NORMAN SMITH'S RETIREMENT - PART 7

Introduction

In part 6, Norman Smith, after a long and painful labour, finally decided to accept the retirement package offered to him by Bailey and Benfield.

In part 7, we begin to understand some of the ramifications of his decision, six months down the track, and its unwitting impact on the lives of some of those around him.

Part 7 - Six Months Later

As I sit in the lounge listening to Norman, who is upstairs sawing away at his latest mannequin and playing highlights from The Marriage of Figaro on the old gramophone he keeps up there, I wonder really why I tried so hard to encourage him to retire.

I was rather hoping that his retirement would open up a new world for both of us, involving extensive overseas holidays, interspersed with a range of ‘mini-breaks’ in and around the UK and Europe. I also imagined he would be spontaneous in suggesting dining out, theatre trips, and visits to National Trust properties or other places of interest. More optimistically than that, I hoped that his presence would lead to the improvement of our social, not to mention sexual, bonding and the resumption of the lively conversations we used to partake in during the early years of our courting.

I suppose you could say that I am just an old romantic and I do realise these things do not come quickly. However, after six months of retirement, Norman has shown few signs of wanderlust or a desire for improved social contact either with his wife or anyone else. I also acknowledge that I have been somewhat remiss in my duty to encourage him to understand my expectations. Like most men, Norman needs guiding and I expect it is unrealistic for me to expect him to understand my needs without pointing them out to him bluntly with a sledgehammer. Clearly, dropping hints is not enough.

He spends most of the time locked in his room producing the most grotesque gargoyles which bear little relation to any known species of animal. There is only so much flattery you can give to someone who is struggling to master even the very basics of their hobby. Furthermore, he has grown the most unkempt and patchy beard I have ever seen, claiming that one of the greatest benefits of retirement is the freedom not to shave. For goodness sake, he looks like an absolute tramp! 

As for us doing more things together, another vain hope I had about his retirement, these have generally not been the sort of things I would necessarily choose to do with my husband. He insists on following me around the supermarket, for example, adding unnecessary and frivolous items to the trolley, which completely puts me off my loading routine. He has even interfered in what sort of rice and potatoes we should buy. He also chooses to accompany me on other shopping ventures in the high street, where husbands are absolutely not welcome, hampering my capacity to indulge in spontaneous purchases of clothes, shoes and other necessary accessories.

Infuriatingly, he is also usually at home when my friends come to visit, which can cause some unease amongst the girls, especially when they want to indulge in more contentious conversations about the failings of men in general and husbands in particular or partake in a few mid-afternoon cocktails. On these occasions, he is won’t to turn up unexpectedly in the lounge or kitchen and expects to join in the conversation, for goodness sakes. Has he no social intelligence at all?

Of further concern is his propensity to hover around upstairs when I am taking a shower or a bath. I flatter myself that this is because he has taken a renewed interest in my nudity but I fear the real reason is that he is checking how much hot water I am using, concerned as he is about our fuel bills. I simply cannot understand his parsimonious attitude to money, especially after the retirement package he managed to screw out of Bailey and Benfield.

I am used to having time and space at home and have found it hard to adjust to his seemingly eternal presence which, naturally, hampers my little routines. I can’t remember when I last had an afternoon nap, for example, a pleasure I used to enjoy freely.

As for his interference with domestic chores, this is quite unbearable. His contributions are sporadic, to say the least and have absolutely no method. He will occasionally decide to cook dinner, for example, without having had the foresight to go shopping first. He expects all the ingredients just to happen to be in the kitchen. He will then execute a recipe quite competently, but fail to wash up or put anything away afterward. Most irritatingly, he will then expect me to be grateful to him, forgetting that it is merely what I do every other day of my life without a fuss or mess. Furthermore, he seems to think that this feat exonerates him from any further kitchen duties for a least a week. In a similar manner, he will occasionally take the hoover round the house and do some dusting. Invariably he does this within hours of me having already done it. He doesn’t even seem to notice. Afterward, he makes a meal about how domesticated he is and how tiring housework can be. Can you believe it? His ironing skills are marginally better, though he never puts the ironed clothes away and does not participate in any other part of the cycle of washing, drying, and airing, as if ironing is a singular activity, completely unrelated to these.  Needless to say, he never cleans the lavatory.

There is a lot to be said for the demarcation of domestic duties in a marriage, and retirement should not be an excuse to water this down. I am happy to let him put the bins out, mow the lawn, polish the shoes, clean the car, and wash the outside of the windows, but I am not having him do the inside; there is far too great a risk of my ornaments being smashed and filthy water being left to dry on the window-ledges. If only he would not interfere with my duties which, by doing so, invariably makes them more difficult and time-consuming. Furthermore, I don’t want him complaining if I stuff things under the spare beds because I can’t be bothered to find a home for them. That’s my business. I wouldn’t tell him how to pop a champagne bottle, would I?

This may all sound incredibly petty and narrow-minded but, believe me, these things can really get to you, especially if you are not getting the rewards you might expect from having an unemployed husband in tow. I would not mind if we could have a decent conversation now and again about life and our dreams and hopes. Even if these were fanciful and unachievable, it would at least be a diversion from the day to day routine. It would be preferable not to go into any detail about our carnal relations, but I have noticed little improvement in the frequency, enthusiasm or passion with which he makes advances of this nature. Not only do I find his beard a repulsive antidote to erotica but, after years of routine, we both now feel uncomfortable expressing any sexual feelings unless we are already under the duvet, in our pyjamas, with the lights out, by which time either one or the other of us is invariably snoring blissfully.

To be honest, I am trying hard to remain positive. As long as you dream that things can get better, then there is hope. Once you begin to doubt that they ever will, it is difficult not to fall into despond and question the very fabric of your existence. In such a mood, apart from that idealised and impossible hope of a perfect husband, it is hard to understand the point of being married at all. Some of my friends seem to manage quite well on their own. Nonetheless, it seems to be one of life’s paradoxes that if you are married, you can sometimes only see the benefits of not being so, and if you are not, you usually wish you were. There is no answer to that one, other than to take control of whatever situation you are in and make the best of it. Which is what I am going to do.

And how about Norman? Is he happy with the way things are? The honest answer to that is that I don’t know. Like most men, he is not exactly forthcoming when it comes to talking about his feelings. My guess is that he is doing what most of his gender seem to do, which is to hide away from them by immersing themselves in some futile pastime, hobby, or activity as if this will give their life all the meaning it needs.  Men like to think what they are doing is important, noble, and commands respect and admiration from their peers. This is the air that they need to inflate their fragile egos. Women tend to struggle with this approach because they are less inclined to define themselves by what they do but by who they are in a social sense, that is why older men generally prefer lonely inward-facing pursuits whilst older women prefer more social outward-facing activities. Clearly this is gender stereotyping, but if you have been around as long as I have, no matter how hard you try to convince yourself that the gender gap is an irrational and avoidable concept, you have to come the conclusion that there are huge differences of attitude and behaviour between the sexes which cannot be overturned by social philosophers or the media.  However, ultimately time works its wonders, and as men get older and older they become more feminine whilst women become more masculine. Women start to grow facial and body hair and their voices deepen, whilst men become timid, frightened and lose the hairs on their legs. Maybe, if you live long enough, you start thinking on the same wavelength as well, for the first time in your lives.

In reality, no matter how annoying these gender differences are, at the end of the day, there is no point in thinking they will go away. It is just the way we are made so there is no point in trying to balk against it. The trick is clearly to work around the differences and to find some common ground if there is any left.

Anyway, I have decided that enough is enough and have resolved to go to the travel agents tomorrow to get some brochures and tell Norman that he has to get involved with planning a big holiday abroad. Whilst we are away, I fully intend to have it out with him and set a few retirement rules. I am also going to get a new hairstyle and some clothes to see if he notices. If he doesn’t, I will make sure he bloody well does!

One final point to make clear is that I am not lonely. I have all my friends and Norman to keep me company, all be it on a semi-distant level. At least he is around more than he used to be. Furthermore, I do not need company all the time. I am often just as happy on my own. I do miss Tiddles, though. By some strange coincidence, he disappeared virtually the same time as Norman retired. Then again, perhaps it is best that there is only one tomcat in the house at a time.

~

I have still kept in touch with Mrs. G since her husband’s retirement, but we have not met up together with husbands since then. This is partly because neither of us particularly wants to, but also because Hugo says he doesn’t want to have anything more to do with Norman (though he did not express it quite so politely) whom I fear Hugo feels had one over on him over the whole retirement affair. As you know, Hugo hates to be pushed into a corner by anyone. To be fair, Norman and Hugo are a bit like chalk and cheese so I can’t say I am at all surprised.

I meet up with Mrs. G in London every couple of weeks for a coffee and some shopping and we call each other from time to time. She still makes me laugh, and that counts for a lot, especially at the moment.

When I rang earlier she was outside in the garden putting her smalls on the line.

“You won’t believe this,” she said, “but there is a man peeping through the garden hedge at me pegging my panties out. What a perv!” she said.

“Do you wash them separately from Norman’s clothes, or are you about to hang his long john’s out as well?”

“Suzanne. Don’t be ridiculous. I would never wash my silks with his cottons. You never know what contagion might occur!”

“Indeed. So I expect Mr. Perv will be satisfied with your display of intimate adornments.”

“Normally I would hope this to be the case, after all, it costs enough considering how infrequently anyone but myself sees them, but it is not entirely comfortable having a bush-peeper eye them up and down. You never know what he might be doing in his trouser pocket.”

“Is he really still there?”

“I think I scared him off with one of my stares.”

“I am sure you did. They are quite terrifying, you know.”

“You haven’t seen my ‘get away you dirty old perv.’ stares, have you, Suzanne?”

“No. And I hope I never will.”

“Coward.”

“Are you going to call the police?”

“Whatever for. They might ask me to make a statement about my knickers.”

“In that case, I wouldn’t bother. You wouldn’t want your laundry aired in public.”

“Especially at the police station. You don’t know who may be listening. By the way, how are you?”

“Oh, so so I suppose.”

“Sounds bad”

“No, not really. Just the usual.”

“So Hugo is still being a pain is the arse is he?”

“I wish he was. At least then he would be taking some notice of me.”

“I think that might have been a rude allusion which I will ignore.”

“Why on earth would you think that?”

“Because I know you too well. Listen, would you like to meet up for a chat later in the week? I’m pretty free on Thursday.”

“How about this afternoon?”

“Well, that is a bit soon. I need to prepare for my visits to London. You know, slap on the old war-paint, clip on the prosthesis, dig out the Stilettos, and check the train times, that sort of stuff. Besides, I have to consider Norman. I promised I would accompany him on an outing to the dump this afternoon to dispose of the grass cuttings.”

“You live such an exciting life, Mrs. G. I am almost jealous of you.”

“So you should be. We went to Iceland together earlier this morning.”

“How very exotic. Overseas travel before lunch. Which airline did you fly?”

“We went in Norman’s Morris Minor.”

“Super-charged?”

“Actually we were, at the check-out.”

“And what did you buy in Iceland, may I ask?”

“Ice cubes for the fridge.”

“Can’t you make them yourself?”

“Norman likes to get out now and again. I think he is hoping I will let him buy a frozen trifle or something and talk to the lovely lady on the check with whom he seems quite smitten.”

“How absolutely ghastly! You would never let him do that would you Mrs. G.? I would never talk to you again of you did.”

“Do what? Buy a frozen trifle of chat up the lady on the checkout?”

“Buy a frozen trifle from Iceland, of course.”

“No. I would never let him do that.”

“Is she attractive?”

“Who?”

“The lady on the check out.”

“If you like spotty cross-eyed midgets wearing nylon smocks, I suppose she is an absolute stunner.”

“Now, now. That sounds a bit catty to me. Are you jealous by any chance?”

“Certainly not. She is quite plain and I am extremely attractive. There is no competition at all.”

“Do you think she is attracted to Norman’s beard?”

“I don’t think she can even see Norman through her squint, let alone minor facial details like an absolutely massive bushy un-kept and patchy beard.”

“It doesn’t sound very appealing to me.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Tell you about what?”

“It’s just a turn of phrase. Do you never read Twitter comments?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s a good way of keeping up with the latest jargon and slang, innit?”

“Mrs. G, are you becoming a little vulgar, or is there a fault on the line?”

“If I rush now, I should be able to postpone the dump expedition until tomorrow, strap my false leg on, and catch the 2.00 pm train to Victoria. I’ll see you in Harrods at 3.30.”

“So you changed your mind, did you?”

“I changed my tune as well.”

“See you later. Bibi.”

The truth is that Hugo has not been his usual positive self recently. Ever since the incident with Norman, he seems to have lost some of his vim. As I have already mentioned, he rarely mentions his business activities to me, but I have a strong sense something isn’t going well at work. He seems to be awfully bad-tempered a lot of the time, especially when he comes home in the evening. I have done everything I can to cheer him up, but it is becoming harder and harder. I wish he was. Quite the opposite is true in fact. He seems to have lost his libido as well, a dangerous sign for the younger wife of an older man where there is always a risk that it is a permanent rather than temporary development, in which case, the future suddenly becomes somewhat bleak.  I really would rather not have to look elsewhere to satisfy this requirement, but I might have to consider options if this is indeed the case.

I have decided to give up wearing a fake-tan. I think it was seeing Donald Trump on TV that swung it. This has been a momentous decision for me, but I have chosen to do it in the Autumn as one would naturally expect a more pallid skin tone in that season, compared to the previous one. I actually feel quite liberated by the decision, if not still slightly self-conscious. Unsurprisingly, Hugo hasn’t even noticed, let alone offered any support to me in this difficult time of change. I have also switched to soya milk, even on my Muesli.

So you can see, these are unsettled times for the Benfield household and I am hoping we can both sail through the stormy waters together without either of us being dashed on the rocks of misfortune.     

~

I have always been keenly aware of the vagaries of lady luck and her tendency to kick you in the balls when you are flying high on her wings, but I don’t think I’ve ever experienced anything quite like the past six months.  It is difficult for me to divorce the whole sorry string of events from that eccentric old git, Norman Smith. Though he is merely the catalyst to my downfall, and others must take some of the blame, without him I would still most assuredly be up there with the best of them. Instead, I am down here, pretty much in the gutter.

Fortunately, I have been provided with a low rent council flat an am in receipt of some state benefits, which at least means I do not have to live on the street anymore and delve into dustbins for food, though the indignity of my circumstances could hardly more galling. Nonetheless, it is all rather disorientating, considering that I was a professional middle-income home-owner with a wife expecting child just six months ago. Now I am pretty much on my own, due to a terminal lack of family support, my not having any siblings or parents to ponce off.

I don’t really know where to begin, but perhaps the day that Smith was finally persuaded to hang his abacus up might be a good enough start. Initially, I thought that the email from Louise was some kind of weird joke brought on by a gestational hormone imbalance or something. The timing of its delivery was unkind to say the least, both in hindsight but also considering I was in a state of professional euphoria, having just successfully delivered to my boss the outcome he had tasked me with. It was probably because I was in such a mood that I simply could not accept that my wife could have left me. Naturally, I tried to call her, but there was no answer and it was not the sort of conversation I wanted to conduct by answerphone.

I wandered home slowly, stopping for a pint or two on the way if I remember rightly, in no particular hurry to have my mood dashed by a domestic misunderstanding. When I got home, Mitch was scratching the walls with hunger and loneliness. He had clearly been alone for most of the day. Once I had fed him he calmed down. Louise had left a slightly longer message on the kitchen table explaining that she had decided to leave me for another man, referred to only as Bruce, of whose existence I had no prior knowledge, who had apparently been kind and attentive to her in my long and frequent absences and who at least seemed to pay her some attention which could not be said of me. Anyway, you know the self-piteous gist of these pathetic types of missive which I expect are written in similar words over and over again every day of the week by a myriad of disillusioned partners who haven’t the guts to say how it is face to face. Upstairs, her wardrobe and chest drawers were half-empty, and most of the bathroom potions had been removed.

By now I was coming down from my professional high and the beers were wearing off. The penny was beginning to drop. This might be serious, after all.

You can never really tell with women. They are extremely adept at play-acting and exploiting the wanton gullibility of men. I could soon see that I had been duped.  Clearly, what I had to offer was not to her ladyship’s liking, nor as alluring as that which Bruce was tempting her with. Nonetheless, so soon after becoming pregnant, surely that fact should have weighed in my favour. But wait a minute! What if Bruce was the father of the baby, not me? Forgive me for thinking the obvious, even if it takes me a few seconds to get there. So that was it, me slaving away to make a living for my growing family, whilst her ladyship goes courting because she doesn’t have enough to occupy her feeble female body and mind.

I did not hear a dicky-bird from Louise for a week but, in the meantime, she clearly had returned to the house on a couple of occasions when I was at work to remove other of her possessions, all of which I had, of course, paid for. When she did ring, it was to tell me not to worry about her, that she had moved in with Bruce, and that she wanted us to leave it a few months before making any formal separation arrangements so that we both had time to adjust to the new situation. Naturally, I did not take too kindly to her laying the law down like this, so I hung up. She didn’t ring back.

This setback in itself might sound quite upsetting, but it was nothing compared to what was to come. A week later, I was unceremoniously sacked by Bailey and Benfield. Sir Hugo did not even have the guts to do the dirty deed himself but delegated the responsibility to the Deputy Head of HR, who theoretically reported directly to me, and one of the Junior Partners. My position and level of remuneration had been reviewed by the Senior Partners and it was deemed that, in the light of organisational restructuring, my position was no longer necessary and I was, therefore, surplus to requirements. I suspect that Sir Hugo was single-handedly behind the decision. He and I had never seen eye to eye, though I had rather hoped that the efficiency of my execution of his instructions might have over-ridden any personal differences. Clearly this was not the case.

The redundancy package they offered me was paltry but, nonetheless, the legal minimum, so unlikely to stand up to contest at an industrial tribunal. My deputy had clearly been working on this whilst I had been working on Smith’s exceedingly generous retirement package. What a sick irony.

 I was not required to work any notice period so I was literally out of work with immediate effect.  Sadly, Mitch died the same evening. He had been eating the settee cushions and choked to death. Louise thinks that I killed him in a fit of rage.

They do say that divorce, redundancy, and death are three of the most stressful of life’s experiences. When they all come together, one has to dig pretty deep to keep the old head above water.  I did not have the heart to start applying for jobs immediately, so I had to start eating into my extremely modest lump-sum, which I calculated would last no more than three months if I was exceedingly cautious. It is pretty lonely sitting at home all day when your wife has gone and your dog has died, so I got into the habit of wandering down to the Dog and Duck at lunchtime for a pint and to read the newspaper. Gradually, I got to know a few of the locals and started staying longer and longer and eventually found myself merging the lunchtime, afternoon and evening sessions, before returning home, eating a can of beans out of the tin and collapsing on my bed. I know, it all sounds so pathetic and predictable, but there you go. I was not made for a life of idleness.

After a few months of dissolution, I had become a habitual drinker, ignoring all other avenues of endeavour completely, failing to pay bills or look after myself. Furthermore, I joined a secret poker club and managed to lose rather more money than I could not afford to.

Around about this time I received a letter from a solicitor, acting on behalf of my wife, explaining that she was filing for divorce on the grounds of cruelty. A mate at the pub put me in touch with his brother in law, who was a solicitor, and I was able to spend the rest of my money fighting what turned out to be an acrimonious divorce settlement in which I was fleeced of most of my assets, including my house and most of my pensions, on the grounds that I had money but I had not allowed my wife to work and earn her own. All this went through ridiculously quickly because my solicitor seemed to think that his professional duty was to accede to all the demands that my wife made through her solicitor. In short, he completely bankrupted me. As for the grounds for the divorce, he advised me not to object to the accusation of cruelty because it would only make matters worse if I did. I can’t imagine how things could have been any worse than they already were but I was too tired to object.

A month ago, I was evicted from my home on the grounds that I was in mortgage arrears and my wife wanted to realise this asset. I packed a hold-all and took to the streets, sleeping in doorways or doss-houses and living from day to day, begging enough cash to buy booze and the odd pork pie. It was an experience I hope I do not have to repeat, especially as I was treated like dirt by most of the members of the public whom I approached for aid. It is literally a case of kicking a man when he is down. The other dossers weren’t much better, but there was some solidarity between us provided one of us did not possess something the others wanted.

A few weeks ago I was picked up by a social worker in an overnight hostel, who arranged for me to sign some paperwork which enabled me to register with the local authority as officially homeless. She then managed to get me on the emergency housing list and also to register me for benefits and sign up at the Job Centre. There is no way I could have done any of that on my own, so I am extremely grateful.

So here I am, relieved to be living in a damp one-roomed flat with a bare light bulb and a shared toilet. When I arrived here I had nothing but the clothes I was wearing, but another charity has set me up with the basics for living – a bed, a chair, a hygiene-kit (shower gel., Toothpaste, and toilet paper), and a starter pack which includes bedding, a towel, a cup, a plate, a knife, a fork, and a spoon. So I am all set now to reconquer the world!

On the other hand, Smith I expect is living the life of Riley in his mansion in Reigate with his lovely wife and all the money Sir Hugo bestowed on him before destroying me.  How can there be any justice in that? But, silly me, there is, of course, no justice at all in this world. There is luck, and there is industry, and there is charm, and there is skill, but there is no fairness. Justice is handed out on a completely random basis to beneficiaries who do not even know that they have been lucky because they assume either it is their entitlement or it is normal. Injustice is equally random, but recipients of this kind of random bad luck generally know that they have been singled out. Why did I ever even consider that this was not the case? Why did I believe that I could work hard and forge a straight-line trajectory to the top of the pile? Why does this kind of disastrous set-back never happen to the likes of Sir Hugo with their waistcoats and trophy wives? Probably because they are born with silver spoons in their mouths and cushions of family wealth to fall back on. Which, of course, is also a matter of luck, not justice.

Smith has been very lucky indeed. Let’s face it, he is, by any measure, a mediocre accountant, a pedant, and a flawed employee, lacking in both ambition and talent. He is a coaster who was never prepared to put in the extra mile or think outside of the box either for his own advancement or for the benefit of the firm. He has trodden water for decades causing a major blockage in the flow of promotion and a static whirlpool of stale and dated procedures. His only professional quality of any note is his stubborn capacity to hang on in there until the bitter end, an admittedly unusual feat in the modern workplace. And yet, despite all this mediocrity, he has forged a remunerative long-term career over decades and ultimately been provided with a pension that most entrepreneurs would die for.

And to think that I spent the last weeks of my fissured marriage and precipitous career engineering the perfect conditions for him to accept as accommodating a retirement package as I could create, because that is what I was expected to do whereas I was, in fact, simultaneously creating the architecture of my own downfall.   

I am not bitter and twisted and I do not hold any grudges. I hope Norman, Sir Hugo, and Louise are happy and fulfilled, but I never want to see any of them again. I am too damaged by my experiences to risk a face-up to any of them. I would either be filled with utter shame or irrational anger and who knows what that might make me do.

It does seem an awfully daunting climb back even to the very lowest rung of the employment ladder, but I do have a pretty impressive CV, even if there is a six-month gap in it that will need some explaining. I will not be looking for work in the accountancy profession, but good HR staff are in demand in many industries. I think the finance or tech industries look the most promising. I can deal with cut-throat now that I have had my own slit open so wide.

~

You will probably already know that I quit the Smiths as soon as the master retired. A cat has its pride, and being thrown around, trodden on, and starved is an unacceptable insult to one’s innate hubris. I pushed off after dinner one evening which, thankfully, was one of the larger portions favoured by Mrs. G. She did however manage to step on my tail whilst I was rubbing myself on her legs in false-adoration ahead of the feast. This may have been the last straw. Nonetheless, once I have made up my mind that is it. There is no going back.

With a full belly and an empty heart, I strolled out into the night, bearing some regrets about having to leave my home comforts, especially as it was raining. Like most of my species, I am not enamoured with water in any of its many guises. To me, it’s only useful function is to quell thirst. The main problem is that it makes your fur wet in which case you almost immediately become indistinguishable from a stray. Let me get this absolutely clear, I am not and never will be a stray cat, even when I am between masters. Stray cats are unclean, uncouth, vulgar, and wracked by all sorts of hideous diseases, including the mange. I, on the other hand, am well-bred, handsome, sophisticated, and in robust health.

Naturally, I knew where all the local dry places were, including underneath Mr. Smith’s Morris Minor, a dry and warm refuge if the engine has been running recently. However, this was far too close to home. You never know, someone might come looking for me there. Behind the garage is an overhanging piece of roof which I very much favour because it is often frequented by stupid little rodents hiding from the weather so not only do you get a dry shelter but, as often as not, a snack to keep you going as well. This too was nowhere near far enough from my former home. I, therefore, decided to pay a visit to Suzie, who lives in the house at the end of the back garden, and whose masters do not get on particularly well with the Smiths since a dispute over the boundary and a new fence, a couple of years back. The fence is a doddle to hurdle, and in no time I was in the garden shed where Suzie has her boudoir and hosts her salon.

Unfortunately, she was not alone. Bert, from number twenty, was trying to charm her with his tail tricks (he’s double-jointed) but I could tell Suzie wasn’t very impressed. He’s just is a one-trick cat. “Oy Bert. Time to leave,” I said in an assertion of natural dominance, catching an affirming glance from Suzie. “Go and practice some new moves. Those are old hat, old cat.” The thing about Bert is that he could probably seriously maul me in a cat-fight because he has got much more beef on him than me, he just seems to lack self-confidence and aggression, two characteristics I am rarely short of. In short, he is a bit of a pussy, probably because he has let himself become over domesticated.

“How’s the litter?” I asked Suzie once he had gone.

“Oh, you know, all farmed out. I don’t know why I bother really.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you know. You go to all that trouble to get knocked up and suffer the hardships of pregnancy, only to have the lot of them taken away from you just as you are getting to know them.”

She’s a great gal, Suzie, but she does tend to winge a bit. “Well, not to worry, Tom Tiddles can soon set you straight again in the family way.”

“I’m not in season.”

“Well, we don’t need to worry about little details like that do we?”

“I don’t like being fertilised when I am not in season.”

“I see. Is that what you told Bert?”

“No. I just told him I didn’t want to be the mother of his kittens”

“Why not?”

“Because he is a marmalade ginger”

“Fair enough.”

Suzie was sharpening her claws on a piece of four by four. “Anyway, it’s nice to see you, Bert. Got half a pigeon left in the back if you fancy a bite?”

“No thanks, love. I’ve just eaten.”

“Ok, I’ll put it in the hole and it’ll do for dinner tomorrow. I just don’t have the appetite for a whole bird anymore.”

“That’s because you have been pining for me. Admit it.”

“What do you want this time?”

Well, I was just wondering if I could stay the night here? No hanky-panky, I promise. I’m just, kind of, a bit homeless all of a sudden, that’s all.

“Been booted out for bad behaviour?”

“Naaah. Just done a runner.”

“Why”

“Long story.”

“I’ve got time.”

“OK. Well, it goes like this…..”

I explained to Suzie how I had come to be homeless. Whilst the story was pretty much based on the truth, it naturally also involved some rather dashing embellishments to avoid the impression that I had taken any abuse lying down.

“So you bit him on the ankle?” said Suzie, admiringly.

“Oh yes. Just to let him know not to mess around with me.”

“How did he react?”

“He threw me out of the window.”

“Poor thing.”

“Yes, it was rather uncomfortable but I landed on the lawn.”

“No, I meant poor Mr. Smith.”

“Why? He was being abusive.”

“Yes, but you bit the hand that feeds you.”

“Not anymore.”

“That’s your choice.”

“Who’s side are you on, anyway? Or have you become a soppy human-lover all of a sudden?”

“No. I just don’t like to see cruelty to them. After all, they are so stupid and defenceless, you should not take advantage of them like that.”

“I know it is not categorically correct, but if we go on like this we will be feeling sorry for mice and sparrows soon. Where would we be then?”

“Anyway, you seem to have made your decision and I don’t suppose you will change your mind. You are such a stubborn and old-fashioned Tom.”

By now Suzie was cleaning her whiskers in what could only be described as a seductive manner.

“And you are such a tease, Suzie, with your hot fur and whiskers. Anyone would think you fancied me.”

“But I do, sometimes.”

“Then why are you always criticising my tomcatliness.”

“Because it winds you up.”

“No, it doesn’t”

“Yes, it does. Admit it. You are peeved with me.”

“Can I stroke your neck?”

“Certainly not. I’m not a hussy you know”

“Oh. I thought you were. What a shame.”

TomTiddles?

“Yes, Suzie”

“Why don’t you go to sleep now?”

“Good idea. I’ll lie on top of you to keep you warm.”

Anyway, that’s roughly how I charmed myself into a dry night’s sleep. The next morning when I awoke, Suzie had gone inside the house, no doubt to get some processed breakfast, so I stole the half-pigeon out of her hole and took it with me as a snack.

~

When you’ve been at the top level of business as long as I have, unless you continue to proceed successfully from project to project and enjoy the associated, ongoing, accumulation of the benefits of net-worth and power, you are bound to stall.  An aeroplane losing its engines is an apt analogy. Without forward thrust, it tumbles to earth and crashes.

 Some senior-executives manage to transfer their momentum into a completely new venture or industry sector, whilst others become executive directors and consultants, enjoying all the fruits of influence with less of the responsibilities. Some may withdraw from the business world completely and become philanthropists or sponsors of prestigious sporting or arts events but few, if any, will ever admit to retiring from their life’s mission. They would rather fall off the back of a boat like Ján Ludvík Hyman Binyamin Hoch, alias Robert Maxwell. The word retirement may be used in the context of retiring from one project in order to embark upon the next, but never in terms of retirement from ambition.

It is simply not possible to reverse the lifelong process of acquiring wealth, power and influence. To do so would be an abnegation on such a scale that it would be tantamount to self-destruction and no human being could take a shock of that magnitude.

In this context, the more successful you are, the more imprisoned you are by your own psychological need to scale greater heights. It is a matter of self-worth. Failure and mediocrity are the ultimate humiliations.

That is not to say that even the most successful businessman does not have set-backs along the way. Indeed, it is these very crises that prove the strength and ingenuity of the individual and the ability to overcome them is, without doubt, the mark of a great man (or woman). However, there is a distinction between a setback and a body-blow. Body-blows tend to be acute assaults on all that has been accumulated over a long period of time. Younger people are more resilient to these because they know they have time to regroup and start all over again, all be this a demoralising process.

Older people, such as myself, become increasingly vulnerable to body-blows as they know that they can potentially be completely wiped out by them without any chance of recovery. That is why successful people tend to put much thought into contingency planning, diversification, tax management schemes, and secret offshore stashes, as they mature. I believe I am now fully hedged against a body-blow in that, even if I became bankrupt in the UK, I could still quite easily forge a very comfortable existence in many an offshore tax-haven.  

However, no-one would wish for such a cyclone to sweep their lifestyle offshore, with all the potential outcomes that would entail such as loss of family, friends, sentimental assets, and a terminal requirement to lie about one's past.

Why then, am I concerning myself with such insured improbabilities?  Well, the truth is, I have suffered a small professional set-back, which I do not believe has the makings of a body-blow, but none-the-less has some of the distressing symptoms of one. In short, my plan that Baily and Benfield should take over Black and Stapleton has backfired to such an extent that I am now the senior partner of a company facing a hostile reverse-take-over from that very competitor firm.

The reason for this is complex but, simply put, I was unable to raise the required finance quickly enough. Goldman Sachs went through our accounts and concluded that we could only borrow on a bridging loan half of what I asked for due to our ongoing high overheads costs, mainly in the payroll area, and our failure to invest sufficiently in state of the art IT facilities that are capable of complying with new General Data Protection Regulations. I was aware that both issues were in need of attention, but the review of payroll costs which, as you know, I had been desperately trying to reduce, revealed the ‘above market’ rates I was paying Brooks and other specialist roles, including an IT consultant I had hired to make a proposal for a major systems upgrade (even though I had no intention of keeping these employees on the books once their jobs were done). It also revealed the crippling retirement package bestowed on Smith, and other rather costly severance packages I had authorised in order to trim the firm down ahead of the take-over bid.  In the end, it was simply a matter of timing. Needless to say, I have since sacked Brooks and the IT consultant so we now have no HR and IT expertise in the company, a hole that Black and Stapleton exploited in their take-over proposal to their shareholders.

As for the extortionately priced and flawed advice I received from McKinsey management consultants about the merger strategy, I am absolutely furious. Not only did they fail to foresee the potentially disastrous consequences of my internal restructuring programme, but they also fleeced Bailey and Benfield of thousands of pounds which they insisted were paid as ‘up-front fees’, causing another financial hole that Goldman Sachs uncovered. I would normally insist on ‘payment by results’ for such a service, but so sure was I that my plan was fool-proof that I let my impatience allow me to settle in advance, contrary to my normal business instincts. Of course, I will sue them if the reverse take-over proceeds, but I expect their lawyers have every angle covered and am not unduly optimistic about success. It would be humiliating not to try, though.  

As the senior partner, I naturally stand to receive a large (if taxed) windfall if the takeover goes ahead, but the new owner will have absolutely no intention of keeping me in the firm. A strong corporate predator will always eliminate its enemies with due ruthlessness. I would not want to stay, anyway, as a puppet to a corporate Board of Directors that would never trust me, nor I them. Besides, I could never work for anybody ever again.

What is so terrible about that, you may say. Well, consider this. I am not the senior partner of Bailey and Benfield just for the money. That simply helps me to be seen keeping up with the Jones’. No, my main reason for maintaining such a position is so that I can exert my influence, power, and will on the whole corporate entity, virtually unchallenged. I also glean envy and admiration from my more junior colleagues, and respect from senior partners across the industry sector as well as holding the key to connections in the higher echelons of society. Furthermore, a position of such influence generates an aura of success which is hard to ignore. It means that I garner admiration from friends and relatives, and it opens up all sorts of social and sexual opportunities, including acquiring a mate as young and beautiful as Suzanne and a mistress as pure as Daisy Horton.

However, even the cloud of a financial and professional set-back is enough to put many of the benefits alluded to above in jeopardy. Rumours have spread around Bailey and Benfield that we are about to be taken over and the Partners have become restive and disrespectful. Even Justin Grace, who must himself take some of the blame for his handling of Goldman Sachs, has become cooler towards me and appears to be distancing himself from the whole corporate decision-making team. As for the senior management team, its remaining members look away if we happen to cross paths, clearly feeling betrayed by the impending outcome, and we have already started to experience a wave of staff resignations as the rats begin deserting a sinking ship.

More surprisingly, rumours seem to have leaked into the public domain. I seem to be persona-non-grata at the Club, and the annual grouse-shooting invitation from Balmoral has not arrived.

Closer to home, Daisy has handed in her notice and does not respond to my emails and text messages, and Suzanne seems to have become rather cold and conspicuously less free with her favours. I am not sure if she knows exactly what is going on because I have not told her yet, but she seems to have a sixth sense that something is amiss.

One thing is clear. I have not, to my knowledge, committed any criminal act or been deliberately negligent in my handling of Bailey and Benfield. You would not think this is the case, however. I almost feel like a condemned man.

Naturally, I have spent some time with my personal accountant and lawyer exploring possible options and scenarios, but even they are becoming more persistent that I pay their fees promptly which is not a good sign. It is not as if my personal cash flow is going to dry up, is it?

Whilst I do not use social media and rarely read the financial press, it seems that there are some murmurings afoot already about Black and Stapleton's so-called ‘remarkable turn-around’ and I expect the pundits have already added two and two together.

Nevertheless, one has to be stoical about these things. It would be most undignified to complain about one's misfortune publicly, or blame third parties, especially as this may engender suspicion that I have somehow fucked up and that I am the author of my own demise which, of course, cannot conceivably be the case.

All I need is a little bit of time to wait for things to play out and work out how I can turn the situation once again to my advantage. For now, I do not have a firm plan. This is causing me sleepless nights during which I do not even have Suzanne to comfort me.

~

I met Suzanne at a Pret a Manger in Knightsbridge. I am not sure why. After all, it is full of young things rushing in for their take away sandwiches, or gobbling them as quickly as they can at the tables with absolutely no table manners. Worse still, they play jazz music as background music, a cacophony I absolutely abhor.

Suzanne was not looking quite her usual self, which is not a criticism as she usually looks ‘absolutely marvellous’. She only looked ‘quite stunning’, but I know her well enough now to tell the difference. For example, her hair was down and she was wearing an outfit I had seen her in before which is usually unheard of.

“Well, I suppose it makes a change,” I said to Suzanna as we sat down with our Flat Whites, competing with a particularly jarring and utterly atonal Thelonious Monk number blaring from a nearby speaker, breathless from the ordeal of perambulating ten yards from the counter to the table without being knocked senseless by a maniacal young person completely absorbed by an electronic device.

“At least it is has got some life.”

“If this is life, I think I would prefer death.”

“You do exaggerate, Mrs. G. Let your hair down!”

“It’s not my hair I am worried about, it’s my sanity. I find it so hard to concentrate is such a firmament.”

“You almost sound like an old woman.”

“Do you think they ever wash?” I said, waving at the frenetic mass of plebeians as Livia might have once done from the sanctity of her Roman Villa.

“Of course they do. They just don’t change their clothes very often, that’s all.”

“How disgusting,” I said, determined to give no quarter.

“There are two things to remember about the younger generation”, Suzanna observed, as if I had completely lost touch with them. “Firstly, many of them like to wear uniformly drab and unflattering attire. It must be some sort of lowest common denominator thing. Secondly, most of them prefer to spend their money, if they have any, on other things, rather than clothes. It’s all rather liberating if you think about it.”

“The girls could at least brush their hair, and the boys either shave or grow a beard instead of looking like they don’t care either way what they look like. As for those ghastly painted eyebrows. Why do they bother?”

“Whatever you say, you were young once Mrs. G. I bet you were a bit of a punk on the side, dressing in a bin-liner and kilt or some such rebellious garb.”

“Suzanne, sometimes I think you get complexly the wrong impression of me. I was never like that.”

“I expect you were, once. You’ve just forgotten.”

“Well, be that as it may be. I would never go out for coffee in trainers and ripped jeans.”

“Live and let live, Mrs. G. Appearances are not everything.”

“No, but they are a sign of self-respect, and courtesy to those around you.”

“I thought they were to make you look more beautiful than your rivals.”

“That too.”

“Any maybe lure the gentlemen into a honey-trap now and again?”

“That as well.”

“And make the clothes shops an awful lot of money by enticing people to buy things they don’t really need at all.”

“Naturally. It’s called fashion.”

“Except the fashion nowadays is to look as if you don’t care what you look like.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“How’s Norman?”

“Well, according to your definition, he is very fashionable, especially with that awful beard he has grown, and how’s Hugo?”

“Well, actually, I wanted to talk to you about Hugo. I think there is something up.”

“How exciting, but there is no need to be so crude, Suzanne, this may be the lost generation, but they can still overhear you.”

“Mrs. G, I think it might be you who is being a little crude, don’t you think?”

“Certainly not. I know what you look for in a man.”

“ Hmm. Anyway, as I was trying to explain, he is definitely not his usual self and I am pretty certain it is to do with work. Something has gone wrong, I fear.”

“Oh dear, how very troublesome for him.”

“Well, I’m not so worried about him. I am sure he won’t starve, but I have to consider my own position, especially if it means some kind of brake being threatened on the money-supply front.”

“Don’t you think you are jumping to conclusions a bit?”

“Well, my experience with men is that there is no smoke without fire when it comes to alarming signals on the personal-wealth front. They always underplay such problems. For them, it is a matter of pride. Once doubt has reared its head, I can’t help exploring options just in case I am discarded as an unnecessary expense, as has happened in the past.”

“It is unthinkable that Hugo would dump you, even if he is experiencing some business difficulties, surely?”

“I would like to think so. But he knows that I am accustomed to a certain level of marital support and it would not surprise me if this is plays into his calculations should there be a financial set- back of some kind.”

“But don’t you love each other?”

“Of course, silly, but you can’t love on thin air.”

“What a strange way of looking at it, especially as you have no evidence other than Hugo does not appear to be his usual self. If I thought like that every time Norman acted a little strange, our marriage would not have lasted five minutes.”

“But Hugo is not Norman. He is a big-shot with a massive ego, mostly fuelled by wallet size.”

“Suzanne?”

“Yes, Mrs. G.”

“When you said you had to consider your own position, you didn’t mean looking for another man did you?”

“Well, I have to consider all eventualities. One of the symptoms of Hugo’s current condition is that he has lost all interest in, you know, being enticed into physical activities. I am a very sensual person, Mrs. G, and being ignored on this front, especially when I have made every effort to tickle his fancy, is not only physically disappointing but also utterly humiliating.”

“Have you tried talking to Hugo about your concerns?”

“Of course not. There would be no point, he would say it is my fault and that I am making a mountain out of a mole-hill. You know how bad men are at facing up to reality.”

“I do, indeed, Suzanne. Sometimes reality doesn’t seem to play any part in their thought process at all.”

“So you see, I really do have to look at all possibilities. Fortunately, there are a number of eligible gentlemen waiting in the wings, but it is far too early to play my cards.”

“Does the age difference make any difference?”

“Therein lies a conundrum, Mrs. G. On the one hand, men tend to get wealthier and more sophisticated as they age, whereas, on the other hand, they can suddenly lose all their vim, boomf, just like that. Money and power are rich men’s aphrodisiacs, we poor women being merely the vehicle for their release. When they are no longer excited by these riches, there can be a terminal problem in the bedroom”

“You make it all sound so sordid, Suzanne. I suppose I am lucky with Norman in that we are both about the same age and our appetite for libidinous passion with each other has receded symmetrically so that we have always been pretty much in balance on that score. Furthermore, Norman, to the best of my knowledge, is not remotely titillated by either wealth or power.”

“How lucky you are, Mrs. G. So, you can conclude that the age difference may be a significant factor, after all, I am not ready to put my slippers on and take to the potting-shed just yet.”

“May I suggest that you calm down and don’t do anything rash. Try to engage Hugo in some kind of conversation to find out what is going on, even if what he tells you is a complete fairy story. At least you might glean something from the way he tells it.”

“Do you really think so?”

Suzanne took a lace handkerchief out of her Prada handbag and started sobbing.

I looked up for a moment and noticed that a group of people on the table next to ours had removed their ear-phones and were looking at us, apparently listening to our conversation intently, as if Suzanne and I were actors in a cheap soap-opera. One of them started to clap and the others joined in, hooting with laughter.

I bundled Suzanne into a taxi outside and dropped her off at her place, promising to phone her later, before continuing on to Victoria Station. I felt very lucky not to be in her position and safely married to a goof like Norman.