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Sleeping Dog goes to …

Chapter Seven
     
    I T’S MY FIRST day at work, and there’s a definite spring in my step as we weave through the streets of Soho. Doggo seems to sense my mood, scampering merrily along beside me.
    ‘Stop,’ I command, as we make to cross Broadwick Street. He doesn’t, not till the lead snaps taut. ‘Remember what we said? Right, left, right again.’ He looks at me like I’m mad. I crouch down beside him, pointing. ‘Right. Left. Right again.’ Amazingly, his eyes actually follow my finger.
    ‘Oh my God, that’s so cute!’
    Two overweight girls in high heels are teetering along the pavement towards us.
    ‘What?’ asks her friend. ‘Creepy guy talking to creepy dog?’
    The taunting cackle of their laughter fades away towards Wardour Street.
    ‘Don’t worry about them,’ I say to Doggo. ‘They’re what we call—’
    I bite my tongue. I’m not sure I should be teaching him bad words.
     
    It’s a morning of introductions. First there’s a gathering of the whole company in the conference room, all twenty or so employees. Ralph makes a speech and I smile awkwardly, then everybody goes back to work. Phase Two involves me making the rounds with Tristan and Edith (not forgetting Doggo, who carries himself as though the whole thing has been laid on for his benefit and he’s not quite sure yet whether he approves of his new colleagues).
    We get a frosty reception from Margaret in Accounts.
    ‘She has a cat,’ Tristan offers by way of explanation once we’ve moved on.
    ‘So?’ asks Edith.
    ‘Well, she now wants to know why she can’t bring it to work too.’ His tone leaves little room for doubt about where he stands on the question of Doggo.
    The Indology offices occupy two sides of the courtyard. There are skylights in the pitched roof, stripped boards on the floor, and all the furniture is designer minimalist. The effect is calming, coupled with an air of brisk, no-nonsense efficiency. There’s a lot of spare space. ‘Plenty of room for growth,’ says Tristan. ‘And we’re all about growth.’ Ralph cut his teeth in the industry back in the 1970s and doesn’t hold much truck with the open-plan ethos of modern office design. The account executives and the planners all have their own private offices. Tristan approves. ‘When you’re smarming a client, the last thing you want is other people eavesdropping on your bullshit.’ I’m not sure if he’s joking.
    The pitch for the SWOSH! campaign is being handled by Patrick Stubbs. Patrick is my age, maybe a couple of years older. He’s a skinny fellow with an engagingly bookish look about him. I glimpse a framed photo on his desk of a younger man, blond and lantern-jawed.
    ‘There’s a lot of good feeling towards us at KP and G,’ says Patrick. ‘If we win this one, who knows what else they’ll bung our way? I guess in the end it comes down to you two.’ He means Edith and me, and he says it with an ironic twinkle that implies: so, no pressure or anything.
    ‘We’re on it,’ says Edith.
    ‘So’s everyone else,’ cuts in Tristan. ‘We need you all over it.’
    Edith looks stung by his words, the unnecessary reprimand. We all know time is tight and there’s a lot riding on it.
    ‘Oh, I think we can stretch to all over, don’t you?’ I say to Edith.
    ‘Yeah, I reckon,’ she replies quietly.
    The creative department consists of a run of offices centred on a large games room of the kind often found in creative departments. There’s a pool table (naturally) and table football and a darts board and a couple of other activities which, over the years, the ‘creatives’ have somehow managed to convince the ‘suits’ are vital for the free flow of ideas. I love shooting pool (especially in office hours, when I’m being paid to do so), but the truth is, I’ve never had one half-good idea come to me while racking the balls or lining up a shot. They usually clobber me on the back of the head while I’m