‘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.’