"Susan's problem," said Gerald. "We've never actually talked about it."

Bishop sighed even more heavily than before, as if a great sacrifice were being demanded of him. He glanced up at Gerald and then focused on his two furrowed hands, the fingers of which he began to entwine. "It's a kind of..." His face grew strained and pink as he knotted his hands tighter and made faint, throaty sounds of struggle, until Gerald reached out and laid a hand on his wrist, and Bishop's shoulders slumped. He looked up, helpless. "It's hard to explain."

For a while, the two men drank their coffee, and accepted refills when the waitress brought a carafe to the table. Then Bishop set his cup down with finality.

"So I've decided to go," he said. "I'm heading to Denver first thing tomorrow and then flying with Susan to Phoenix." He looked at Gerald with a face so vulnerable it was as if he expected some rebuke. "You'll wonder why I didn't go before, to be with my wife."

"No." Gerald shook his head. "I wasn't thinking that."

"Somehow I had it worked out that leaving the office and flying down there made it official, that things were serious." He turned his face to the window, and his voice seemed to choke and submerge. "And so she's been traipsing thousands of miles, from one set of doctors to the next, facing it all alone, while I've been here keeping myself comfy and safe like a G.o.dd.a.m.ned mouse in the wall."

He glanced back at Gerald and gave him a rueful smile.

"And I've been letting the company go to h.e.l.l while I'm at it."

"No, Bish. That's "

"G.o.dd.a.m.ned market share's p.i.s.sed down to nothing."

"That's my fault," insisted Gerald. "I should have been on top of that sooner."

Bishop seemed to absorb that notion and twitched his mouth as though he thought it might be true. "You're operations though. Wasn't really on your plate."

"Still, I should have seen what was happening and come to you. If as you say..." Gerald stopped himself from completing the thought, If as you say I'm If as you say I'm CEO CEO material material, because now wasn't the time to throw his own ambitions into the mix, and he didn't want Bishop, in his disappointment, to contradict him. Sorry to lead you on there, my friend, but... Sorry to lead you on there, my friend, but...

"Well, whatever the case," said Bishop, "the board's not happy about it."

"What are they saying?"

Bishop looked down at Gerald's doughnut and pointed. "You going to finish that?"

Gerald glanced down at the bitten doughnut. He a.s.sociated it with shame now, guilt over putting his own trivial needs first, and it was ruined for him. He pushed the plate across the table. "Be my guest."

The older man broke off a peaty hunk and lifted it to his mouth trailing a primordial ooze of cream filling. "It's good," he said, after a minute. "Sure you don't want the rest?" When Gerald shook his head Bishop pulled away a second bite and held it ready as he washed down the first.

"What did the board tell you?"

"Well, it's Gwyn, really."

Gerald had never more than shaken hands with the board's short, stocky chairman, but Gwyn Doremond's reputation as a humourless Welsh p.r.i.c.k was firmly established. Bishop had brought him in as a director three years ago, hoping his experience in fasteners manufacturing (high tensile nuts and bolts, pop rivets, and socket screws) in Cardiff during the downsizing phase of the early nineties would improve Spent's image among materials industry a.n.a.lysts. Within fifteen months, Doremond's coal-browed ferocity had overawed enough of his fellow board members to get him nominated as chairman. After that he'd become an ever-tightening band around Bishop's neck.

"I'm told Gwyn's been on the phone to a number of the board, saying if we don't get the market share up to double digits by the next quarter, he's going to call for a vote on me."

Gerald worked very hard to keep the involuntary thoughts of purging at bay. It was like walking along the curb of a busy roadway and trying not to think about tripping and falling into the path of an onrushing truck. In other words, nearly impossible. "I'm sure you'd win that," he said.

For a moment there was a stillness to Bishop as he studied the dregs of his coffee. He seemed more saddened than angered. "I don't know that I care," he said finally. "I think this company needs somebody to take it by the scruff of the neck and shake it hard. But this thing with Susan..." He rubbed the rim of his cup with a puckered finger. "Not sure I'm that somebody any more."

Gerald distracted himself with motions he pulled a napkin out of the tin dispenser and pressed it to the corners of his mouth, then laid it on the table and began to fold it into progressively smaller halves. There were coffee spots on the laminate that needed his attention, and he worked against them with the dry corner of the tight napkin bundle he'd made.

"What do you think?" Bishop asked.

"Well..." He attempted a chuckle, to suggest how much less than seriously he might be taking the notion of Bishop leaving the company he'd founded and built. But to his chagrin the chuckle came out somewhat squeakily, somewhat tiny chipmunkily, which seemed to signal to a precise degree how very seriously he took it, in fact. "That's hard for me to answer, Bish," he said. "Only you know how you feel, but, I think the company needs you."

"Company needs somebody," said Bishop. "Doesn't have to be me."

The purging fears that had been creeping up the walls Gerald had erected began to trickle over the top. He caught his first glimpse of a headline: CHANGES COMING AT SPENT CHANGES COMING AT SPENT. Ghostly images started to form of board-appointed auditors trooping in to examine books in search of excuses to "achieve economies" in the costs of personnel.

"What would you say," Bishop continued, "if I were to recommend to the board that we begin a succession process with a view to naming you chief executive within the year?"

Suddenly the purging waters receded. The spectres vanished. The newsprint under the headline began to fill up with type in which the name "Gerald Woodlore" appeared in the vicinity of adjectives such as "capable" and "promising." He searched the older man's eyes to make sure this idea of succession succession which as a word sounded remarkably close to which as a word sounded remarkably close to succeed succeed was not some ephemeral fancy akin to "What if the sky were orange?" but actually something thought through and solid. He tried to think of the most ideal response to a hypothetical question that used as its central a.s.sumption the idea that he, Gerald Woodlore, was so well-regarded as an executive that he could be considered a viable, indeed, the was not some ephemeral fancy akin to "What if the sky were orange?" but actually something thought through and solid. He tried to think of the most ideal response to a hypothetical question that used as its central a.s.sumption the idea that he, Gerald Woodlore, was so well-regarded as an executive that he could be considered a viable, indeed, the preferred preferred leader of a nationally traded company. leader of a nationally traded company.

"Are you serious?" he said, regrettably.

"Absolutely." Bishop's weary face acquired a new keenness. "I've been meaning to talk to you about this for a while, Gerald. It's hard to find executives who are committed to the slow climb in an old industry. You're what I like to call 'a good soldier.' Most talented people want the quick splash, big money, star-making jobs." Bishop snapped his fingers at each kind of job Gerald evidently didn't want, or have. "Hard to find smart, experienced, trustworthy people like yourself willing to attend to the small stuff and wait for their opportunity. How long have you been chief of operations now?"

"Four years," said Gerald.

Bishop smiled warmly. "There, you see? In a company like ours, most people can't handle more than two years at that job. They get bored. They want new challenges. I went through five operations men in eleven years before I found you."

Gerald nodded, not sure whether he was supposed to respond. It hadn't sounded like the sort of thing to which a person said "thank you."

"Yet, somehow, you manage to stay engaged in the everyday details." Bishop seemed as perplexed by this as he was impressed.

"It's because I'm a worrier," said Gerald.

"A what?"

"A worrier."

Bishop's hearty eye contact faltered a little, and Gerald reviewed some of the many things he might have said that wouldn't have involved giving his trusting, succession-recommending boss insight into one of the primary flaws in his character.

"Well," said Bishop, finding his smile. "I guess I knew that about you." Then he turned serious again. "As we go forward, that's not something I'd let on to Gwyn."

"No."

"He's more of a jam-on-the-helmet, charge-over-the-ramparts type."

"Understood."

Bishop smiled, and patted him on the arm.

Once they had arrived safely at Spent, Gerald climbed the stairs to the second floor as if new super fibres had been grafted into his quad muscles. He took the steps two at a time, hardly noticing the effort, and gripped the railing with a new superized grip. When the receptionist, the lovely, stalwart Mary, greeted him with a cheerful "Good morning," he said, "Very "Very good." And by the time he had walked the length of the hall, past the land of offices and open-concept cubicles that would be his to lead, his newly super brain had found and prioritized all the reasons he couldn't possibly handle the job Bishop was trying to bestow on him, and why Bishop was sure to realize it soon. good." And by the time he had walked the length of the hall, past the land of offices and open-concept cubicles that would be his to lead, his newly super brain had found and prioritized all the reasons he couldn't possibly handle the job Bishop was trying to bestow on him, and why Bishop was sure to realize it soon.

He rounded the corner with his lack of leadership expertise and found Sandy waiting for him next to the bank of filing cabinets, outside his locked office door.

"You need to move me," she told him before he had his keys out of his pocket. "I can't work with him any more."

"One second, Sandy." He jammed the key into his inability to delegate and entered his office, his a.s.sistant sales and marketing director riding his heels. She closed the door behind them.

"He says I can't be trusted. He says I went to you behind his back."

Gerald pointed to the guest chair with his already proven failure to respond to warning signs in ways that might have prevented the market share fiasco. "Have a seat." He took off his suit jacket and hung it on the wooden coat rack next to his complete dearth of strategic vision.

Sandy lingered in the undefined region between Gerald's desk and the table by the window, but when he rolled back his chair and dropped into it, she appeared to latch on to some new resolve and grasped the back of the upholstered guest chair with both hands as if it were a lectern.

"It's an impossible situation," she announced.

"Would you please have a seat?"

"He won't even look at me."

Gerald sighed with a full day's worth of weariness, and waited. Finally she rounded the chair, drew it closer to his desk, and slipped in.

"I need my own office," she said.

He wondered why he had deluded himself all these years, believing that he had CEO CEO potential, when now, with the opportunity at hand, it was obvious he was barely competent at the job he already held, let alone ready for the ultimate step. Every occasion of hesitation and miscalculation in his past seemed fresh to him. He was being pelted with mistakes, including the time the cutting machine went down two days before a big shipment to Alberta and the plant manager Ned Mattick called him from the site: potential, when now, with the opportunity at hand, it was obvious he was barely competent at the job he already held, let alone ready for the ultimate step. Every occasion of hesitation and miscalculation in his past seemed fresh to him. He was being pelted with mistakes, including the time the cutting machine went down two days before a big shipment to Alberta and the plant manager Ned Mattick called him from the site: NED: There's something balled up here, Gerald. It's the feeder a.s.sembly, I think, but the whole business is seized and I don't know how long it's gonna take to fix. Prob'ly days. There's something balled up here, Gerald. It's the feeder a.s.sembly, I think, but the whole business is seized and I don't know how long it's gonna take to fix. Prob'ly days.

And what did he do? He paced. He swore. Son of a b.i.t.c.h, he said. Holy s.h.i.t. What the f.u.c.k. He couldn't get past the problem to the solution. The problem waggled its grotesque haunches in front of him and it was all he could see! It had taken Mattick himself to remind him that their closest compet.i.tor, in Oak Ridges, had not long before shut down an old cutting machine and that maybe they could buy some time on it until they got theirs fixed. Ned Mattick had more CEO CEO potential than he did. potential than he did.

"Isn't there an office in the sales area that isn't being used?" Sandy was saying.

He reached forward and turned on his computer.

"You don't need your own office, Sandy. I'm sorry. You and Trick are going to have to work this out."

"We can't," said Sandy. "I don't see how."

He heard a knock on his door and called "Come in" before he registered Sandy's desperate flurry of No! No! No! No! waving. A large figure appeared in the doorway. waving. A large figure appeared in the doorway.

"Oh, I see," said Trick, setting his hands on his hips.

Sandy slammed her forehead into her palm.

"So this is the way it works now," said Trick, adopting a louche air. "I guess I should start scheduling my own private grievance sessions."

Sandy seemed to make a point of turning only halfway around and speaking to the wall. "Isn't that why you're here?"

"Ha! No, it isn't. I'm here about the strategy meeting." He lifted his chin at Gerald. "When's the strategy meeting?"

Sandy pushed herself back in her seat and rolled her eyes for Gerald's benefit.

Here was a problem, thought Gerald. Here was his very own personnel crisis. He allowed himself the luxuriant, excruciating irony of wondering how good ol' Ned Mattick would solve it.

"Trick," he began, wondering whether it was better to attack this head on or wait to see if it would erode naturally, over time, like the pyramids. "Sandy tells me you think she came to me behind your back with her window filters idea."

In the doorway, Trick wobbled his head. "Well, something like that."

"Okay. Did you make it clear to her you preferred that she go to you first with new product suggestions?"

Sandy mouthed a big No No at Gerald. at Gerald.

Trick's arms flew out from his sides. "Since when is it our job to come up with new products? Isn't that Allsop's job?"

"So the answer would be no," no," said Sandy, to the wall. said Sandy, to the wall.

"Okay, what about this?" said Gerald, leaning back in his chair. "When were you planning on coming to me about the real market share numbers?"

For a moment Trick seemed undecided about arms-folded or hands-on-hips. He chose arms-folded. "Market share numbers fluctuate, Gerald, you know that. They're a snapshot. They're history. I prefer to look at projections."

"Did you project two point five?"

Trick's head bobbled and swayed. "Hard to remember all the scenarios."

In her seat, Sandy sputtered the sound of uproarious laughter barely suppressed.

"Look," said Gerald, glaring at her. "You two are going to have to figure out how to get along. Any company staring at a two-point-five share has enough to worry about." He held up a hand as they both tried to speak. "Trick, from now on, Sandy will come to you first with any new product innovations she comes up with."

"Yeah, and then I guess I'll just schlep them over to Allsop's office where they belong."

"No. If they sound good, you'll bring them to me."

Trick found a new and apparently more comfortable arms-folded position. "Fine."

"Sandy," said Gerald.

"Yes." She had folded her arms Jack Benny-like, her deflated cheek laid against her peevish fist.

"If you feel Trick is not giving your bold new ideas their due, you can tell me so during one of our monthly meetings together."

"Monthly meetings?" She straightened her head. "You meet with him once a week." week."

"Right, because he's the sales and marketing director." Through conscious effort, Gerald managed to keep a note of incredulity out of his voice. "You and I will meet on the third Wednesday of every month," he said. "Eleven o'clock."

"But," she was calculating something, "we just pa.s.sed pa.s.sed the third Wednesday." the third Wednesday."

He looked innocuously at them both and picked up the handset of his phone to indicate their time together was over. "See you at the meeting at three."

2.

Sitting in the boy's room of the Lightenham Avenue house, Vicki could hear h.e.l.la in the next bedroom, chopping at the Yves Delorme sheets. She could picture the fierce hatcheting of h.e.l.la's hand as she jammed edges down down between mattresses and headboards and between mattresses and headboards and flat flat between mattresses and box springs. She could imagine the stabbing of her blade fingers into tight corners and the winching taut of pretty coverlets. Even at her most laissez-faire, h.e.l.la was a demon of bed making; it was the thing that had impressed Vicki most. And now that Vicki had angered her, she was making the bedding suffer. between mattresses and box springs. She could imagine the stabbing of her blade fingers into tight corners and the winching taut of pretty coverlets. Even at her most laissez-faire, h.e.l.la was a demon of bed making; it was the thing that had impressed Vicki most. And now that Vicki had angered her, she was making the bedding suffer.

The chopping sounds stopped, and Vicki could hear h.e.l.la's feet pounding down the hall. When she appeared in the doorway, she seemed out of breath, and her face was flushed from her effort.