The Anarchist

‘Look Sheridan, the last thing I want to do is waste your time and mine re-treading the same ground. And believe me, Sheridan, the very, very last thing I want to do is suggest that you’re, well, being conservative with the truth. But, Sheridan, surely you can see that there are things which simply don’t add up.’

‘Absolutely, Belinda. Someone’s imagination has got the better of them. And I suggest it is to them you should be talking. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have things …’

‘And frankly,’ Belinda went on, raising her voice a touch, ‘if person A reports that person B was slurring their speech and reeking of alcohol, I’m duty bound to treat the sober account …’

‘I take exception to …’

‘Sheridan, what motive could she possibly have for making this up?’

‘I’m not suggesting that she did make it up. I simply believe she misunderstood the intention behind the invitation.’

‘But you repeated the invitation. You wouldn’t take no for an answer. That is not something that a person makes up or misunderstands. That is a statement of fact.’ She gestured to the PA to recommence note taking.

‘Look, if I did, it was purely because, well, I suppose I thought she was being polite, or shy or something … you know how these girls, these women, can be.’

‘Helen declined the invitation, initially on the grounds that she wouldn’t feel comfortable in a wine bar dressed as she was. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, I believe …’

‘To which you replied …’ Belinda donned a devilish pair of spectacles and read from a typed sheet of paper. ‘“Rubbish, my dear, you look absolutely scrumptious as you are.”’

‘I may have used that turn of … an unfortunate choice of words in the light of things but, I assure you, entirely innocent.’

‘And at that time your hand was placed on her shoulder? Her naked shoulder, because that day she was wearing a sleeveless top. Am I right?’

‘A careless error. Still, I have no recollection.’

‘And your hand remained on her shoulder for the entire time you were issuing your invitations?’

‘If it did, it really was an unconscious gesture. And I fail to see that what she was wearing …’

‘Still, your noble intentions aside, you are not denying that the situation may have been similar to the way I’ve described it?’

‘It’s not the description that I take exception to, it’s the ridiculous interpretation that you’re forcing upon an innocent – I stress innocent – professional drinks invitation.’

‘An invitation which took place at five-twenty, perhaps ten minutes after you’d returned from lunch that particular afternoon.’

‘Absolute tosh. I went on to a meeting in the City directly after lunch.’

‘And you maintain that you were sober.’

‘Good God, woman. Of course I was bloody well …’

Belinda looked at Sheridan almost sympathetically.

‘Oh Sheridan, Sheridan. If you’d wanted to discuss Helen’s career, why didn’t you do it in your office? Why didn’t you do it the next morning?’

Sheridan had no answer.

Belinda latched on to his reticence and, looking directly into his eyes, asked, ‘And Sheridan, can you explain to me why Helen was in tears when she came to my office?’

Sheridan shook his head.

‘And why have I had reports of a number of other, all be they less serious, improprieties?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Mostly concerning your choice of words when addressing or referring to women? Three months ago you were requested to refrain from using the word, dear.’

‘Which I found made letter writing somewhat awkward. Of course I denied such a petty-minded request.’

‘And sales executives as, girls.’

‘My dear …’ he said with purpose. ‘You must understand: some habits die hard. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another engagement.’

‘Sheridan, Sheridan, briefly.’

‘What?’

‘Would you consider writing Helen a letter of apology? Do that and I think things might settle.’

‘Good God, woman. If there are any apologies flying around I expect to be on the receiving end of them all. Good afternoon, Mzzz Oliphant.’

‘Sheridan,’ she called as he threw open the door. ‘I’m afraid I have no choice but to report the matter to James, and recommend that further action be taken. I strongly advise you to opt for the apology.’

He turned and, for the first time since he’d been in prep school, Sheridan Entwhistle waggled his hand on his nose and blew a raspberry. Belinda Oliphant indicated that her PA should make a note of this.

Perhaps Sheridan hadn’t been quite so eloquent. After all, he couldn’t recall the meeting with Belinda Oliphant word for word. Was it possible that, in reality, he’d been a touch more self-effacing and given some indication that he’d do his utmost to drag his diction into the realms of the politically correct – whatever that meant.

The important thing was that he shouldn’t dwell on it. It all happened nearly six weeks ago after all. Nor should he allow himself to become so goddamn paranoic.

It wasn’t as if he was your actual sex offender.

It wasn’t as if he’d actually intended doing anything.

And if, just suppose, there had been that itsy-bitsy bit more to the invitation than he was allowing himself to admit, well, for bloody’s sake, he was only human.

But, in the name of God, he’d meant nothing by the invitation. And of this he was virtually, nay entirely, sure.

Besides, contrary to expectation James hadn’t summoned Sheridan to an interim meeting. Indeed he was mildly surprised when the MD greeted him in his usual affable manner at their regular monthly engagement. And throughout the meeting they stuck to the usual agenda of taking each of Sheridan’s magazines in turn and discussing ways of maximizing short and long term yield. Quite plainly the Oliphant woman had seen sense and backed down.

To think, he’d actually lost sleep over things.

To think, his self-confidence had faltered. That at times he’d actually taken to seeing himself in the way he imagined his staff must have – a middle-aged drooler. A man with a priapic, clandestine agenda. A dirty old believer in the impossible.

Then he saw it and shuddered. Behind the magazines and figure sheets was something he couldn’t fail to recognize – his fat, green, twelve-year-old personnel file.

‘You OK, old man?’ asked James, noticing that his interlocutor’s attention was somewhere over the Soho skyline.