Read The Point for Free Online Page A

not eating it. Sometimes he dines with someone, usually a woman, sometimes the same one several times running, but more often he is alone. He usually knows a number of the other diners, mostly because they are clients of his. His computer consultancy is very highly regarded.
    Hello Jerry, murmurs Terry Feldman, and to his companion, I don’t think you know Jerry Glancy. Willy Morecombe, he says. Jerome has never heard the treasurer called Willy before. If you need a genius with a computer Jerry’s your man, says Terry. His voice is so soft you have to strain to hear, lean forward, pay attention.
    Oh, I think we’ve got a few of those of our own, says Morecombe in a cool voice.
    Wait’ll you try Jerry, says Terry.
    Jerome might appear to be reading his book but often it’s just his eyes resting on the page. His seat in the restaurant is like a whispering gallery; quite soft conversations can be heard from across the room. And of course nobody realises this – or maybe they do, maybe this table is in demand for its eavesdropping qualities. A couple of times Jerome has dropped in for a drink at the bar, which is a scattering of thirties leather tub chairs, not so comfortable you’d want to sit in them for too long, and looked to see if anybody else is appreciating the acoustics, but it’s always been a couple in animated conversation, two gay men with ears only for themselves, a man and woman young and starry enough for honeymooners, two middle-aged women with a lot to laugh about, Morecombe with someone he recognised as a new backbencher. Maybe you had to sit there on your own and be still to overhear. And not many people dine on their own, nobody does, really.
    Tonight he can hear Godblot, the magistrate, talking to a young woman, tall and slim, glamorously dressed and restless, as well she might be since he is famous for collecting pretty women. She seems to be called Titania.
    The problem is the public service, Godblot is saying. It’s in the shape of a mushroom. Big bulge at the top, skinny stalk underneath.
    Jerome hears the girl mutter, Like a mushroom cloud, but Godblot takes no notice, or more like doesn’t hear, he’s a great selflistener.
    Whereas it should be in the shape of a Christmas tree. Leave it to me, I’d pretty soon get it into the shape of a Christmas tree.
    With coloured lights, and a star on top?
    Why not. You want a star, and you want him on top.
    All pronouns carefully intended, says Titania.
    It occurs to Jerome that this woman is considerably brighter than the magistrate’s usual candidates, and that a Christmas tree is supported on quite a thin stalk too.
    Of course, Godblot goes on, the best thing would be to give someone like Lindsay Fox however many squillions and let him get on with running the country.
    But the country isn’t a business …
    There you go. That’s the mistake everyone makes. That’s what’s wrong with it, not running it like a business. Making a profit.
    And what about the community, the society … what about the people?
    A good boss cares about his people. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against childcare, that kind of thing, paid holidays. A good boss knows happy workers are productive workers.
    It would be a dictatorship.
    You shouldn’t be scared of words, Titania my love. Any decent business is a dictatorship. That’s why it works.
    What about freedom?
    You work for Paddy Lyon. He’s a Labor man, he has his agendas. Are you free?
    He’s not running a totalitarian state.
    It’s all words, you know. Just words. Bogey words. Placebo words.
    No, she says. We have to pay attention to the words, we have to know what they mean and make sure they mean what we mean them to mean. Otherwise we’re a doomed society.
    Oh Tit-tit-tania, says Godblot. You can see him wanting to say, you are so pretty when you’re indignant; instead his beaming at her says it for him. The girl’s lips curl. Jerome wonders if she is finding the price of a Godblot meal rather