Short fiction: It Turns on a Sixpence

The CEO has a bad day

When Phil became CEO he had the desks and chairs ripped out and the partitions between workstations knocked down. Then he had new desks installed that went up and down at the touch of a button, and swivel chairs with multiple adjustments. Everyone had two big screens now, and a docking station on their desk and another at home so their laptop could click into place on a kitchen table. The windows in the executive office were changed, too; now they were big single panes of glass.

It was beside one of these that Sally sat one wet late afternoon in April, watching gusts of wind blow fine sprays of rain against the glass. She caught her reflection. She could see the acne scars on her cheeks. She’d thought those’d have gone by now; she was 28.

Grok

She glanced across at the desk across the aisle. Robyn was buried in some spreadsheet or other, or purported to be; but now and then her hand would reach out to one of her monitor cables, which had several little toy koalas that grasped it between their sprung paws.

“I thought you were going to get rid of those,” said a sharp voice. Robyn looked up. Sally did too. Phil had soft-shoed down from the executive suite, unheard as usual; he was small and jowly and reminded Sally of a picture she had once seen of a past President – who was it? –the one who resigned when her mum and dad were young. She had never really understood why. He was standing above Robyn, holding some sheets of paper.

“I like my abseiling koalas,” said Robyn.

“We will have a lot of shareholders and the Chair around tomorrow,” said Phil. “I don’t want them to see toys in the office.”

“OK,” said Robyn.

“By the way I have just had a major shareholder ask why you have a boy’s name,” said Phil. “He asked me if you were a transsexual.” He didn’t wait for a reply but turned towards Sally. “You’ve got the workstation and everything arranged with the hotel?”

“Oh yes,” said Sally. “They host AGMs quite often. I’ve given them the attendance list. They know what to do.”

“Good. And don’t forget my flask of coffee. Make it here. I’m not drinking the hotel shit.”

“I shan’t forget. I’ll have it with me.”

He turned away. Sally stuck her tongue out, then realised Robyn was looking at her and her face held a warning; she could be seen in the opposite window. She grimaced.

“Wayne,” said Phil to the next desk. Wayne was a tall thin man in his mid-20s; he was always pale and vaguely sweaty and Sally wondered sometimes if he drank heavily, or used drugs. “Wayne, this deck of slides is shit.” He waved the sheaf of papers at him. “I want a new deck. Quickly, please. I want to grab the audience, all right? This is a crucial AGM. We are announcing a revolution. Not a Women’s Institute cake bake.” He threw the sheaf down on Wayne’s desk and turned back towards his office suite.

Wayne made a V-sign at Phil’s retreating back. “OK, you get a new deck,” he muttered. “Dickhead.”

Sally looked at her watch. It was past six.

“I’m off,” she said. “I’ve got almost everything in place for Thursday, and I can run over everything tomorrow and make sure.” She started shutting down her PC. “You two sticking around?”

“I have to do that dick a new deck,” said Wayne. He was leaning back in his seat, his legs stretched out.

“And I have to do a new draft of the press release,” said Robyn. “He didn’t like the last three.”

“Pillock,” said Wayne.

“Well, good luck. I’m going to stop by my sister’s for tea.” Sally put on her puffa jacket. “Still raining.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Robyn. “I’m missing the Sunshine Coast right now.”

Sally went. The other two worked on, saying little. At length Phil stalked past on his way out, dressed in a smart new wool coat; he did not say goodnight. The door of the executive office slammed behind him.

“What a dick,” said Robyn.

“It’s because you wouldn’t shag him,” said Wayne.

“’ He asked me if you were a transsexual’, said Robyn, imitating Phil’s voice. “Nasty little man.” She stood up, stretched, and glanced over the partition at Wayne’s screen. “Hey, Wayne!”

“What.”

“You can’t access that kind of stuff over the company network!”

“Don’t worry. I’m using a VPN.”

“For fu – Jeezus, Wayne. I don’t care. You can’t look at things like that in the office. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Not what you think,” said Wayne. He smiled sweetly.

Robyn was silent for a minute. Then she smiled.

“Wayne,” she said, “you’re a conniving little shit. And I think I love you.”

*

Sally sank into an armchair in her sister’s living room and sighed deeply. Although it was April, it was still cold outside, as well as damp, so her sister had lit the wood-burner. It filled the room with flickering warmth.

“He’s a twisted character,” said Sally.

“He does sound it.” Her sister Eileen was a short-haired, slim, crisp, practical bachelor girl in her 30s. She was herself just in from work and had not yet changed; her white lab coat was flung over the back on the settee, its hem embroidered with the name of the small pharmaceuticals company she ran with a partner.

“I mean, he goes on and on at poor Robyn all the time about her having a man’s name. She doesn’t. It’s Robyn with a Y, she’s an Aussie.”

“Did she refuse to shag him?” asked Eileen.

“I think maybe yes,” said Sally. “Why?”

“Well, that’s often why men bully women.” Eileen put a bowl of crisps in front of her and started rummaging in the drinks cupboard.  “Anyway, you need a jolly big G&T.”

Sally smiled. Then she frowned.

“And I’ve got to have his Thermos of coffee ready when he does his presentation on Thursday.” Like Robin earlier, she imitated Phil’s voice. “Don’t forget my flask of coffee. Make it here. I don’t want to drink the hotel shit.”

“Oh dear,” said Eileen. Then she paused in the act of mixing the G&Ts. “This coffee flask,” she said. She looked at her sister.

“Oh no,” said Sally. “No. Eileen, that’s evil.”

She began to laugh.

*

The morning of the AGM was wet. Sally stood beside the hotel entrance. She wondered when warm spring weather would come.

The hotel was generic; a five-star city centre offshoot of a large chain, once distinguished and independent but long bought up and sanitised, the potted palms and faded artworks banished in favour of chrome and steel. The reception desk was of Carrera marble and Sally wondered briefly what would become of it; when the next architect was wheeled out to remodel the hotel, where would it go, and who would see the beauty of its stone?

She felt her phone vibrate in her inner pocket and took it out. There in 2 min it said. Black Audi. Chairman’s driver. She looked up and down the street in the rain. At length a pair of digital LED headlights stood out from those around it; the car signalled and swished smoothly to the front step, where Sally stood ready with an open umbrella. She opened the door and the company Chair emerged, bending past the door jamb. A tall man in his seventies, he had a full head of white hair and a moustache, and his well-cut suit was half-hidden by a lambswool coat not unlike Phil’s although the lambs had been to better schools.

“Good morning, Sir Peter,” she said.

“Ah, Miss – Ms Bailey?” he said. His voice was deep and rich, but had something oddly tentative about it.

“Yes. Sally, please,” she said.

“Sally.” He turned to the driver. “Thank you, Craig. I shan’t need you for several hours. Find somewhere congenial, with coffee. A parking fee will be quite acceptable.”

She heard the driver chuckle his thanks. She held the umbrella over the Chair as they mounted the steps to the entrance. “My dear, you are getting rained on,” he said. “Let me get wet. At my age it scarcely matters.” He had a stick in his right hand, but moved it to his left and reached for the umbrella handle.

“Oh really, Sir Peter.” She smiled at him. “It is so nice to see you.”

“Likewise.” He smiled back, then frowned as she shook out the umbrella in the hall. “I am sure you have the copies of my speech ready for those that want them. I have to say, I am less easy in my mind about my remarks – than…. last year….”

“You have concerns, Chairman?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, then: “No. I should not have said that.”

He patted her arm. “I suppose I should greet the rest of the Board. I expect they are in there networking, as we call it nowadays.”

She took him to the meeting room, where Robyn was handing round copies of the meeting press release, marked with a 2pm embargo. She heard Robyn politely batting away questions about its content, suggesting they be raised with the CEO after his speech.

Phil himself was in a small side meeting-room hired for the day, pacing up and down and waving the printouts of his slides around while Wayne sat at the table making frantic amendments to the presentation on Phil’s laptop, pausing every now and then to output the revised slides to a small portable printer. Sally put her head round the door.

“The Chair is here,” she said.

“F*** him,” said Phil, and continued to pace up and down.

Wayne was fingering something in his shirt pocket. It looked like a USB stick.

“I’d better come and see him, I suppose.” Phil dropped the printouts on the table and Sally followed him out. As she did so she saw Wayne take out the USB stick and slide it into a USB port. She wondered for a moment what Wayne was doing, then decided she did not need to know.

“Is my coffee ready?” asked Phil over his shoulder. “I can have it while the Chair is giving his speech. He’ll be boring, anyway.”

*

As always in an AGM, the order of business started with the Chair. Sir Peter opened the meeting and indicated the Board of Directors. He formally confirmed that the meeting was quorate (it clearly was; the room was packed). He held the stick in one hand, the presentation clicker in the other. It occurred to Sally that he had not had a stick the previous year, and he looked older. But his voice was still strong.

He moved on to the Chairman’s Address.

“Some of you are aware,” he said, “that our company has shifted its strategic vision somewhat in the last year. This has reflected the priorities of the Board since Mr Philip Baldwin’s appointment as CEO last year. You will hear more from Mr Baldwin on the latest progress, but in sum we will increasingly move from retail space and staff-driven operations to automated warehouses from  which orders can be fulfilled. We will use artificial intelligence to integrate these operations with online marketing…”

“Will we?” asked a voice from the audience. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

Sally looked at the speaker. It was the representative of the shopworkers’ union.

“Mr Johnson, we will take questions later in the meeting,” said Sir Peter.

“From shareholders you will,” said the representative. “Not from me.”

“You should have appointed a shareholder to act as a proxy,” said Phil. He poured some coffee into a cup from his Thermos flask.

Sir Peter tapped the stage with his stick.

“As Chair, I am making my address to the AGM. I should prefer not to be interrupted,” he said. He looked at the union rep. “Mr Johnson, we have known each other for many years. You must know that I will always be pleased to hear any representations from you after the meeting.”

“Idiot,” muttered Phil. It was not clear who he meant. Sally sensed a tension in the room. Her eyes were drawn to the flask.

In due course Sir Peter finished, and handed the floor to the CEO. Unlike the Chair, Phil had a slide presentation; for as long as Sally could remember, Sir Peter had never used one – a strange omission now, when most presenters welcomed the screen image as a way to take the audience’s eyes away from them.

“The world,” he began, “is changing. So is the role of human agency.” The first slide came up. “A Changing Role for People,” it said.

“No role for people,” muttered Johnson. He looked distressed.

“We are in a race,” continued Phil. “Those who, out of misguided qualms or caution, keep on a larger workforce than they need will quickly find themselves out of business.”

“So will you if there’s no-one with a job left to buy your goods,” said someone. “Yep,” said Johnson. The Chair rapped the floor with his cane.

“Continue, please, Mr Baldwin,” he said. He looked grim.

Phil clicked the presentation clicker and a new image slid onto the screen. “We cannot avoid the realities of the AI revolution. This schematic shows how technology will affect the workforce…”

There was silence for a moment. Then someone said: “Yes, it does, doesn’t it.”

Someone chuckled. Someone else gasped. Sally’s eyes opened wide. Robyn, standing by the door, seemed to be suppressing a grin.

“Good God,” said the lady from the Financial Times.

“My goodness,” said the man from the Mirror. “She’s a big girl, isn’t she.”

Phil looked puzzled, then realised no-one was looking at him; everyone’s gaze was rivetted on the screen. He turned. Instead of his schematic slide, the screen displayed a naked couple performing with no restraint whatsoever.

“Oh, Jesus,” he said. He lunged at the keyboard. The mouse moved in response to his hand, but mouse clicks had no effect. He jabbed the Esc button at the top left of the keyboard, but nothing happened.  “Oh God,” he moaned. “Oh God.”

As luck would have it the soundtrack emitted just these words from both performers, albeit with more enjoyment.

“I say,” said someone, “is that even legal?”

His neighbour gazed at the screen, mouth agape. “So that was what my wife meant,” he said at last. “So that’s what she meant.”

“I am sorry, so sorry,” said Phil. He pressed key after random key but the keyboard was plainly locked. Then suddenly he stood up straight; his eyes stared. “Oh my God,” he yelled, and clutched his stomach. He bent over, straightened again and charged off the dais, his hands clasped over his belly; his face had gone white and he was sweating. “My stomach!” he yelled. “My stomach!” He smashed through the room’s swing double doors just as a waiter was entering with a large silver tray piled high with finger food. Both went flying. Phil picked himself up and disappeared down the corridor, leaving the waiter sprawled amidst a debris field of vol-au-vents.

For a minute or so nothing happened; the meeting gazed at the screen, mesmerised. Then there was a loud click and the screen when blank. Sir Peter had returned to the dais and had unplugged the computer.

The audience was silent. Sir Peter looked around, and saw Robyn emerging into the room from the corridor.

“Where is Mr Baldwin?” he asked.

“He is in the bog, Mr Chairman,” she said.

“I see. Is he returning to the meeting?”

“I doubt it. He’s chucking his little heart out.”

There was a titter through the room.

“Very well.” Sir Peter stood at the front of the dais, his cane in both hands, touching the floor. “The Annual General Meeting has been disrupted and it seems it cannot continue. As Chairman, I must declare it adjourned. I shall ensure that it is reconvened at an early date and in full accordance with the Companies Act 2006. Thank you for your forbearance.”

He nodded briefly to the room, and left the dais.

*

They formed a knot in the corner of the room beside the fallen vol-au-vents.

“You must be off your head, Wayne,” Sally hissed at him.

“Don’t look at me,” said Wayne. “Where’s that bloody thermos flask? You’d better get rid of that quick.”

“I can’t find it,” said Sally. She looked frightened.

“It’s in my shoulder-bag,” said Robyn. “In an hour or two it’ll be on its way downstream in one of those rubbish barges, never to be seen again.”

“Thank you. Thank you,” said Sally.

“Where’s Phil the Dick?” asked Wayne.

“He’s still in the dunny,” said Robyn. “I wondered if he’d get out of there alive for a moment. He seems to be barfing less now. I don’t know how we’re getting him out of here though. No cabbie’s going to take a bloke who’s crapped himself like that.”

“Maybe,” said Wayne, “we should just leave the fucker.”

“We might have to,” said Robyn. “Where’s the Chair?”

“He’s been saying goodbye to folks and apologising,” said Sally. “But I think he’s nearly finished.”

“Maybe you should go schmooze him,” said Robyn. “Wayne’s got some stuff to do with Phil’s laptop. And he’d better bloody do it quick if you ask me. I’ll get rid of your bloody Thermos. Jeez, if we’d known you were going to do that…”

“I’ll go schmooze him,” said Sally.

She found Sir Peter in the corridor. He had been deep in conversation with Mr Johnson. “It may be that he was not the right choice,” she heard Sir Peter say. “But we are a public company. There are proper procedures. Please leave this with me for now. We will talk again.”

They shook hands. Sir Peter turned towards her. He looked tired and, suddenly, old.

“We will have to find out what happened today,” he said.

“Yes,” said Sally. “Quite.”

“I will ring Craig and tell him he is needed earlier than expected.”

“I will do it.” She took her own phone out and dialled the number. The driver answered at once, his words muffled by a Scotch egg; she could hear a newspaper rustle. He would, he said, be there in ten minutes.

“I will go to the lobby,” said Sir Peter. “Will you wait there with me?”

“Of course.” They walked slowly down the corridor and he took her arm.

“We will have to find out,” he repeated.

“Yes,” she said again. Then she burst out:

“Sir Peter, he was a horrible man.”

He nodded slowly.

“I think I knew that,” he said.  He looked at her. “You speak of him in the past tense.”

They had reached the lobby and say down in two rather uncomfortable steel-and-leather armchairs. It was still raining outside and the bright lights inside made the street seem dark, although it was midday.

“My father loved my mother the moment he saw her,” he said.

She looked at him.

“In Hamburg. He was a soldier. She was clearing rubble. His commanding officer did not want to let them marry. ‘She’s a German,’ he told him. ‘I’d rather you warried a wog.’”

Sally flinched at the word. I wonder why he is telling me this, she thought.

“It took a long time before he could marry her and bring her home. His family did not really welcome her. But they built a life. They were happy at last. Then when I was 10 she took me out shopping. A dog ran out in the street and a car had to brake. It was one of those Reliant things, a three-wheeler, and it skidded and mounted the pavement. And she was gone.”

“Oh.”

He reached out and touched her arm. “We have seen a man destroyed today,” said Sir Peter. “He was not a very nice man. But he was a man.“

“Yes.”

“Life is random,” he said. “A person’s fate can turn on a sixpence. And it will. Let Fate do its work; it needs no help; it has no need of you.”

They said nothing for a minute or two. Then the Audi slid up to the kerb outside the hotel. He stood, a bit lowly, and she gave him her arm so that he could steady himself. They went out together into the rain. She held the car door open as he eased himself down into the seat. He reached out and squeezed her hand. Then he pulled the door to, and the car swept away through the rain.

________________________________

More short fiction from Mike Robbins

Sport is Character-Forming A migration through a muddy river
The Man Who Lost the Plot When the character you write is cardboard
The Long Road from the Black Death A history lecturer retires
Who Killed Walter Williams? Don't ask, even now
A Difficult Life When the world dislikes your birth
Come and See the Chickens A rather English love story
In Search of a Plot  Be careful. Elspeth may put you in a bacon slicer
A Question of Character Pity the nation...
The End A gun on a brownstone roof
The Last Time A figure skater leaves the ice
After the Flood An end? Or a beginning?
Remembered Time The past is a dangerous place
A Train Journey One's sister comes to visit
Time After Time When you have to warn the children
Fashion Wokeness and subversion. With style
A Time of Darkness History doesn't repeat itself. But it rhymes
Another Time A tear in the fabric
Evolution The world is turning
When Time Stands Still A hurricane lashes Pershing Square
Parallel Worlds Heat pumps and lentils. And a nice glass of Marsala
A Man for All Seasons Net zero. The Stranger's Bar. And a three-line whip
A History Lesson Why do we study it? So we can spot it happening
The Creatives Meeting a tech bro
Cold Everything is cold here
Homecoming A sort of love story
Solitude A Cold War memory
Rhodri Hactonby's Maps A question of social geography
Hiraeth A yearning…
Strange Places A spirit in the sky 
A Sideways Journey Things might have been different
Displaced Encounter on E94th Street
Belonging Do you? Where?
Leaving Home A house has memories

Mike Robbins is the author of a number of fiction and non-fiction books. They can be ordered from bookshops, or as paperbacks or e-books from Amazon and other on-line retailers.
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