It was a mystery.
He hadn't returned.
Did he find the courier, retrieve the letter, and decide to celebrate? Entirely plausible, given some of the benders he'd been on over the years. $20 million almost lost, $40 million gained.
But it occurred to me the reverse might produce the same result. $40 million lost. A return to the office would be out of the question. I decided to play a waiting game. It had occurred to me, also, that I had been the only person who had known of the chase. No-one else had seen him run out of the building. Or had seen the incoming letter, for that matter.
Friday night drinks was the usual bacchanalian mess. I have to admit that things were fractious. Usually, creatives and account executives stuff themselves with assorted chips, crackers, warm dip, sandwiches, Danish pastries and anything left over from the boardroom lunch, some sweaty cheese platter or other.
But on this particular Friday night there was no food anyway, thanks to the tea lady being away. Seriously, I thought to myself, the agency falls apart when June's away. She might be gruff and drink the MD's whisky and crash her trolley into meetings, but she certainly gets things done.
The fractious atmosphere was exacerbated by the lack of food. The gathering seemed collectively determined to extinguish the week's tensions. It was about seven o'clock. Drinks had been called at 4.30 p.m; yes, a little earlier than usual, but who cared? It might be the last drinks we would have before the agency imploded.
The CFO, Stuart Mountebank, had been convivial earlier, but by now he was very convivial. He was talking to the drinks tray. At least, he was looking at it and talking at the same time.
'$20 million,' Mr Mountebank slurred at a half-empty bottle of South Island sauvignon blanc.
The bottle didn't reply, so Mountebank went on.
'Few jobs out the door,' he added, swinging an arm around wildly. He meant the entire assembled company could be out of work within a week. Someone took it the wrong way.
'CFO's job to look after the money. Or the MD,' the someone slurred. 'Not ours.'
A pause.
'By the way ... Where's the MD?'
There was a lot of slurring going on.
'Probably didn't sling enough under the table,' someone else said, a bit too loud. Everyone knows there is no way to stop unofficial rewards for signing contracts. It used to be called corruption, now it's stakeholder engagement.
It was open rebellion.
The CFO reached for the sauvignon blanc across someone's arm and fell over.
Then the fighting started. I hate fighting, but it happens.
Oh shut vthe fuck up diskheafd,
]\kkkskskn
DISCCJHHEAB? you are nbot fucjkiojng write
e layw aLIKE THAT\\AND THE ACCONT W3IOTH THE BALL BEARI8NGS TRADE AMAGIXI9X9OJN E
BIULLLSHITCARPFUCKYOU IFDOIDUTN SIUIITY FIUCYHNC9WO0RT
SuCkerpUnch sock!!!!
The suitcoat fell to the ground. There was blood.
$20 Mliommonwn VDPOOOAHRTFRTR1 account
Youb are totslly not woerrth $20 millionn id tyopu relatriovbes were nor even colonoal convicts convicted in Lonedon in n1841 of stealing yoyr mopthersw loaf of breaed. So fuxck youl,..
So sfgxcuk you too ficuk wioth wfuiuc kwity.
FUck yuo jkjah!
It got a bit personal. I just sat there. It was Friday NIGHT after all. Got all weekend to recover. With more drinks. Hoepuflly it wlil clera soem sroe heds.
He hadn't returned.
Did he find the courier, retrieve the letter, and decide to celebrate? Entirely plausible, given some of the benders he'd been on over the years. $20 million almost lost, $40 million gained.
But it occurred to me the reverse might produce the same result. $40 million lost. A return to the office would be out of the question. I decided to play a waiting game. It had occurred to me, also, that I had been the only person who had known of the chase. No-one else had seen him run out of the building. Or had seen the incoming letter, for that matter.
Friday night drinks was the usual bacchanalian mess. I have to admit that things were fractious. Usually, creatives and account executives stuff themselves with assorted chips, crackers, warm dip, sandwiches, Danish pastries and anything left over from the boardroom lunch, some sweaty cheese platter or other.
But on this particular Friday night there was no food anyway, thanks to the tea lady being away. Seriously, I thought to myself, the agency falls apart when June's away. She might be gruff and drink the MD's whisky and crash her trolley into meetings, but she certainly gets things done.
The fractious atmosphere was exacerbated by the lack of food. The gathering seemed collectively determined to extinguish the week's tensions. It was about seven o'clock. Drinks had been called at 4.30 p.m; yes, a little earlier than usual, but who cared? It might be the last drinks we would have before the agency imploded.
The CFO, Stuart Mountebank, had been convivial earlier, but by now he was very convivial. He was talking to the drinks tray. At least, he was looking at it and talking at the same time.
'$20 million,' Mr Mountebank slurred at a half-empty bottle of South Island sauvignon blanc.
The bottle didn't reply, so Mountebank went on.
'Few jobs out the door,' he added, swinging an arm around wildly. He meant the entire assembled company could be out of work within a week. Someone took it the wrong way.
'CFO's job to look after the money. Or the MD,' the someone slurred. 'Not ours.'
A pause.
'By the way ... Where's the MD?'
There was a lot of slurring going on.
'Probably didn't sling enough under the table,' someone else said, a bit too loud. Everyone knows there is no way to stop unofficial rewards for signing contracts. It used to be called corruption, now it's stakeholder engagement.
It was open rebellion.
The CFO reached for the sauvignon blanc across someone's arm and fell over.
Then the fighting started. I hate fighting, but it happens.
Oh shut vthe fuck up diskheafd,
]\kkkskskn
DISCCJHHEAB? you are nbot fucjkiojng write
e layw aLIKE THAT\\AND THE ACCONT W3IOTH THE BALL BEARI8NGS TRADE AMAGIXI9X9OJN E
BIULLLSHITCARPFUCKYOU IFDOIDUTN SIUIITY FIUCYHNC9WO0RT
SuCkerpUnch sock!!!!
The suitcoat fell to the ground. There was blood.
$20 Mliommonwn VDPOOOAHRTFRTR1 account
Youb are totslly not woerrth $20 millionn id tyopu relatriovbes were nor even colonoal convicts convicted in Lonedon in n1841 of stealing yoyr mopthersw loaf of breaed. So fuxck youl,..
So sfgxcuk you too ficuk wioth wfuiuc kwity.
FUck yuo jkjah!
It got a bit personal. I just sat there. It was Friday NIGHT after all. Got all weekend to recover. With more drinks. Hoepuflly it wlil clera soem sroe heds.
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