The Ascendant

Chapter Sixty

The next five days were as long and arduous as anything I could have dreamt of: fourteen hour shifts, supplemented by a similar number of cups of coffee, became the norm. I couldn’t stop to monitor my progress, instead continuing my campaign of grovelling (to Hobbs and the clients) and nagging (the contractors).

The mornings started with exhaustion and vomiting followed by a Tysonesque caffeine-powered punch to the senses and a nervous drive to the office, haunted by the ever present question: would this be the day Hobbs’s patience in me would, conclusively; run out? So far, despite his continued indifference towards me, it hadn’t, and I continued with my duties, meeting the relevant people and praying for some sort of miracle.

My problems were not limited to Hobbs alone. Hustings and Winters were applying persistent pressure on me as their suspicions over their popularity ratings rose with every penny they wiped off their projected balance sheets. Nigel Swift remained a shard of glass in my side, as ever, while my smaller clients provided words of vague encouragement laced with wizened skepticism.

As if this was not enough for my tired mind to decipher, there were rumours of disciplinary action to be taken against Rob following his calamitous failure to produce his quarterly report within the stipulated deadline. My guilt was growing, but I was not sure if my diversionary tactics had even worked: Hobbs was still taking the view that we were both certifiable clowns. Having said that, I was still here, and I liked to think that, in itself, should mean something.

I was due in with Hobbs once he had spat out what remained of Rob’s self esteem. The body language of that particular meeting told a gruesome tale all of its own; Hobbs reclined his seat, eyes narrowed and finger pointing a clear and potent message (you-fucked-up-fucking-fuck-wit) while Rob, the hapless fuckwit slumped forward, his elbows resting on his thighs and his back arched pitifully as he stared at the ground in despair. I could only hope that Rob wasn’t my warm-up act.

Rob eventually escaped Hobbs’s lair, red faced and demoralised, holding his set of weekly figures which would be distributed to his contractors, He looked over towards me, trudging as though through treacle with his mouth drooped drastically downwards, indicating with a trembling hand that it was my turn to face the arch tormentor.

Hobbs was grimly unappreciative of the continued upturn in my region’s figures.

‘But Paul, the improvement has continued across the board; virtually no complaints, a faster and more cost effective service. It’s what all our clients have been asking for.’

‘That may be Ben. I am not disputing the fact that these figures do represent an improvement, but I am concerned at the wider downward spiral in which you seem to be headed. I placed you with Mike, Angela and Joost to learn how to do the job properly, yet your desk looks like a bomb site and you’ve been coming into work looking like a rabid tramp. Ben, you have an appointment to meet Bernard Corcoron this afternoon, and look at the damned state of you ...’

I tried to look at myself, which isn’t as easy as it sounds without a mirror.

‘Your hair is greasy, your clothes are creased and unkempt. What is that stain on your shirt, as well?’

I looked down again, finding the offending brown patch and covered it up with my tie. ‘I think it’s coffee.’ This was not a brand of criticism I had prepared myself for, but in the stress and tumult of the past couple of weeks I had resorted to dressing at work, as I had done occasionally before I got my big break. ‘I’ve had a few late nights here in the office this last week and I haven’t really had time to worry about my appearance.’

Hobbs told me ‘there would be no compromise with any facet of the job,’ before sending me home to tidy myself up. I couldn’t work out whether he was just loading his gun before pulling the trigger but I did as I was told anyway; shaving, showering and finally unwrapping one of the fancy shirts I had bought a couple of weeks ago, clipping on the cuff links and putting a more socially acceptable greasy gunk into my hair, moulding and sculpting it into coarse and fashionable spikes.

This would be how I would present myself from now on I vowed, upon my return to the office the following morning. A few reams of paper would have to go from my desk too, as prioritised style over substance.