Richard got out of the elevator and walked, slightly hesitantly, down the corridor. Everything will be all right, he told himself, if only my desk is there. If my desk is there, everything will be fine. He walked into the large room full of cubicles he had worked in for three years. People were working at desks, talking on telephones, rummaging through filing cabinets, drinking bad tea and worse coffee. It was his office. And there was the place by the window, where his desk had once been, which was now occupied by a gray cluster of filing cabinets and a yucca plant. He was about to turn and run when someone handed him a cup of tea in a Styrofoam cup.
“The return of the prodigal, eh?” said Gary. “Here you go.”
“Hello Gary,” said Richard. “Where’s my desk?”
“This way,” said Gary. “How was Majorca?”
“Majorca?”
“Don’t you always go to Majorca?” asked Gary. They were walking up the back stairs that led to the fourth floor.
“Not this time,” said Richard.
“I was going to say,” said Gary. “Not much of a tan.”
“No,” agreed Richard. “Well. You know. I needed a change.”
Gary nodded. He pointed to a door that had, for as long as Richard had been there, been the door to the executive files and supplies room. “A change? Well, you’ve certainly got one now. And may I be the first to congratulate you?” The plaque on the door said:
R. B. MAYHEW JUNIOR PARTNER
“Lucky bastard,” said Gary, affectionately.
He wandered off, and Richard went through the door, utterly bemused. The room was no longer an executive supplies and file room: it had been emptied of files and supplies, and painted in gray and black and white, and recarpeted. In the center of the office was a large desk. He examined it: it was, unmistakably, his very own desk. His trolls had all been neatly put away in one of the desk drawers, and he took them all out, and arranged them around the office. He had his own window, with a nice view of the sludge-brown river and the South Bank of the Thames, beyond. There was even a large green plant, with huge waxy leaves, of the kind that looks artificial but isn’t. His old, dusty, cream-colored computer terminal had been replaced with a much sleeker, cleaner black computer terminal, which took up less desk space.
He walked over to the window and sipped his tea, staring out at the dirty brown river.
“You’ve found everything all right, then?” He looked up. Crisp, and efficient, Sylvia, the MD’s PA, was standing in the doorway. She smiled when she saw him.
“Um. Yes. Look, there are things I have to take care of at home . . . d’you think it’d be all right if I took the rest of the day off and—“
“Suit yourself. You aren’t meant to be back in till tomorrow anyway.”
“I’m not?” he asked. “Right.”
Sylvia frowned. “What happened to your finger?”
“I broke it,” he told her.
She looked at his hand with concern. “You weren’t in a fight, were you?”
“Me?”
She grinned. “Just teasing. I suppose you shut it in a door. That’s what my sister did.”
“No,” Richard began to admit, “I was in a fi . . . ” Sylvia raised an eyebrow. “A door,” he finished lamely.
He went to the building he had once lived in by taxi. He was not sure that he trusted himself to travel by the Underground. Not yet. Having no door key, he knocked at the door of his flat and was more than disappointed when it was opened by the woman Richard last remembered meeting, or rather, failing to meet, in his bathroom. He introduced himself as the previous tenant, and quickly established that a) he, Richard, no longer lived there, and b) she, Mrs. Buchanan, had no idea what had happened to any of his personal possessions. Richard took some notes, and then he said good-bye very nicely, and took another black taxi to go and see a man in a camel-hair coat.
The smooth man in the camel-hair coat was not wearing his camel-hair coat, and was, in fact, a good deal less smooth than the last time Richard had encountered him. They were sitting in his office, and he had listened to Richard’s list of complaints with the expression of someone who has recently and accidentally swallowed whole a live spider and has just begun to feel it squirm.
“Well, yes,” he admitted, after looking at the files. “There does seem to have been some kind of problem, now you mention it. I can’t quite see how it could have happened.”
“I don’t think it matters how it happened,” said Richard, reasonably. “The fact of the matter is that while I was away for a few weeks, you rented my apartment to,” he consulted his notes, “George and Adele Buchanan. Who have no intention of leaving.”