen in a mighty arrest of indignation. Before Carl uttered a syllable, he had leapt from his desk to charge at Jerome, but a hand held him back before he could strike. It was by far the tensest moment in the office for years.
Jerome pretended to be unstirred by the reaction and said:
“Well, do I have to speak to the sissy man‑toucher or what?”
“No, Jerome. You already know it. Put your name down on the convenience list yourself or ask Dick’s secret‑Amish to do it for you,” said Nancy, twirling a pen against her lips. Meanwhile, Carl went off to the toilet to dispel the tension lingering in the room. He knew that a physical showdown right there would only worsen things for everyone.
Terence let out one of his accelerated, high‑pitched chuckles when his friend recounted the incident of Carl's PC and Jerome's due rite of passage.
“Did you hear that? It’s Jerome’s request for the session!” In truth, Terence was lying; there was something psychyish in him that sometimes took a perverse delight in the look of dismay upon his friend’s face.“I didn’t tell you, Dick gave me the company’s app, of course.” Terence showed his mobile screen. He was right. “Now I’m earning more praise than your Charles Ingalls. I’ll be your real avenger!”
“No, please! Careful with what you may have in mind! I’m grateful for your support, but keep me out of all this. The Skull Triangle resembles a mafia. Jerome and Nathan will eventually find out…”
The following morning, if you had watched the people in the accountancy department, you would have believed that all of them were poring over their screens and papers. A strange silence cloaked them. Only the sound of keyboards being struck or the occasional rumble of the Ricoh photocopier, spitting in rhythm dozens of A4 sheets with forms and hard‑copied entries, broke the stillness.
Jerome thought nobody was paying attention to his actions—or at least that was what he believed. He stretched his arms as he yawned silently and, as he did so, his eyes glanced sideways without swivelling his head. He decided he must do it now. To mask his intention, he broke the silence by murmuring audibly to Nathan:
“I hope this time there’s toilet paper. If not, I’ll use this report.”
Nathan snorted in reply, shaking his head slightly.
Jerome rose and paced down the corridor between desks, moving his generous buttocks under his belt. The CIA, FBI, or even Mossad could have hired Nancy as a kind of corporate Mata Hari—the most discreet and trained watcher/prompter—because not a single move seemed to escape her Big Brother eye.
Once in the main floor corridor, Jerome walked straight to the desk where Mr Dick’s secretary sat, as usual screening the old man behind the oak door. Almost on tiptoe, Jerome approached and asked about the masseur.
“Hi, Stella. Do you know if the masseur is in the building now? I’d like to talk to him.”
“Good morning, Jerome. I’m not really sure. He comes and goes on his own. He hardly ever stops by to ask about the people who signed up. I hear he keeps his own register. You know, more and more people are just using the app.”
At this bit of information, Jerome’s eyes seemed to spark.
“By the way, I’m taking a session with him… what’s his name?”
“Terence.”
“Yes, Terence. But I wouldn’t like to skip you. So would you put my name down for tomorrow at… let’s see… at 4 pm, please?”
“Sorry, but as I told you, the masseur and I don’t share the register entries.”
“Oh, perhaps you can note it down and tell Terence later.”
The Amish‑looking secretary pulled a grim face.
“If you want to secure the session, perhaps you should use the app straight away.”
At that moment the two of them suddenly heard “Yes, my dear! Use the app, please!” and they turned to see Terence theatrically poking his head in, smiling like a flamboyant Jim Carrey. And with an affected wave of his hand, Terence added:
“It’s only me who manages the sessions. And you’d better do it at once. The people from the Treasury department are about to take over all the slots until the end of the month!”
Before disappearing, the masseur launched his accelerated, bleating laugh, eyes circling wide.
The secretary shrugged, indicating all was said and she must resume her chores. Not a minute later, Terence’s head reappeared round the door:
“Don’t worry, my dear. I’ve just slotted you for tomorrow at 4 pm. There’s always room for Mr Dick’s most remarkable employees. I’m waiting for you then. See you tomorrow!”
And flashing an overly charming smile, he disappeared again.
Jerome turned back into the corridor, deciding he could still do something more to avoid being touched by that effeminate clown. He tiptoed upstairs to the convenience floor.
Meanwhile, Nancy could not resist leaving the office for the ladies’. The timing she was keeping of Jerome’s movements indicated he must be up to something she had to know. Once in the corridor, she found nobody there, and after loitering for a while, she returned to her desk, her curiosity piercing her hard.
Terence was in the massage room doing stretching exercises. Having changed clothes, he now wore a garment very similar to a ballet dancer’s. Jerome entered noisily, but Terence’s meditative poise was undisturbed.
“Sorry, Terence. Terence, is that it?”
“Yes, dear,” he replied softly, without breaking his cross‑legged posture.
“Regarding the session. On second thoughts, I’ve decided to drop it.”
Terence sprang to his feet and promptly placed his hands on Jerome’s shoulders and upper back, pinching the flesh as if to check whether his muscles were tight.
“No, no, do take the session, I’d advise you! You will go home as if your body were made of jellyish rubber, my dear!”
As he said that, he gave a little pat on Jerome’s buttock.
Had it not been for Terence continuing to talk, Jerome would have punched him right in the nose and flung him over the massage bed. But Terence went on:
“I’ve heard Mr Dick’s comments on who are his favourite candidates. And Jerome is a name he’s been juggling of late. He’d be glad to hear that you responded to his concern for your well‑being. If I were you, I wouldn’t miss the session!”
Jerome fell into the trap. This sissy clown would put his hands on him, but perhaps he would gain access to privileged information and score points in his favour.
“Okay, Terence. I’ll be here tomorrow at 4 pm. Do I need to bring anything in particular? A short or a T‑shirt?”
“Oh, no. I have all you need here. Don’t worry. Just come as you are and leave the rest in my hands,” said Terence, letting out another gunfire‑like, bleating laugh, covering his mouth and moving his body in graceful fashion.
And so it was true that mates clasp one another before a round of pints at the pub, or square off like contestants on the racetrack, because an idea crossed Nathan’s mind as he was printing his accountancy entries for hard‑copy filing. His back was to the rest of the office, so he could indulge in a mischievous grin as the idea developed into a course of action. And the action had to be done there and then, before Jerome went up to the convenience floor to take the session.
When Nathan turned around to go back to his desk, he faced Desmond queuing behind him to use the Ricoh. Desmond caught the rest of his grin, and the latter had to pretend he was in a sort of good‑humoured lapse, so the timid chap should never suspect what Nathan was about to do. For his part, on seeing Nathan’s happily spread lips, die‑hard dreamer Desmond fell once again under the spell of his unreachable workmate, despite all his navigating turds crossing the stall partition days ago.
It was half past three. Everybody pretended to be focused on their own chores. Nothing could be further from the truth: all were in for amusement at seeing the moment Jerome got up and made for the convenience floor. Considering the tense moment brought about by Jerome provoking Carl the day before, no comment or joke was heard whatsoever. Sometimes these fun things served the purpose of softening uncomfortable moments, so the absence of such remarks seemed to aggravate Jerome’s situation. He, the manliest hooliganish chap in London, having to be touched by such a sissy clown!
Having read on WhatsApp the points Dick had given to explore Jerome’s mind during the session, it occurred to Terence to replace the habitual playlist containing Jennifer Rush’s tune (with her greatest hit on repeat), those by Adele, Celine Dion and the like, with the football radio station, one with commentators on air 24/7. Granted, if Jerome were to be made to drop his guard on his motivations and prospects in the company, making him feel the stimulus of his element should open his mouth, regardless of saliva dripping! Dick might as well have hired a female massage therapist for this eventuality, thought Terence, but he must deem himself the most suitable hand for the board’s interests. If so, Terence must find out what those interests consisted of.
Five minutes before Jerome left, Nathan put a stapled sheet on the photocopier, and that made the red indicator come on and off with its bleeping sound.
“Jerry, would you put that right for me, please? You know how to do it fast.”
“Oh no, I’m leaving now.” On saying this, Jerome glanced around for smirks or sneers. “Can’t anybody else do that?”
“Oh, no. Please, you do it before you leave, please!”
Jerome was about to protest but, as a way to show he was not a bad loser, he walked to the photocopier. That was the moment when Nathan slipped a small mp3 recorder bought at Temu into Jerome’s jacket pocket hanging on his chair. And the recorder was on.
And off Jerome went to take the massage.
Scarcely had Jerome knocked on the door than it flung open, the strains of a bland FM classic enveloping Jerome’s bravado, this man with a schoolboy face about to receive an injection.
If I’m your lady and you are my man / whenever you reach for me…🎵
(cut off by a sound of radio station changing)
“Hi Alan, hi George! Well, it’s two days to the great match when we’ll have this season’s champion. Now, with Manchester’s major asset out of the game and the booked Argentine…”
The football journalists were chattering away, which of course appeared weird to Jerome. In this situation, however, it sounded like background white noise, as he was anticipating the moment when he would have to get undressed for the session. So after the most perfunctory handshaking with the masseur, in haste, he only took off his shirt and shoes and lay face down on the massage bed.
Terence uttered an amused objection, his voice going from high to low key:
“Jerome! Never had a massage before?”
Jerome’s cheeks flushed as he turned towards Terence with apparent embarrassment. “I wish I had thrown a sickie today.”
“Get undressed, please,” said Terence, pointing to a screen there.
Jerome was about to refuse strongly, but the way that sissy’s voice soared would bring about a situation he dreaded. With nothing more than a grunted “okay”, he stepped behind the screen and stripped as he came to the world. Determined to lie on the bed again, Jerome was stopped just in time by Terence’s voice before he launched himself:
“Just in underwear, please! At this stage in my lifetime, nothing else impresses me anymore.”
Nathan was sitting in front of his PC screen, a sheepish smile on his face, which, on crossing Desmond’s eyes, yet once again fanned the embers in the timid one. “When Jerome is done and comes back, all I have to do is grab the little mp3 recorder back.”
As Jerome reacted to Terence’s comments and questions, deep inside he admitted that the massage was working very well on his body. No wonder: he worked out twice a week in the hope that his overweight accountant’s body would burn away his daily diet of doughnuts and croissants. Not only did he not get any slimmer but his shoulder and back occasionally ached. So, why not take the session? After all, nobody was watching the sissy clown handling him, only in his waist‑stretched, purple Calvin Klein slip, as if he were a chunk of pizza dough. Just relax and make the most of it, he said to himself.
“Me? Yeah, who wouldn’t give it a thought! Well, in my case I’ve been a senior accountant in this company for almost ten years now. I might as well aspire to the position. No, I’m correcting myself: if I don’t contemplate that, I’d be such a jerk!”
“Oh, well said, Jerry! Sorry, Jerome…” Terence bleated away again. “Then, from five to zero, five meaning ‘that chair is obviously mine, no other would make a better manager than me…’”
“No, no. No scales for me. I insist, if a man feels he must go for it, no shades of grey!”
“And which changes would you introduce to the department?”
“Well, I…” Jerome turned again to meet the masseur’s gaze, his expression somewhat funny. “Hey, Terence, don’t you think you’re asking too much?”
Another machine-gun‑like laugh.
“Oh, sorry! It’s just that when I was in the Accountancy Study Programme, I used to daydream about the future, about how far I’d go. You know, despite the fact that I currently make a living by kneading the ambitious, I’m still ambitious at heart!”
Desmond had sworn no more glance‑stealing at Nathan. ‘What for? The only thing I get is the bitter sense of futility.’ Yet Desmond’s eyes were again indulging in the other’s mesmerising body language, one that seemed to obliterate, in an encodedly unspoken fashion, his self‑imposed (because he had no choice) celibacy. Why was his Nathan like that, sprawled across the seat and amused by who‑knows‑what inner thoughts? Why did he, on catching Desmond’s eye, not pull his typical dismissive frown, but keep that naughty boy smile? But when Desmond brought his eyes back to his PC screen, he almost shrieked at seeing the notice: The entry was processed successfully. That was the fatal instant that appeared at any time at all, especially when his dreams were like a kite whose line he had let go of.
"The meetings? I haven’t the foggiest. I heard—’cos everybody knows it—people usually go to the meetings taking place whether in the company or at the Union building, no mystery in that." Jerome tried to change the subject or play for time, but he felt there was a pressing interest anchoring it. His voice now had a tinge of annoyance. "But when you’re behind the counter, obviously it’s another story, let’s not pretend otherwise…" He lifted his head towards the clock on the wall. "I think we’re done, aren’t we? Been here for almost an hour...!"
"Oh, that clock. It’s ten minutes fast. They haven’t fixed it yet," said Terence, and brought the topic back again: "And are you affiliated to the Union?"
"That’s enough! I have to round off my work before I leave. You know, I clock off at…" Jerome broke off abruptly, startled, for he caught the moment when Terence accidentally elbowed a duffel, sending its contents spilling out: a flask, a jar with cream at the rim, and—most awkwardly—a gaudy toy with a phallic shape, which rolled across the floor. Unaware of the spill, Terence uncapped a flask taken from the duffel and quickly dabbed some of the substance onto Jerome’s lower back with a professional air, as though continuing the session. The cold smear made Jerome flinch, and his imagination ran wild, convinced that the whole business was turning into one of those grotesque Adam Sandler sketches.
"What the heck are you doing?" demanded the patient, his eyes protruding hard.
"Jerry, this master session cannot finish without the cherry on the cake!"
"Wha wha whaaat…?"
As his near‑shout reverberated there, Terence crouched quickly to gather the objects back into the duffel, but it was too late: some of the dripping cream had reached the central line of Jerome’s bottom, which made him fall off the bed and retreat backwards in panic to the door. A silly laugh of embarrassment from the masseur set off Jerome’s hilariously horrific expression. No wonder: the former forgot he was holding one of those toys—a very vivid replica, adorned with flashing on‑and‑off colours. So, as Terence approached him trying to calm him down, toy brandishing in hand, Jerome opened the door and bolted towards the corridor, clean‑forgetting that he was in his stretched Calvin Klein and nothing more.
At that very moment, one of the lifts opened and out came one of the board members, Mrs Cullery, allegedly the sternest and toughest of them all. Seeing there was no place to hide nor time to re‑enter the massage room, he hit the button of the nearest lift and, thanks to Providence, the woman’s back was to him as she seemed to be checking her phone. The lift door opened and he flung himself inside without a second’s hesitation, no matter where or what floor it would take him. Inside, he tried hard to pull himself together, though the door opened soon and, before it could take him back upwards, he had to go out. So baffled was he that it took him a while to remember which way he should run. Yes, that was the first floor, where the office was, so the toilet lay to his right. He rushed there.
And, as luck would have it, two people were coming out of the toilet—and they were none other than Mr Dick and another of the stern board members! To cap it all, one of the cleaning staff appeared next to him and, on seeing a nude man in the corridor he was about to polish with a machine, was taken aback, knocking over a bucket of foamy water and the polisher itself. The spill sent water splashing across the floor and onto the machine, which in turn gave Jerome the alarming sensation that he was receiving an electric shock through his bare feet.
"It seems that Jerome is enjoying the session!" said Nancy, and Vicky could not help giggling.
"Yes, he should be here," said Nathan, and foolish Desmond was intimately lost in the way Nathan gestured. "The way he purses his lips… that chin…"
And Jerome suddenly erupted into the office, running along the corridor formed by the desks. Nobody could tell whether Vicky’s scream was out of horror or something else. Jerome’s body was all blushed, from head to toe. He could not stop calling Terence names as he grabbed Nathan’s coat from the hanger and covered himself. Although he had never moved so fast in his life before, Nancy was able to estimate his… well, CENSORED. What a revelation for her.
(...)
“Compliance?” Desmond echoed. “I thought people were saying ‘appliance,’ with all that Temu fad—Carl’s cheap headset for his kid, Nancy asking Big Arse if her new oscillator ran on AAA batteries…”
“Oh, Desmond!” Terence rolled his eyes with tired exasperation, dropping his gaze as if swallowing back everything his friend deserved to hear. Then he burst out: “The day you realize your latex snake has ripped off your survival antenna—well, I’ve run out of epithets!” He kept his voice low but mocked him all the same, twisting Nathy’s name in a biting tone. “Aren’t you even capable of noticing what happens around you? You’ll smash your head against the wall, all because you can’t stop being horny for that… for that…!”
“Okay, okay, Terry. Don’t go off on me. After all you’ve told me about you‑know‑who, don’t think I’m still… Well, you know.”
“Come on, man! How can you not know about these new things at work, like the Compliance department? Put your feet on the ground once in your life!”
Desmond stayed silent, wearing the right expression. Terence pushed the Equalsweet jar toward him and took a sip of tea.
“Shall we start again?” said Desmond, hoping his friend would skip asking what that department was for. When Terence began to talk, he no longer sounded like the flamboyant character who had stormed the memes and jokes at Longed‑For Toys Ltd. Instead, it was as if another personality had emerged from the depths of himself:
“Apart from some forms you signed, I mean related to the Compliance department…”
Desmond cut in, overlapping: “The Compliance Department, yes.”
“That’s it. Are you acquainted with the existence of the… green button—the whistleblowing thing? The Amish secretary told me it works as a green button in case you…”
“Green button? Well, no, Terry. I’m not a vegetarian or a vegan. No button to press at the canteen. We just sit at the lunch table and…”
There was a considerable gap between the crazy masseur mode and this friend now holding his cup to his lips, eyes piercing like skewers. Desmond felt the former one had just stormed out, a mighty doorslam behind him.
Desmond decided that during his half‑hour lunch break he would stay at his desk instead of strolling around the block. He would log into the Longed‑For Toys Ltd. webpage—or better, the corporate app—to find the link through which he could file the report Terence had suggested. Better the app, it’s more discreet, he thought, and began swiping through screens on his mobile phone, slightly hunched in his seat.
But his eyes first happened to spot an unread WhatsApp message from Terence with an attachment. Before opening it, his head swiveled quickly around: his friend had a habit of sending horny pics or similar nonsense. Nobody around. But then another message just popped up, which Desmond chose to open. It was a web map, meant to help him locate the instructions for using the “green button”. Reading it took him some time, in fact, he nearly poured himself over the screen.
Then he opened the prior message's attachment. As it filled the display, a hairy‑chested man appeared, exposing his assets. A caption read: “This is better than your latex snake, I certify that.” Desmond stared, mesmerized for a couple of seconds, making private comparisons, measuring the photo against the Nathan he carried in his imagination, to test whether his friend was right.
Suddenly, someone was standing next to him—someone who must have been watching for a few seconds already. Desmond shoved his mobile away rather briskly and looked up at the face. It was Carl, whose expression was hard to discern. All the same, Desmond’s body felt a rush of flames from head to toe.
There was something unmistakably distinct about Carl, thought Desmond, as he strolled beside him after leaving the company that afternoon. To begin with, Carl showed no discomfort or uneasiness in spending time with the mate others seemed to keep at an arm’s length. Carl’s teeth were far from a perfectly even white row, unlike Nathan’s smile, which spread into a neat U‑shape, like the stylized logo of a shopping mall; and his hair—always mirroring the in‑style soccer player’s haircut—stood in contrast to Carl’s Elvis pompadour, as Terence once remarked when crossing him in the corridor. Still, without uttering a word, Carl somehow made you feel reassured.
“Well, Carl, you wanted to tell me something,” said Desmond, after checking that Jerome’s or Nathan’s cars weren’t passing by.
“Yes, Desmond. Vicky told me you missed the training session on whistleblowing that Compliance gave,” said Carl, glancing at Desmond’s face from time to time. Having been scolded by Terence more than once, Desmond had learned not to react with the first concept that popped into his head. “You know what I mean?” Carl said.
“Sorry, Carl. Not sure. I think I missed it because I was ill.”
“I see. Look, it’s about the possibility of reporting abuse or discrimination. That is supposedly one of Compliance’s functions.”
At that moment they passed the door of a Victoria’s Secret store, without noticing Nancy emerge from inside. She caught sight of them, half frozen, her eyes darting sideways. Then she began sliding after them, a few steps behind, her gaze fixed and her ears twitching like radar.
“Oh, yes!” said Desmond with excitement. He remembered all the introductory business done by Terence. He managed to keep his mouth shut just in time not to give away the relationship with Terence, the famous masseur at the company.
“Desmond, I’ll get to the point. You should use this whistleblowing system. Don’t let those from the triangle treat you that way.”
Distracted, wanting to show Carl the map Terence had sent him, he dropped his phone in a clumsy move. As he crouched to pick it up, Carl happened to look back and caught Nancy quickly producing a cigarette.
“Desmond, don’t look back, just let’s keep on walking,” Carl said softly, and Desmond obeyed without drawing attention — for once, he managed to do the right thing. Nancy chose not to catch up, which Carl confirmed as he guided his friend across the street. Then he began talking about how his wife would pick him up at the end of the road, the one opening directly into Hampstead Heath Park. As they approached the point, an intimate, somewhat melancholic thought crossed Desmond’s mind. It had been so long since he last enjoyed a stroll in that park with a friend like this cool and collected companion. Terence’s friendship was quite another thing. He urged him toward a vertiginous life of seizing every moment; alongside Terry, the subtext invariably was tinged with an urgent quest for pleasure. By contrast, Carl’s presence, however briefly, imbued the experience with quiet intimacy, lending the occasion a resonance that felt rare, almost precious. This quiet companion spoke little and made pauses for him to talk, which he realised consisted merely of “I see” or “mhm”—not the best attitude to have. But Desmond dropped his automatic responses and shook off his ruminations when he heard Carl suddenly say:
“Desmond, not that I want to intrude in the way you…” Here Carl paused to choose his words. “The way you… lead your life but…” On saying that, Carl’s voice muted for a couple of seconds, conveying that he should not have entered that space, and shifted the message: “You’re not like the others at Longed-For. The Triangle, you know. Don’t let them be nasty to you.”
Desmond looked at his mate’s face and felt his care was sincere. Inside his head, he struggled not to show a surging emotion. Across South End Road, the sunset cast an uplifting glow over the pond and its swans, so that for a couple of seconds he was suspended in a dreamy moment. A moment which was shattered when he heard a female voice calling up “Carl, Carl.” Both turned and looked at a Dacia Sandero, through whose window a slightly chubby woman beamed at Carl, waving a hand. Two little children in the back seat smiled through the window too.
“It’s your wife, isn’t it?”
Carl nodded and said:
“Do you live far from here? We can give you a lift.”
Desmond was about to decline. In fact, he was preparing in his head the right words to wrap up the pleasant walk. As it happened, there was another pair taking a stroll about fifty metres away on the park’s outer lane. They were walking up and were none other than Old Mr Dick and Terence. The latter was waving and gesturing profusely. That was enough for Desmond to accept his mate’s invitation.
“Okay, Carl. It’s just five minutes in that direction.”
“Great. Come along!”
As Carl was introducing his mate to his wife and they all accommodated inside the car, Terence peered and recognised his friend just as he squeezed in.
“Desmond?” said Terence without realising.
“What Desmond?” reacted Dick.
“Oh, nothing. Well, Dick, I do hope that you believe me. The incident…”
But, as usual, Mr Dick often interrupted his interlocutors, especially when they were attempting to state their case:
“Oh, no, not a mere incident, Terence.” Despite the by-now closeness between the two of them, this time the old man chose to sound slightly stern, in a higher position. “It was such a scandalous affair that immediately reached people from the board. Jerome made a stink report of the session.”
“But nothing of what he thought was ever to happen! It was all in his head! How could you possibly think I was going to do what that pervert imagined I would!” pleaded Terence dramatically.
“I already told you that I believe you. I know how chauvinist the people who work there can be. Especially the Triangle guys.” Before Terence used the recognition in his favour, the other rushed to add: “There is proof to back you and disregard Jerome’s report: the shoots. You must have noticed the cameras installed all over the building. But sorry, I must fire you. It's the proper thing for me to do. But I won't desert you, really. I still need a personal masseur. I've just fired the Asian girl. She did not give it passion. Oh by the way, I'm not keen on the toys that made Jerome panic!”
The old man gave a chortle but Terence struggled not to let his face sag.
“Nice to meet you, Desmond! How was your day?”
Desmond watched the smiling eyes of Carl’s wife in the rear mirror as she spoke. Her blond, straight hair streamed in the wind from the open window. Desmond was about to say “nice” and something else not to give the impression of sulking in the rear seat. In fact, he was not, for one of the schoolboys sitting next to him pulled funny faces, sticking out his tongue and puffing his cheeks, as if daring Desmond to keep a straight face.
“We had a nice walk by the park, didn’t we, Desmond?” said Carl animating the ride.
And then one of the kids asked with a shrill voice:
“Desmond? Dad, is he the queer guy in your office or is he the other one who gives massages?”
“Dave! Shut up!”
The eyes in the mirror now looked widened with shock and Carl took his thumb and middle finger to his temples and looked down. He felt he had to look back at his mate’s face and apologise. Failing to find the words, he merely gave Desmond a meaningful sorry smile. Desmond smiled back, amused, and looked through the window, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
Through the window of Nancy’s small flat, the surrounding London fog cloaked the streets below with a sense of forbidden excitement rather than guilt, since she was cheating on her boyfriend, who was abroad on a business trip. Likewise, Nathan—her now‑and‑then lover —felt no pangs of conscience. He had told his current partner, an industrious medical student on the eve of final exams, that he would spend the evening with rowdy friends in a downtown pub.
Nancy closed the shutters to keep out the draft—her supple skin prickling with goosebumps. Her naked body was still wrapped in a large towel, covering her from breast to knees. She joined Nathan in the post‑coital smoker’s ritual, secretly tempted to slip into his shirt as lovers’ clichés usually go. Yet she refrained, knowing how unromantic and practical this workmate was—always mocking such feminine hackneyed gestures . In fact, Nancy had not played any music while the “f‑business,” as Desmond would prudishly call it, was in progress.
Nathan lay naked on her bed, staring blankly at the ceiling with a cheeky expression. At times he glanced at her as if wanting to let out something toying in his head.
“Before you say it, I’ll steal your thunder—we’ve done it better before. But you know, it doesn’t really matter to me. I don’t love you. You just turn me on,” Nancy said, reaching for the lamp switch.
“Can I use your stereo system?” Nathan suddenly asked.
“I thought background music wasn’t your style. Next time, when you fare better.”
Nathan sat upright to pull on his underwear. “Let’s hear what Jerry said during his massage session. It’ll be fun!”
He produced a little Temu gadget from his jacket and connected it. The playback began:
Terence’s reedy, sing-song voice asked, “And what about the other two who work with you?”
“I don’t know, really” was Jerome’s terse reply, followed by an instant gap. The other’s silence made him close it promptly: “I suppose they have prospects of their own. Everybody does!” Jerome’s voice sounded dismissive.
“Who do you think is the most serious contender?”
“How should I bloody know?!”
“Nathan, perhaps? When he was lying here like you, he kept things to himself, but if you ask me, he has a big ace up his sleeve.”
“Nathan is clever, yes, but he doesn’t possess even half the knowledge I have.”
“What about Nancy?”
Jerome ignored the question, adding another appraisal about Nathan:
“A mere framed university degree — and surely not so cut out for a manager!”
“You mean like you?”
“Ouch! Be softer with that, my shoulders are stiff! Do you have a diploma for this?”
“Of course! I trained in the States. Five years’ experience. You’ll end up as a chunk of rosy silicon!”
Customary bleating laughter. On hearing that, the lovers snorted noisily and burst into laughter. Shuddering, she had to catch the towel as it slipped from her body. Her ample nude hips and erect nipples were disclosed for an instant. They noted clearly how Jerome wanted to change the subject. To no avail.
“But you were telling me about Nancy.”
“I was telling nothing!”
“From what she said, she’s the ideal manager to succeed Mr Dick. You know, with this feminist‑at‑power trend…”
“Nancy? Ha ha ha. She has credentials, yes, but she’s hopeless—as Nathan told me!”
“Oh yeah?
“Yeah! And there we actually agree.”
Nancy looked indignantly at Nathan, who became visibly flustered, trying to turn off the stereo.
“I don’t fucking know what he means!” protested Nathan.
She yanked his hand away from the stereo and struggled to hit the button back on.
“…besides, Dick doesn’t fancy her at all. The old man likes young men, like Nathan. Then, given the circumstances, who do you think is the most suitable choice for the accountancy management post? Come on, give me a break!”
Nathan finally won the wrestle and turned it off.
“You know, Nathan?” Nancy said in an unexpectedly cutesy voice, lips protruding. “Never mind Longed‑For and the people there. Let’s forget them all.”
“Yes, let’s make the most of tonight.”
She gave him the sweetest smile he had ever received. Nancy began to caress his head—then froze.
SLAP!
“Get out of here, you traitor, son of a bitch!”
(...)
As this story has remained unfinished and would never see the light of day, the character Terence found his way into the novel 20‑20 y Después, re‑emerging as Genaro (Genny). Several episodes from this story were likewise carried over into that novel, where they were mostly re‑worked.
Eusebio Natanael
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