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Shorts
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| Compound Interest | |
| By AnnieSeed | ||||||||||
| 12 May 2007 | ||||||||||
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I've done a little redrafting now, and I hope it's improved. Paul Perkins was always dead on time. Never early by so much as a minute, it was his habit, if he caught himself in danger of arriving before time, to wait on the doorstep, finger poised over the doorbell as he watched the second hand on his watch sweep round into the appointed minute. Thirty seconds later he would jab the doorbell, satisfied with the punctiliousness of his arrival. Anxious to make a good impression, he’d arrived early at the station and had to walk up and down the high street to kill time. This interview was important to him. At 52 he was uneasily aware that he may have passed his “sell by date” where employers were concerned. The redundancy package had been generous, but it was all gone, flashed around in a show of confidence that he would quickly be “snapped up” by a new employer. Eighteen months later, the trademark Perkins swagger was gone and it had long ceased to be a shock to Paul when he wasn’t offered a job on the spot. He couldn’t draw on a network of former colleagues and old mates, as his business relationships had usually ended on a sour note, and his friendships were superficial and fleeting. Staring at the ugly, abstract art on the red painted walls of the reception area, Paul reflected that it was a shame there’d never been room for individuals at any of the firms that had employed him over the years. He glanced at his watch; his interview ought to have started five minutes ago. He wondered if this Helen Randall was keeping him waiting deliberately and a familiar resentment stirred in the depths of his stomach. He tried to breath deeply, think calm thoughts – “Mr Perkins!” He looked round to see a dark-haired woman in her forties approaching him, smiling as she offered a handshake, apologising for keeping him waiting. He found himself smiling back, making small talk about the weather and train services, following her to a tiny office. Paul Perkins was not usually the man to set out to charm anyone, let alone a woman on the wrong side of forty. But he needed this job and he knew that if he could just get his foot in the door, he’d be back in business. So he smiled, complimented, agreed with Helen, was positive and altogether agreeable. An hour later he found himself outside in the sunshine again, mixed feelings churning in his gut. The interview had gone so well – he’d made her laugh, it had all seemed very positive. She’d taken him on a tour of the building, introduced him to people. Yet there was a feeling of dread too. He’d become used to disappointment and dejection. He was afraid to let himself hope for the best, in case his optimism should be punished. The letter was on the doormat the next morning. That in itself did not bode well, Paul felt, as he bent and picked it up. It was bound to be a rejection – surely it would have taken longer to work out the details and draft an offer letter. He was tempted to rip it in half and throw it away immediately, but superstitious, he opened and read it. Unbelievable! He’d got the job! The salary was about the middle of his range, less than he would have demanded a year ago but enough to live on, enough to put paid to the sick fear that had haunted him for the last six months, enough to pacify his creditors. By the end of his first day he knew he'd joined a great firm. There was an atmosphere of warmth and friendliness, of close co-operation and courtesy which made it easy to settle in. Keen to impress, he worked hard and excelled, winning praise and an early pay rise. Such swift success led to an equally swift evaporation of the hard-won humility acquired during his eighteen months of unemployment and imminent financial disaster, and the old Paul Perkins began to reappear in all his unappealing glory. The first victim was his secretary, Lia. In spite of her young-sounding name, Lia was in fact a fifty-five year old grandmother addicted to soap operas and overpowering perfume. She was a good secretary though, with super-fast, accurate typing and formidably efficient organisational skills. Nevertheless, Paul Perkins wanted something sexy in a short skirt and tight blouse. He could hardly fantasise about taking Lia up against the filing cabinet; well-endowed as she undeniably was, she was old meat. It was frustrating that Lia enjoyed the protection not only of the law but of the firm, which had strict policies on harassment and bullying. The tactics Paul had employed in the past would have seen him, and not her, clearing his desk and collecting his P45. He had no time for these new namby-pamby laws that meant you had to treat people with kid gloves and couldn’t get rid of a fat old secretary without risking litigation. He was going to have to employ far more subtle methods to get rid of Lia. He made it a rule never to thank her or express any kind of appreciation for her work. After all, why thank her? She was being paid, after all. He told her that he “ran a tight ship” and “didn’t suffer fools gladly” and gradually stripped away the comforts that Lia had grown used to in her job. He cut her no slack and insisted she be at her desk, ready to start work on the dot of 9am each morning without fail. It took eight months for Paul to wear Lia down to the point where she was signed off sick suffering from stress-related illness and he could hire a temp. He couldn’t believe his luck when Garnet Jasper arrived on her first day. Petite, toned and gorgeous, with lustrous dark eyes, glossy black hair that cascaded down her back, she had skin like a peach and a full mouth that asked to be kissed. And unbelievably, she seemed to fancy Paul Perkins. Those eyes smouldered at him with unmistakable desire. When he pointed out the mistakes in the letters she'd typed (and there were plenty of those), she bent over his desk to look at them, her perfect breasts inches from his hypnotised eyes. She would straighten up with a soft giggle, walk slowly to the door and, dropping her pen, would bend over to retrieve it, treating the tormented Paul to the sight of a neat round bottom in a short skirt. Best of all, Garnet Jasper was the soul of discretion. She saved her sultry, unspoken invitations for Paul alone. No-one else ever saw her as anything other than a disinterested, pretty, if not particularly good secretary. For six weeks Garnet Jasper tortured Paul Perkins, tempting him, teasing him until he couldn’t sleep for thinking about her; she sat by his desk watching him as he fumbled for the words to speak into his dictation machine, repeatedly rewinding and starting again, unable to get the thought of her out of his mind. He was mad for her but he couldn’t let anyone else see it. When the last week of her contract came, he made his move, and asked her out for a lunchtime drink. He was sitting at his desk, she was catching up with the filing. As she slid the cabinet drawer shut, the look of disappointment on her beautiful face was almost comical. “I want more than that, Paul,” she breathed. He stared into her deep dark eyes, his heart beating so hard he could hardly breath. There was a silence that seemed to last forever, before the little witch leaned across his desk and kissed him. It was a long kiss that left him ravenously hungry for more, but her perfectly manicured finger laid against his lips silenced him, and she told him what she wanted. The next day was to be her last as his secretary, and that meant if he was to give her what she wanted, it must be that day. Paul waited in his office, breathless with excitement, and sure enough, on the dot of twelve, she arrived. When Helen Randall ignored the “Engaged” sign on the door and walked in, followed by Mr Angus, the firm’s senior partner, they were confronted by the appalling sight of Paul Perkins on the desk with his temporary secretary, skirt pushed up to her waist and his trousers at half mast. An hour later Paul Perkins found himself outside in the sunshine, once again unemployed, stunned, his mind unable to comprehend what had happened, nor quite what he was to do now. Garnet Jasper, perfectly composed, was seated in Helen Randall’s office, repairing her make-up when Helen entered, smiling. Garnet smiled at her, a smile quite different from the one she had used on Paul Perkins. “Everything okay?” she asked, casually, snapping shut her compact and tucking it into her bag. Helen nodded and took out a small brown envelope from her desk drawer. She silently handed it to Garnet. When Garnet had left, Helen sat in her chair, wondering if she’d done the right thing. She’d known who Paul was as soon as she read his CV. At first she’d just planned to give him the worst interview of his life, but when he didn’t recognise her, she’d realised the advantages that could give her. She could still remember the hell Paul had made of her life twenty years ago, when she was his secretary – how he had bullied her, sneered at her efforts, how often she’d hidden in the Ladies and cried her heart out. And how clearly she could still see his smug, satisfied face the day he’d fired her. He’d done it out of sheer spite, for no better reason than that he thought her contemptible, beneath him, not worth considering. She hadn't thought of Paul Perkins for years but as soon as she'd recognised him, she'd been obsessed with the thought of revenge. Now she was left feeling empty, with a bitter taste in her mouth and a sick shame in her heart. And she was £5,000 poorer. Garnet Jasper came out of the bank and was hurrying towards the railway station when she felt a hand on her arm. “Garnet – are you okay?” It was Paul Perkins. He was slightly flushed and his voice was hoarse. He looked at her from reddened eyes. “Are you okay?” he repeated. She could only stare at him, dumbfounded. “I’m sorry, Garnet. It was all my fault. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” She found her voice, suddenly moved to pity this poor man, whose future she'd just helped to wreck. “Paul,” she said gently, and put her hand on his arm, “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.” He breathed a gusty sigh and tried to smile at her. “Drink?” he suggested.
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