Pedigree Mum. Fiona GibsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
night?’ Eddy calls good-naturedly across the editorial office of Mr Jones magazine. Rob looks up from his screen to where his new boss is pulling on his jacket.
‘Just got a few things to tidy up,’ he replies.
‘Oh, c’mon, Rob. It’s Friday night and it’s gone seven o’clock. Come out for a quick drink. Nearly everyone else has been down there since six …’
Rob shakes his head. ‘Thanks, but I’ll just head off home. Got people to show round the house tomorrow, better make sure it’s ship-shape …’
Eddy makes a bemused snort. ‘Just a quick one. It’ll do you good. What’re you working on anyway?’
‘Well, you said you wanted some alternatives to the magazine’s strapline …’ Secretly, Rob strongly believes that ‘The Thinking Man’s Monthly’ does the job perfectly well, conveying the message: Listen, mate, we run features on politicians and serious-looking leather briefcases. If you’re looking for topless women you’ve come to the wrong place because we’re Too Posh For Boobs. However, Eddy thinks it’s not ‘dynamic’ enough. Mr Jones isn’t supposed to be bloody dynamic, Rob mouths silently as his editor banters with Frank, the art director. That’s the whole point. We once ran a four page feature on the history of Gentleman’s Relish and that’s what our readers expect. Sensing tension radiating upwards from his back to his neck, Rob glares at the straplines he’s managed to dredge up so far:
• For men who mean business
• The discerning man’s glossy
• The glossy man’s best friend
Jesus, what the hell is a ‘glossy man’? And ‘best friend’? That sounds like a dog. He ponders some more:
• The magazine that was once respected and is now a bit shit
• No naked girls here – we’re too refined for that …
Then he adds, smiling to himself:
… Although we do feature the odd, deeply patronising sex tip which suggests that our ‘thinking’ readers aren’t that hot in the sack.
He sits back, about to add to his personal rant when he realises with alarm that Eddy is lurking behind him, pink-cheeked like a baby and flaring his nostrils at the screen.
‘Actually,’ he says, ‘I’m thinking of upping the sex content, Rob. We should run a few more features, practical advice, A–Z of foreplay …’
‘Sorry?’
‘You know – the usual get-her-into-bed stuff but delivered with a punchy edge …’
Rob blinks at Eddy. Try as he might, he cannot get his head around what an ‘A–Z of foreplay delivered with a punchy edge’ actually means.
‘Well,’ he says, frowning, ‘if you really think our readers—’
‘What, have sex?’ Eddy guffaws. ‘No, you’re right, Rob. The uptight little farts probably aren’t getting that much. All the more reason to give ’em a helping hand, eh?’ He guffaws at his own joke.
‘Er, I suppose so, yes.’
Eddy slaps a hand on Rob’s shoulder. ‘I don’t mean we’d do it tackily. It’d be tastefully done …’
Nodding sagely as if taking all of this on board, Rob toys with the fantasy of opening a new document and typing out his resignation letter. How can he possibly do his job properly with a twenty-six-year-old idiot at the helm? The last magazine Eddy worked on was full of drinking games and Britain’s Best Bum competitions. It’s rumoured that the winner’s ‘prize’ was to sleep with Eddy.
‘You could write it,’ Eddy adds, giving Rob’s swivel chair an irritating jiggle.
‘Oh, I don’t think so. I’ve got a lot on and I’m sure we could find a freelancer, an expert. I could start putting out some feelers …’
Eddy shakes his head. ‘You’re the best writer here. On all the magazines I’ve worked on, I’ve never come across anyone as versatile …’
‘Really?’ Rob asks, flushing a little.
‘God, yeah. You can turn your hand to anything, can’t you? Interviews, travel, food, politics … You come across as this serious, keeps-things-ticking-along-nicely type, but actually you’re a pretty intelligent guy!’
‘Um, thanks, Eddy …’ Why don’t you patronise me a bit more, you arsehole in your pale pink shirt and Dolce & Gabbana suit …
‘So don’t tell me you can’t knock out a monthly sex column. Under a pseudonym of course – we’d have to make out it was by a woman, a sort of “what’s going on in her mind” type of thing.’
Rob jams his back teeth together, wishing Kerry were here to witness this. He’s not sure he’s managed to convey to her how awful things have been here lately.
‘We could call you Miss Jones!’ Eddy announces, triggering a bark of laughter from Frank on the other side of the office.
Rob squints at his boss. ‘Or we could just commission an actual woman.’
‘Yeah. Well, let’s think about it. Anyway, that’s enough about work – can I drag you out for that drink?’
‘Yeah, come on, Miss Jones,’ Frank sniggers, swaggering across the office from the art department.
Rob takes a moment to consider what to do next. He knows he should make an effort to socialise, as he did with the old team – the ones Eddy shunted off to the publishing group’s less prestigious magazines like Tram Enthusiast and Carp Angler. He is also aware that he doesn’t fit in with the new dynamic attitude which Eddy announced will replace the ‘stuffy, gentlemanly tone’, and that he’s lucky to still have a job. In truth, though, the thought of going out drinking with these reptiles makes him want to gouge his eyeballs out.
‘So? Can we drag you away from the coalface?’ A smirking Eddy is beckoning him now, his loyal servant Frank looking bemused at his side.
‘Well …’ Rob hesitates before shutting down his computer. ‘I don’t see why not. Where are we going then?’
‘Jack’s.’
Rob nods approvingly, wondering how to negotiate this. He’s not a member of Jack’s, and is tempted to point out that he belongs to another private members’ club – the one he, Simon and the rest of the cosy old team used to frequent. But now he’s worried that even a casual mention of The Lounge will remind Eddy of his vintage, and he’ll make a mental note to bung Rob over to Horticultural Digest first thing on Monday morning. When did life become so worrying?
The move to Shorling – that’s started to concern him too. He knows it makes sense, and he was all for it that lovely day on the beach with the kite. Yet he can’t help feeling a little anxious about the enormity of leaving the city in which he’s spent his entire adult life. Even Kerry seems slightly less enamoured with Shorling since she and the children moved down there, and he can’t quite imagine how she’ll fit in with those posh women with their haughty voices and BMWs.
‘Er, I’m not actually a member of Jack’s,’ Rob admits as the three men head for the third floor lift.
‘That’s fine, you’ll be my guest.’ Eddy sweeps back his mop of fair hair and jabs the lift button.
‘Great. Thanks.’ Rob’s mouth forms a tight line. The lift doors open, and they ride down in slightly awkward silence (despite the invitation, Rob suspects Eddy has only asked him out of politeness). It’s a relief when they step out into the early evening bustle of Shaftesbury Avenue. The warm September evening, and the good-natured hubbub