Commissioning Editor, London: 2

I was with some of the office in the pub. Marcus was on the bar stool beside me, to the right. To my left was Frank, just about holding himself up. It was 4:30pm on a Wednesday afternoon. Some of the girls were sat at a table in the corner. I could hear their voices drift across the room. Marcus leant into me slightly.

            “Is he drunk?” he asked.

            “Of course he is,” I said. “It’s Frank. He’s always drunk.”

            “Hm,” he said . His freshmint breath filled part of the space between us and duelling machismo filled the rest.

            “Hm? What does that mean, Marcus?” I asked him.

            “Nothing much. It’s more just a speech noise.”

            “A speech noise.” I left it there as a comment rather than a question. It stood thick, tall and fat in the air between us. He gave me a look that was part amusement, part boredom. I knew he didn’t really want to be here, but then, I knew that he didn’t have anywhere else to be right now. Beatrice wanted to be here, and he was along for the duration.

            “Frank!!” shouted Frank, staccato and mournful, looking around at me and then at Marcus. He’d been here since lunchtime and was resorting to shouting at himself to keep himself awake. Or, possibly, it was a belated form of self-chastisement, after years of over indulgence. He was inscrutable on occasions.

            Marcus looked around at the table where the girls were sat. Beatrice was there, taking to Bettina and Dorothy. Beatrice’s posture was incredible. I tried to look away, moving my attention to a beer mat, and then the beer taps, and then Frank.

            Dorothy Basic was a conundrum. She was an associate editor – well, you know the drill, paid for a job and a quarter but doing the work of three. She kept a cheerful demeanour and was enthusiastic about a lot of things. I quite liked her but I get the sense that she doesn’t know quite where she stands with me. She has a boyfriend, Mike, who works in the media somewhere near Shoreditch. He’s usually wearing a statement T-shirt when he comes to drink with us and I often suppress the urge to punch him in the face as he orders yet another bottle of import beer and pops out for a roll-up. He’s some sort of journalist but I’ve never read any of his articles, probably because he plays ping pong all day long whilst having sex with himself on Yahoo messenger. Maybe I just like Dorothy’s bookish ways? I just don’t know.

            But Dorothy and Bettina were talking to Beatrice and then she looks over at Marcus and I can see the (as yet unproven) rumours that they’re having sex take on a whole new credence. It’s an electric look, a glance full of complicit secrecy and public affirmation, a paradox in an eye fuck.

            I turned back round to Frank and asked him if he wanted another drink.

            “Yes, boy. A half, you know, a shandy. I’m okay – actually. A shandy.” He was half cut, a relic of a sentient being. I got the barman’s attention – not too hard on quite a slow Wednesday in our local, off the beaten track in mews street.

            “Two pints of Grolsch, please. And a chaser for me – um, make it a Scotch.”

            “Sure.” He was thin and tall, a mop of unruly black hair. I hadn’t seen him here before. There were two or three staff positions that changed quite regularly but the landlord, his wife and their gorgeous daughter were a fixture. I watched him pour the pints quite competently and bring them over with my chaser. I paid for them and pushed one over to Frank, who came back to life somewhat, grabbing the pint and taking off the top third with consummate ease. I shouldn’t encourage functional alcoholism, but then what could I do? I could be a stronger person, I knew that. I knew that and I was still weak. I was heading the same way as Frank and I wasn’t even trying to turn the tide.

I turned around and watched the girls talk, melodic voices against the hum of traffic from the open windows and some Britpop on the sound system. Eventually, Marcus got up off the stool and went to sit next to Beatrice. I sat there for a long while, staring at nothing in particular. After finishing my beer, I called a cab for Frank and then I left.