London and the South-East

1

DIETER FLOSSMAN HAS been on Paul’s mind a lot these last few days. Managing his software firm in Stuttgart, it is unlikely that he thinks about Paul at all when they are not actually speaking on the phone. Paul, on the other hand, thinks about Dieter all the time. While he waits on the platform of Hove station in the morning; throughout the slow, stopping journey; when he sinks to the Underground at London Bridge, and when he is lifted out of it at Holborn, Dieter is foremost in his thoughts. Exactly a week ago, with very little fuss, after a single short, sharp pitch, he sold him a full-page, full-colour ad in the automation systems software section of European Procurement Management. (Dieter did not know, of course, that his ad would be the automation systems software section of European Procurement Management.) Paul faxed him an agreement form, which Dieter said he would sign in time for the positioning of his ad to be discussed at Paul’s ‘pagination meeting’ at the end of the afternoon. Paul went to the Penderel’s Oak. It was his first sale in some time.

On Monday morning, the fax was not there. A quick call to Dieter elicited an apology, and an assurance that he would send it through immediately. A further call, towards the middle of the afternoon, and Dieter’s secretary, Frau Koch, said that she thought Herr Doktor Flossman had already signed the fax, and that she would send it as soon as she had a minute. She took down Paul’s fax number. The next morning, there was still no fax. And then Dieter seemed to disappear for a few days. Paul was calling him so much he knew his fourteen-digit number without having to look it up. Every day, the first thing he did when he arrived at work was phone Dieter. Dieter was never there, only the severe Frau Koch. Herr Doktor Flossman, she said, is always busy. If he has something to say to Herr Doktor Flossman, he should put it in an email or a fax. Frantic, Paul got Elvezia to phone pretending to be his secretary. He got Murray to phone pretending to be his boss. He tried to flirt with the impervious Frau Koch, and when that did not work, stabbed the white mute key with his finger and unleashed a stream of obscenities. ‘You fucking fucking fucking fucking bitch … Yeah, not to worry. I’ll call back tomorrow. Oh, tomorrow’s the weekend, isn’t it. I’m playing golf up in Scotland. Yeah, very nice. Looking forward to it. You been to Scotland, Frau Cock …’

That was this morning.

And now Dieter is there, is saying, ‘Ah, Mr Barclay, we speak at last!’ His tone, wonderfully, suggesting that the wretched week of silence was simply unfortunate, that there was nothing sinister involved.

‘Better late than never, Dieter,’ Paul says loudly, still smiling.

‘Yes indeed.’

Dieter’s English is faultless. It is difficult to tell, from his voice, how old he is. Paul imagines him to be in his mid-fifties; lean, sinewy, probably a mountain-biking enthusiast, a potholer, a weekend naturist. The voice is good-humoured in a boring, irritating, overbearing way.

Starting to doodle, Paul says, ‘How you doing?’

‘I’m very well. But I think that’s just because it’s the weekend tomorrow!’ And Dieter laughs — he laughs, as though he has said something funny. Paul laughs too, more warily, in what probably seems to Dieter a more English way — but what he takes for Englishness is in fact the sarcasm, more or less open, that Paul is unable to prevent himself from putting into his laugh. ‘Yeah, I know what you mean. I do know what you mean.’

Suddenly more serious, Dieter says, ‘What can I do for you, Mr Barclay?’

‘Well, it’s about this ad, Dieter.’ Paul maintains a weary, we’re-both-busy-men-of-world tone of voice. His style, as a salesman, is modernist — that is, he is almost an anti-salesman, scrupulously avoiding any of the formulaic patter, the importunate over-sincerity still taught in the training room. From the start, he had felt his way towards a more subtle style — offhand, low-intensity. It is a style that has served him well; though in truth, less and less so in recent years. Is this because it is becoming more difficult to sell the space? It seems to be, and Paul sometimes wonders why this is, what has changed. Possibly the prospects, through unending exposure to salesmen and sales techniques. Possibly, he sometimes feels, he himself is losing the underlying pressure, the vestigial old-school salesmanship that is always essential, even to a modernist. It seems likely that he brings less energy to the task than he used to. Possibly it is the product itself — the various publications in the Park Lane portfolio are no less useless now than they ever have been, are still simply pretexts, utterly stripped down, for selling advertising space. With the possible exception of the in-flight magazines — very much the firm’s prestige publications — it is unquestionably a waste of money for anyone to advertise in them, for the simple reason that they have no readers. Some are sent out as junk mail, but in most cases the only copies printed are those sent to the advertisers themselves. In any normal sense, then — certainly in any sense that the advertisers would recognise — these publications do not actually exist. They are like a stage set, an illusion, a fiction sustained from the sales floor. This minimalist approach to publishing had been very successful at first. Now, though, it seems more and more difficult to sell the space. Or maybe it isn’t. Paul is never sure. Perhaps his memory is playing tricks on him. He sometimes thinks it would be worth improving the publications, or getting some proper publications — becoming, in essence, a proper publishing company. But then the whole point, the whole idea of Park Lane Publications is that it is not a proper publishing company.

*

He was in the Penderel’s Oak with Murray when Andy walked in to tell him that Flossman had phoned. They had been there since twelve, in an awkward, dark, dead space near the toilets and the cigarette machine. Lifting his eyebrows, Andy made a drinking motion. A few minutes later, treading with his eyes on his brogues, he was holding pints. He landed them on the table, shoving them among the many empties. ‘All right,’ he said plummily, pulling up an upholstered stool. ‘All right, lads.’ He turned his head to take in the muted ragu tones of the pub. The other people there were mostly tourists putting away late lunches, traditional pub fayre — pies and square-cut chips, the sauce in sachets, the cutlery wrapped in maroon paper napkins. ‘Michaela in today?’

Paul shook his head — an emphatic no.

‘Will she be in later …?’

‘What are you doing here, Andy?’ Paul said. ‘Why aren’t you at the office? Why aren’t you on the phone?’

‘What are you doing here?’ Andy laughed.

‘Don’t fucking laugh.’

‘Just a quick one —’

‘You don’t have time for quick ones! What’s your problem?’ Andy’s boyish smile wavered, went slightly bewildered. Paul said, ‘You’re not here to have a laugh. You’re not going to make any deals sitting in the pub all day. No wonder you never make any deals.’ Andy was not smiling any more. ‘Why aren’t you on the phone, now, calling people?’ Flushed — his full face as crimson as the lining of his chalk-striped suit — Andy said nothing. There was nothing for him to say. In his five months at Park Lane Publications he has made only one ‘deal’ — sold a quarter-page mono ad to a Belgian keyboard manufacturer — and that in his second week, when everything seemed to be going so well.

Slowly, with showy sadness, Paul shook his head. ‘You’ve got to sort yourself out, mate,’ he said. ‘You’re taking the piss. If you don’t make any sales it’s because you’re in here all day. You don’t make enough calls. It’s a numbers game. You’ve got the leads. You just need to make the fucking calls.’

Andy nodded. ‘Yup,’ he said. ‘Yah.’

‘Go back to the office,’ Paul said. ‘Go back to the office, and get on the phone.’

Andy gulped down half of his pint. Then the other half. ‘I’ll see you later then, yeah.’

‘Yeah.’

‘See you, Murray.’

‘Yeah, see you later,’ Murray muttered. And then, when Andy had gone, ‘He forgot his umbrella. Fucking tosser.’

He was soon back, though. Within minutes.

Paul said, ‘What are you doing here? Why aren’t you on the fucking phone?’

‘There’s something I forgot to tell you.’

‘What?’

‘Flossman called.’

‘Flossman?’ Hurriedly, Paul stubbed out his cigarette. ‘When? What did he say?’

‘Um, I don’t know. That you can call him this afternoon if you want. And he’s going somewhere on Monday.’

‘Where?’

‘Um. I don’t know. China?’

‘For fuck’s sake. When did he call?’

Andy hesitated. ‘About an hour ago?’

‘For fuck’s sake …’

‘Is there a problem?’ Murray enquired.

Paul stood up. ‘I’ve got to go back to the office, mate.’

‘You’re not serious …’

‘Yeah I am, unfortunately. I’ve been trying to speak to this cunt all week.’

‘Flossman?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You staying here, Murray?’ Andy said. He said it — so it seemed to Murray — with a sly, mocking smile.

‘No,’ Murray said, without thinking.

‘What …’ Andy seemed surprised. ‘You’re coming back to the office?’

Squinting scornfully, Murray shook his square head. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

‘Well … Marlon.’

‘Who?’

‘Marlon.’

Still Murray did not seem to follow. ‘Marlon?’

Smiling as though the whole thing were some kind of joke, Andy said, ‘He says you nicked one of his leads. He’s telling everyone he’s going to punch your lights out.’

‘What, that little shit?’

‘Yeah …’

‘I’ll punch his fucking lights out.’

For a moment, there was an uneasy silence. Murray was still sitting down. ‘Should we go then?’ Andy said. Slowly Murray swallowed what was left of his pint, and stood up, a tall man in a shapeless blue suit. Quite pale, he did up his jacket and they followed Paul towards the front of the pub. ‘You coming back?’ Paul said when he saw Murray. Murray nodded. ‘What about Marlon?’ Murray shrugged — like the nod, a small, tense movement.

Despite the hurry, and the drizzle, when Andy said, ‘Should we have a quick doob?’ Paul stopped. ‘Get a move on then.’ They were in an alley near Lincoln’s Inn Fields, grey old office buildings looming on all sides. Murray seemed nervous, making strange munching movements with his mouth and staring at the words CITY OF WESTMINSTER on the side of a dumpster. Paul was also preoccupied, impatient. If Andy’s good at anything, he thought, it’s making spliffs. In the rain, the wind pouring intermittently down the alley, he made the spliff in the palm of his hand, dipping into his pocket for what he needed. The result was something that looked like it had been manufactured by a machine. They smoked it quickly, in silence, ignoring the inquisitive looks of purposefully striding passers-by.

The entrance to King’s House, a nondescript office building on Kingsway, is on a side street, a glass door tinted greyish brown. Wobbling slightly, the small, gloomy lift went up. There is some other company (Winchmore Leasing Ltd) on the first floor; Park Lane Publications has the second and third floors; the fourth floor has been vacant since the spring. Paul looked at his watch, an old Swatch with a red plastic strap. Three twenty — four twenty in Germany.

Tony Peters’ team occupies one half of the upper sales floor, Paul’s the other. The room is long and low — when salesmen stand on their desks to ‘power pitch’, their heads are not far from the off-white ceiling panels — and usually loud with overlapping voices. There are windows down both sides — on one side the sad, unleaving plane trees of Kingsway; on the other a grey jumble of roofs and fire escapes. Even with so many windows, at this time of day, and this time of year, the room would be dim were it not for the extensive strip lighting. Paul stopped at the cooler to drink several paper cones of icy water in quick succession. Frustratingly, the dryness of his mouth was almost unaffected. In his intoxicated state, everything seemed unnaturally intense, and at the same time not real — as if he were lying in a hot bath imagining it all. ‘Come on!’ he shouted — he heard himself shout — as he crossed the grey carpet towards his team at the far end of the room. ‘Get on the fucking phone!’ He shouted it only out of a sense of obligation, and everyone ignored him, except Elvezia who looked up sceptically from her magazine, then let it fall shut and started to leaf through some old index cards. It was, everyone understood, Friday afternoon. Paul took off his jacket and sat down. There is a large whiteboard on the wall behind his desk, on which the names of the ten members of his team are written, and their total sales, and their sales this week — a column filled with zeros. Different-sized zeros, some blue, some black, some red, some green, but all zeros. Some of the zeros — Andy’s for example — have been there so long that it is probably no longer possible to erase them. In the total sales column some of these indelible zeros have been incorporated into later, larger, multicoloured numbers.

Without preliminaries, Paul picked up the white handset of his phone and punched in Flossman’s number. The long pulses of the foreign tone in his ear, he pulled off the plastic lid of his tea, fished out the sodden bag, and burned his mouth with an impatient sip.

‘Koch!’

‘Oh hello,’ Paul slurred, smiling, ‘it’s Charles Barclay.’ Not, of course, his real name. His sales name, his nom de phone. For various reasons, most of the salespeople use pseudonyms. In some cases because their real names are considered inappropriate — too foreign-sounding, too difficult to spell. Andy for instance, who is of Polish descent (Andy is short for Andrzej, not Andrew) has a surname consisting of a dozen consonants, mostly Zs and Ws, and one isolated vowel, somewhere in the thick of it. His sales name is David Lloyd. (When selecting a sales name, the names of banks are often felt to have the right tone — one young man made a promising start to his career as James Natwest.) In Paul’s case, his real name — Paul Rainey — was not particularly problematic. He has had numerous identities over the years, though; switching whenever a dissatisfied advertiser is furious enough to demand his dismissal, and he is ‘sacked’. ‘Nicholas James’ was ‘sacked’ in February, since when he has been ‘Charles Barclay’. ‘I think Dieter tried to get hold of me a little while ago, Frau Cock,’ he said. ‘I was in a meeting. I’m just returning his call.’

‘Oh, yes, Mr Barclay.’ Frau Koch’s tone seemed changed — more congenial. ‘Yes, but Herr Doktor Flossman is in a meeting himself at the moment.’ For fuck’s sake, Paul thought. ‘In about twenty minutes, I think, he will be finished,’ she said. ‘You will call back?’ Startled by this unexpected transparency, Paul said, ‘Right. Fine. I will call back.’

‘Thank you, Mr Barclay.’

‘Thank you, Frau Cock.’ He dropped the handset into its plastic berth and looked at his watch. Three twenty-seven. Drink the tea, he thought, have a fag, then phone Flossman again. Satisfied, his plan thus in place, he slid his chair back on squeaky wheels, put his feet, his scuffed black lace-ups, on the desk, and waited.

Smirking, walking slowly, it took Andy ten seconds to traverse the sales floor. Paul watched absently as he walked towards him, knowing that he should say something along the lines of ‘Where the fuck have you been? Why aren’t you on the fucking phone?’ He was unable to summon the energy. The office was hot and soporific, the hubbub of voices dull. He felt the warmth of the tea touch his fingers through the cardboard cup. Still smiling, Andy sat down. He seemed to be waiting for something. His face expressionless, Paul stared out over the sales floor. ‘Where’s Murray?’ Andy said.

Paul shrugged. ‘Dunno.’

‘He was in the smoking room. He said he was coming back here.’

‘He hasn’t been here. Why aren’t you on the fucking phone?’

Suddenly serious-faced, Andy dug through the snafu of papers on his desk, trying to look purposeful. Then he saw something that made him smile again. In a boxy pale grey suit and large-knotted lilac tie, Marlon was strolling, strutting, towards them. His head, in its colour and texture, reminded Andy of Silly Putty — something from his prep-school days. There was a time when every boy in the school, it seemed, had to have a little red plastic egg containing a blob of flesh-coloured putty, and Marlon’s broad nose and prominent chin, as well the semi-glossy surface of his pink scalp, all recalled it. He spends so much time in a Covent Garden gym that many of his fellow members are under the impression that he works there — which in an informal, voluntary way he more or less does. Not mopping the changing rooms, of course, or manning the till in the shop, but helping people with the machines, and dispensing detailed advice on warm-downs and stretching. ‘Where’ve you been?’ said Paul. Marlon held up a long cup of soya milk latte.

‘Marlon!’ Andy called respectfully, in a sort of stage whisper, across the desks. ‘Marlon!’ When Marlon finally looked up, Andy’s smile widened. ‘Have you seen Murray?’ he said. Unfitting the lid of his coffee, Marlon shook his flesh-toned head.

‘I think he’s hiding from you. He thinks you’re going to punch his lights out.’

‘Will you get on the fucking phone?’ Paul said to Andy. He looked at his watch. Three thirty-eight. Twelve minutes.

The smoking room was cold and, despite the wide-open window, smoky; grey, and loud with the perpetual groan of the traffic where Kingsway and Holborn meet. The cleaners seem to have permission not to clean it, though they all smoke themselves, and big, abandoned newspaper pages stirred in the chilly draught when the door croaked open. Unusually, Paul had the narrow space to himself, and taking advantage of this, he dragged a slick of phlegm up from his mid-throat and spat it into the metal bin. On his way there, he had almost met Lawrence, the director of sales. For the sake of his health, he was going to walk down the two flights of stairs, but he had heard Lawrence’s nasal whine speaking to someone in the stairwell, and had tiptoed back up and taken the lift. This had made him feel quite small. ‘Fucking Lawrence,’ he said, quietly, to the empty room — an act of defiance so minor that it only increased his sense of oppression.

Lawrence, it seems, has become obsessed with the underperformance of Paul’s team. And his team is underperforming. There are only three more weeks of selling left on European Procurement Management, and the sales target looks more implausible every day. Paul knows, in fact, that it will be missed, but he still tells Lawrence not to worry, that there’s ‘a lot out there’. Which there isn’t — so when Lawrence presses him for details of what, exactly, is ‘out there’ the evasive sketchiness of his answers tends to lead to unpleasantness. The publications, in any case, never meet their sales targets — not European Procurement Management, not the in-flight magazines, not Asian Procurement Management, or International Finance and Financial Policy Review, or any of the others. The targets are not so much targets as notional figures — aspirations at best, ambitions that everyone, even Lawrence, has tacitly accepted will never be achieved (though they are raised a little every year), unattainable standards condemning the salespeople — all of them, ultimately — to the misery and stress of perpetual, soul-wearying failure. This is the same for Tony’s team, and Simon Beaumont’s, and Neil’s, and the Pig’s — so why, Paul wondered self-pityingly, sitting on the low chair, its brown wool torn to reveal yellow foam (which has itself been picked away by nervous fingers), does Lawrence single him out?

Lawrence’s obsession with Paul’s team and its failings has, over the past few weeks, focused more and more intensely on Andy. On the phone Andy does not even sound desperate any more; he just sounds dead. Paul had had high hopes for Andy. He had nurtured him, bought him little presents (a bong, a Zippo with a marijuana leaf on it), bought him pints in the Penderel’s Oak — all of which was, of course, substantially self-interested, Paul being on an override and getting a few per cent whenever a member of his team makes a sale. Andy was posh, plummy — unintimidated by talking to other posh people, or foreigners. On the phone he could sound much older than he was. As the weeks passed, however, it became obvious that, in some subtle way, he had the wrong vibe, the wrong something, the wrong je ne sais quoi. And perhaps most importantly, not enough need. Paul thinks that he must be getting money from his parents — or someone — because not having made any sales since then, he has not been paid since June.

Andy starts to stutter as soon as he sees Lawrence walk onto the sales floor. Looming over him, Lawrence presses the earpiece of Andy’s phone to his head (he has an odd way of holding the earpiece — in the palm of his long, hairy hand), and stopping his other ear with his index finger, he listens, with his eyes shut, to Andy’s pitch. ‘Good morning,’ Andy says, his voice shaking in a way that it only does when Lawrence is listening in. ‘Could I speak to Dr Rüthke, please.’

‘Who is it, please?’ A German secretary’s voice.

‘It’s David Lloyd.’

‘And where are you calling from, please?’

‘I’m calling in association with the International Federation of Procurement Management.’

‘What is it concerning?’

‘Is Dr Rüthke there?’

‘What is it concerning, please?’

‘I’m calling in association with the International Federation of Procurement Management.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I’m calling in association with —’

‘Could you send a fax?’

‘There wouldn’t be any point sending a fax.’

‘Please — could you send a fax?’

‘I don’t have a fax. I’m calling in association with the International Federation of Procurement Management. I need to speak to Dr Rüthke. Is he there?’

‘Are you selling something?’

Andy laughs in the way that salesmen usually do when they’re about to deny that they’re selling something. ‘No,’ he says, laughing, ‘I’m not selling anything. I need to speak to Dr Rüthke. Is he there?’

A towering blue-suited presence at his shoulder, well inside his personal space — Andy can smell him, his BO, his halitosis, his aftershave — Lawrence’s eyes squeeze more tightly shut.

‘Rüthke.’

‘Oh. Good morning, Dr Rüthke,’ Andy says, moving uneasily in his chair. ‘My name is David Lloyd, and I’m calling in association with the International Federation of Procurement Management. From London. How are you?’

There is a short silence. ‘Yes?’ Dr Rüthke says, impatiently.

‘Um, I’m calling … I’m calling from the … I’m calling from Park Lane Publications,’ says Andy. ‘We publish European Procurement Management, in association with the International Federation of Procurement Management.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know the International Federation of Procurement Management?’

‘No.’

‘Well, it’s an international organisation made up of the national institutes. I understand you’re involved in the manufacture of industrial thermostats, Dr Rüthke?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I’m putting together European Procurement Management, in association with the International Federation of Procurement Management. It’s published twice a year, in January and June, and goes out to the purchasing managers of Europe’s thousand leading multinational companies, such as Philips, Hoechst and BMW. I’m putting together the January 2005 edition of the publication, in which there will be a major section on industrial thermostats. We have a limited amount of advertising positions available in this section and I’m calling Europe’s leading industrial thermostat manufacturers —’

‘We are not interested.’

‘Not interested in what?’

‘Not interested in advertising in this publication.’

‘Who are your main clients, Dr Rüthke?’

‘We have a very limited number of clients.’

‘Can you give me some examples?’

‘We are not interested. Thank you.’

At this point, his mouth in close proximity to Andy’s enflamed left ear, and in a vicious monotone whisper, Lawrence starts to dictate a pitch of his own, kicking the desk until Andy takes it up. Lawrence’s pitch, though, is no more successful than Andy’s — is in fact almost identical, except that Andy’s delivery, previously flustered and faltering, suddenly has the flat, hesitant and disconnected feel of a simultaneous translation. When Dr Rüthke is still not interested — and increasingly irritated by the inexplicable pauses that have started to appear in the middle of Andy’s sentences — Lawrence drops the earpiece onto the desk and, with spittle accumulating in the corners of his mouth, shouts, ‘For God’s sake! For God’s sake — get angry!’

The Gents, with their pinkish marble surfaces and warm halogen lights, were put in for the previous tenants of King’s House — obviously a posher company than Park Lane Publications Ltd. Finding one of the stalls occupied, Paul tapped the varnished wood of the door. ‘Murray?’ he said, after a few moments of unforthcoming silence. ‘It’s me.’ Silence still. ‘I know you’re in there.’ Paul looked at his watch. Three forty-nine — time to call Flossman. ‘Murray, I know you’re in there.’

‘What?’ Murray’s voice, deadened by the door, was irate.

‘Are you planning to do any work this afternoon?’ Paul said, irate himself.

There was another long pause, then Murray said, ‘I’ll be along in a minute.’

Paul sighed, and for a moment, thinking vaguely of Michaela — the petite Kiwi barmaid from the Penderel’s Oak — he inspected himself in the mirror. Often, he and Murray perch up at the bar, imagining themselves to be flirting with her. They watch her always-smiling small figure as she moves, wearing a tight black skirt, twee blouse and clip-on bow tie; and often, in the dead heart of the afternoon, when even the Penderel’s Oak is quiet — the only sounds the automated pippings and whirrings of the fruit machines, and the mumble of the traffic from outside — they lounge there, making innuendo-laden small talk with her, and offering her cigarettes, which she accepts, and drinks, which she doesn’t.

Paul shoved a puffy hand through his pepper-and-salt hair. He is not handsome. Shortish, plump, his face unevenly flushed and already showing split mauve capillaries here and there, he looks ten years older than he is, which is thirty-nine.

On the sales floor, he lifted the white handset of his phone and was about to start entering Flossman’s number when he saw the note, unobtrusive among the papers that completely cover the surface of his desk. It was written with a purple highlighter pen in Andy’s almost retardedly childish handwriting. It said: Flosman called. Paul looked at Andy, who was on the phone, and seemed to be trying to avoid his eye. ‘Oi, Andy,’ he said. ‘What did Flossman say?’ Andy just shrugged and shook his head. ‘When did he call?’ Paul said. Andy put his phone on mute for a moment. ‘A few minutes ago.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What do you mean nothing?’

Andy shook his head, and unmuted his call. Frowning, Paul entered Flossman’s number into his phone. The long tone, once, twice, then …

‘Flossman.’

Expecting ‘Koch’, Paul was taken by surprise. He sat up straight and, his face forming itself into a wide, insincere smile, said, ‘Dieter. Charles Barclay here.’

‘Ah, Mr Barclay, we speak at last!’

‘Better late than never, Dieter.’

‘Yes indeed.’

‘How you doing?’

‘I’m very well. But I think that’s just because it’s the weekend tomorrow!’

‘Yeah, I know what you mean. I do know what you mean.’

‘What can I do for you, Mr Barclay?’

‘Well, it’s about this ad, Dieter. My secretary said we still haven’t got that fax through yet. I think she called, um …’ Paul pretends to have forgotten Frau Koch’s name. ‘She called your secretary, who said she’d send it through. She doesn’t seem to have done that though. I’m sorry to get you involved in this, Dieter, it’s just that I’m going to be away next week … There’s … Well, in the States, and if we could get this wrapped up before I go …’ His voice is slow and level and unworried. He has done this so many times before, has been in precisely this situation so many times, that his mind is unengaged, and his eyes wander over the mess of his desk, while his mouth gets the well-worn words out. ‘So if you could just make sure we get that this afternoon, Dieter …’

‘Yes, Mr Barclay. But we have decided against this.’

Said as though it were something insignificant.

There are innumerable moments like this, of course, and the humiliation stings because they demonstrate so starkly — after all the standard banter, which sets the salesman and the prospect up as equals — the underlying asymmetry of the situation. Stunned, furious — feeling as though he has been physically struck — Paul says, in a voice which still sounds almost unflustered, ‘Right. I thought the decision had already been made though, Dieter. I thought you’d decided to go ahead.’ That was undoubtedly the impression that Dieter had given him. He had said, ‘This is something we will be doing.’ He had said, ‘We will confirm this today.’ He had said, ‘We think this is a good idea.’

Now he says, ‘Yes, but I think we have other priorities at the moment.’

Paul is suddenly unaware of the humming sales floor around him, is aware only of Flossman’s disembodied presence in the white plastic handset of his phone. In short sickening pulses, during which the sales floor comes back, briefly and intensely real, he feels the appalling, ridiculous tenuousness of this link with Flossman — the link on which everything depends. During these moments, Flossman seems not even to exist. And yet Flossman is everything. ‘Dieter, if I could ask you, let me just ask you, what are your priorities?’ And without waiting for him to answer, ‘Remember that European Procurement Management is sent to the purchasing managers of Europe’s top one thousand manufacturing companies, companies like Philips, Hoechst and BMW.’ It is the sort of line Paul usually eschews, the sort of line that his style of selling has eliminated, but in situations like this — with panic setting in — what else is there? The oblique, modernist style is useless here. Faced with traditional salesmanship, however, Flossman immediately sounds weary. ‘Yes,’ he says, sighs, ‘I understand.’

‘So, if I could just ask you, Dieter, what are your priorities?’

‘Well …’ He seems to be on the point of answering — of telling Paul what his priorities are — when he hesitates, and says, ‘But we have decided not to do this. Thank you for thinking of us, Mr Barclay.’

Paul experiences a moment of pure frustration. Frustration that there is no way to force Flossman into the publication. There is, in fact, no point prolonging the call any further — contrary to the orthodoxy of the training room, it is more or less impossible to turn a situation like this around. Experience informs Paul of this, and, normally, he would wind up with a bruised, embittered goodbye. His voice is still level, though nothing remains of the laconic tone with which the call began. He says, ‘I understand, Dieter. I understand. If I could just ask you though — who are your most important clients?’

The conversation is now an undignified tussle — demeaning to them both — and Flossman is openly impatient. ‘I … I don’t know, Mr Barclay. I must tell you, we are not interested.’

‘But you said you were interested last week.’

‘Yes, but now we are not interested.’

Despite his enormous sense of injustice, of having been misled — lied to even — Paul knows that it would be useless, worse than useless, to dispute what Flossman said and meant or didn’t mean last week. All the power in the situation is, as always, with the prospect, and Paul is terribly aware of his own powerlessness. He says, ‘You have clients in the automotive industry?’

‘Of course.’

‘Such as which companies?’

‘Mr Barclay —’

‘DaimlerChrysler?’

‘Yes. Mr Barclay, I have told you —’

‘Could I just —’

‘I have told you we are not interested.’

‘What I was going to say, Dieter —’

‘If you have anything to say, please send me a fax.’

‘Let me just say this — is General Motors a client of yours?’

Flossman sighs. ‘No,’ he says. ‘Now, Mr Barclay …’

To persist, Paul knows, is totally futile. Flossman now dislikes him. Flossman is irritated, even angry. Nevertheless, he says, ‘What I wanted to say, Dieter, what I wanted to say is that I’m constantly speaking with … Actually, just today, for example, I’ve just come from a lunch meeting with a chap in GM — very senior individual on the purchasing side …’

‘This is bullshit,’ Flossman says dismissively.

For a moment Paul is so shocked, so insulted, that he is speechless. In sixteen years of selling, surprisingly perhaps, no prospect has ever openly put it to him that he is lying. Of course, there has been insinuation, there has been euphemistic scepticism, there has been innocent incredulity. Never this.

‘What did you say?’ He is stunned, his voice quiet.

Flossman laughs edgily, aware of having transgressed something, some etiquette — and also, it seems, elated to have done so. ‘You are speaking bullshit,’ he says, with a smile in his voice. The outrageousness of this is simply too much. Paul’s face blooms an alarmingly deep red. ‘I am speaking bullshit?’ he says hoarsely. ‘I am?’

‘Yes, you —’

‘No.’

‘You are speaking —’

‘No.’

‘— bullshit. You are —’

‘You are speaking bullshit, Flossman.’

‘— a liar, Mr Barclay.’

‘— speaking bullshit, Flossman.’

Flossman is laughing.

‘You are speaking bullshit, Flossman!’ Paul shouts it several times more, his hatred — ardent and humiliated — the hatred of the long-oppressed for the oppressor. Suddenly, though, there is no one there, no one on the end of the line. A small plastic silence. It is finished, and pulling his jacket from his seat, ignoring the looks that are fixed on him from all over the suddenly quiet sales floor, he sets off purposefully, urgently, for the Penderel’s Oak.