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"But I'm sure," she added, "that there's some kind of grey area between being pressurised and being completely forgotten about that I'd quite like to explore. Give me a hug."
He hugged her, feeling that he was monstrously and unworthily lucky. An hour later he let himself out and discovered that the Pizza Express was closed.
Meanwhile, Michael Wenton-Weakes made his way back to his home in Chelsea. As he sat in the back of the taxi he watched the streets with a blank stare and tapped his fingers lightly against the window in a slow thoughtful rhythm.
Rap tap tap a rap tap a rap a tap.
He was one of those dangerous people who are soft, squidgy and cowlike provided they have what they want. And because he had always had what he wanted, and had seemed easily pleased with it, it had never occurred to anybody that he was anything other than soft, squidgy and cowlike. You would have to push through a lot of soft squidgy bits in order to find a bit that didn't give when you pushed it. That was the bit that all the soft squidgy bits were there to protect.
Michael Wenton-Weakes was the younger son of Lord Magna, publisher, newspaper owner and over-indulgent father, under whose protective umbrella it had pleased Michael to run his own little magazine at a magnificent loss. Lord Magna had presided over the gradual but dignified and well-respected decline of the publishing empire originally founded by his father, the first Lord Magna.
Michael continued to tap his knuckles lightly on the glass.
A rap tap a rap a tap.
He remembered the appalling, terrible day when his father had electrocuted himself changing a plug, and his mother, his mother, took over the business. Not only took it over but started running it with completely unexpected verve and determination. She examined the company with a very sharp eye as to how it was being run, or walked, as she put it, and eventually even got around to looking at the accounts of Michael's magazine.
Tap tap tap.
Now Michael knew just enough about the business side of things to know what the figures ought to be, and he had simply assured his father that that was indeed what they were.
"Can't allow this job just to be a sinecure, you must see that, old fellow, you have to pay your way or how would it look, how would it be?" his father used to say, and Michael would nod seriously, and start thinking up the figures for next month, or whenever it was he would next manage to get an issue out.
His mother, on the other hand, was not so indulgent. Not by a lorryload.
Michael usually referred to his mother as an old battleaxe, but if she was fairly to be compared to a battleaxe it would only be to an exquisitely crafted, beautifully balanced battleaxe, with an elegant minimum of fine engraving which stopped just short of its gleaming razored edge. One swipe from such an instrument and you wouldn't even know you'd been hit until you tried to look at your watch a bit later and discovered that your arm wasn't on.
She had been waiting patiently--or at least with the appearance of patience--in the wings all this time, being the devoted wife, the doting but strict mother. Now someone had taken her--to switch metaphors for a moment--out of her scabbard and everyone was running for cover.
Including Michael.
It was her firm belief that Michael, whom she quietly adored, had been spoiled in the fullest and worst sense of the word, and she was determined, at this late stage, to stop it.
It didn't take her more than a few minutes to see that he had been simply making up the figures every month, and that the magazine was haemorrhaging money as Michael toyed with it, all the time running up huge lunch bills, taxi accounts and staff costs that he would playfully set against fictitious taxes. The whole thing had simply got lost somewhere in the gargantuan accounts of Magna House.
She had then summoned Michael to see her.
Tap tap a rap a tappa.
"How do you want me to treat you," she said, "as my son or as the editor of one of my magazines? I'm happy to do either."
"Your magazines? Well, I am your son, but I don't see..."
"Right. Michael, I want you to look at these figures," she said briskly, handing over a sheet of computer printout. "The ones on the left show the actual incomings and outgoings of Fathom, the ones on the right are your own figures. Does anything strike you about them?"
"Mother, I can explain, I..."
"Good," said Lady Magna sweetly, "I'm very glad of that."
She took the piece of paper back. "Now. Do you have any views on how the magazine should best be run in the future?"
"Yes, absolutely. Very strong ones. I..."
"Good," said Lady Magna, with a bright smile. "Well, that's all perfectly satisfactory, then."
"Don't you want to hear...?"
"No, that's all right, dear. I'm just happy to know that you do have something to say on the matter to clear it all up. I'm sure the new owner of Fathom will be glad to listen to whatever it is."
"What?" said a stunned Michael. "You mean you're actually selling Fathom?"
"No. I mean I've already sold it. Didn't get much for it, I'm afraid. One pound plus a promise that you would be retained as editor for the next three issues, and after that it's at the new owner's discretion."
Michael stared, pop-eyed.
"Well, come now," said his mother reasonably, "we could hardly continue under the present arrangement, could we? You always agreed with your father that the job should not be a sinecure for you. And since I would have a great deal of difficulty in either believing or resisting your stories, I thought I would hand the problem on to someone with whom you could have a more objective relationship. Now, I have another appointment, Michael."
"Well, but... who have you sold it to?" spluttered Michael.
"Gordon Way."
"Gordon Way! But for heaven's sake, Mother, he's..."
"He's very anxious to be seen to patronise the arts. And I think I do mean patronise. I'm sure you'll get on splendidly, dear. Now, if you don't mind..."
Michael stood his ground.
"I've never heard of anything so outrageous! I..."
"Do you know, that's exactly what Mr Way said when I showed him these figures and
then demanded that you be kept on as editor for three issues."
Michael huffed and puffed and went red and wagged his finger, but could think of nothing more to say. Except, "What difference would it have made to all this if I'd said treat me as the editor of one of your magazines?"
"Why, dear," said Lady Magna with her sweetest smile, "I would have called you Mr Wenton-Weakes, of course. And I wouldn't now be telling you straighten your tie," she added, with a tiny little gesture under her chin.
Rap tap tap rap tap tap.
"Number seventeen, was it, guv?"
"Er... what?" said Michael, shaking his head.
"It was seventeen you said, was it?" said the cab driver, "'Cause we're 'ere."
"Oh. Oh, yes, thank you," said Michael. He climbed out and fumbled in his pocket for some money.
"Tap tap tap, eh?"
"What?" said Michael handing over the fare.
"Tap tap tap," said the cab driver, "all the bloody way here. Got something on your mind, eh, mate?"
"Mind your own bloody business," snapped Michael savagely.
"If you say so, mate. Just thought you might be going mad or something," said the cabbie and drove off.
Michael let himself into his house and walked through the cold hall to the dining room, turned on the overhead light and poured himself a brandy from the decanter. He took off his coat, threw it across the large mahogany dining table and pulled a chair over to the window where he sat nursing his drink and his grievances.
Tap tap tap, he went on the window.
He had sullenly remained as editor for the stipulated three issues and was then, with little ceremony, let go. A new editor was found, a certain A. K. Ross, who was young, hungry and ambitious, and he quickly turned the magazine into a resounding success. Michael, in the meantime, had been lost and naked. There was nothing else for him.
He tapped on the window again and looked, as he frequently did, at the small table lamp that stood on the sill. It was a rather ugly, ordinary little lamp, and the only thing about it that regularly transfixed his attention was that this was the lamp that had electrocuted his father, and this was where he had been sitting.
The old boy was such a fool with anything technical. Michael could just see him peering with profound concentration through his half moons and sucking his moustache as he tried to unravel the arcane complexities of a thirteen-amp plug. He had, it seemed, plugged it back in the wall without first screwing the cover back on and then tried to change the fuse in situ. From this he received the shock which had stilled his already dicky heart.
