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hadn’t shown up. If he’d still been in the same truculent frame of mind, he’d have been a catalyst for discontent, perhaps re-enacting his projectile vomiting. I’d heard he and Isabelle had rowed furiously in the office and guessed he was sulking. Isabelle came though, but didn’t look ecstatic, especially when Smithies advanced towards her.
    ‘Jolly well done on your promotion,’ he said, slapping her enthusiastically on the back. ‘You must be thrilled.’
    Her smile was convincing, if you didn’t catch the melancholy in her eyes. She seemed sadder even than earlier in the day, so sad that I felt a momentary pang of sympathy for her. Maybe she’d twigged that as Top Banana there was only one place to go, or was still reeling from Ryan’s obnoxious outburst. Either way, you would never have imagined she’d recently benefited from a massive hike up the greasy pole.
    ‘Oh yes,’ she said, in a flat voice. ‘I really appreciate the opportunity—can’t wait to get stuck into the new role.’
    ‘Great stuff,’ said Smithies, either not noticing or ignoring the non-verbal cues. ‘Let’s get something to eat, shall we?’
    I wasn’t hungry, but remembered his little dig about eating disorders. Shame to give him more ammunition.
    ‘Yes, let’s.’
    ‘What a super attitude Isabelle has,’ he said, piling food onto his plate, indifferent to its poor quality.
    ‘Yes, super,’ I replied, wondering if his comment was an implied criticism of me.
    I estimated the minimum amount of food necessary to avoid appearing hung up about it, and picked up a chicken drumstick with a serviette. Instantly, I replaced it—without investigating too closely, it smelled unpleasant to me.
    ‘Does chicken count as red meat?’ he asked, proving he’d been aware of my preferences all along.
    ‘I think it may be off.’
    He sniffed at his own chicken.
    ‘Seems alright to me.’
    As if to underline his opinion of my judgment, he helped himself to a second piece.
    ‘Your call—I’m not touching it.’
    I took a few of the pastries instead.
    ‘I suppose I ought to say something to Lisa,’ he said, the precarious pyramid of food on his plate wobbling dangerously as he moved away from the table. I couldn’t help but notice the lack of enthusiasm in his voice.
    So far Lisa had been doing a brilliant job holding court in the corner with a huddle of disaffected junior staff. I admired the way she buoyed them up despite her own disappointment. Still, it was easy for her—she hadn’t played any significant part in the tough decisions taken. If she ever made it to partner, she’d have to change her tactics. After all, it’s not so easy to slag the bastards off if you’re one of them.
    ‘I am
so sorry
to hear the disappointing news on your partnership,’ Smithies said, reinforcing the fiction that he was wholly disconnected from the process.
    ‘Me too.’
    ‘I trust Amy explained the reasoning behind the decision.’
    ‘Oh yes, but we both know the real reason, don’t we?’
    ‘Indeed?’
    ‘Yes, you think I’m a gobby cow.’
    ‘I must fetch a drink,’ I said, desperate to escape. Lisa’s natural belligerence fuelled by an excess of wine was a potent combination—the conversation would be constrained only by her need for a reference. That meant glassing Smithies was out, but practically anything else was permissible. Listening to her rant would be insufferable.
    ‘Ah well, it is Friday, isn’t it?’ Smithies replied, spotting my empty glass. ‘Although you should take it easy—we don’t want to stray off message do we?’
    The implication was clear—he believed it was me who’d coined the phrase “gobby cow”. And his snide little remarks about my drinking were beginning to grate.
    Drunk or sober, I wasn’t likely to stray off message. Smithies might not know it, but I could drink the bar dry to the point of falling over in a stupor but still stay on script. I was used to acting a