We All Fall Down

Peter Barry was born in England. He now lives and works in Melbourne, Australia, and has done so for many years.

WE ALL
FALL DOWN

PETER BARRY

First Published 2012
This e-book edition 2012
Transit Lounge Publishing
95 Stephen Street
Yarraville, Australia 3013
www.transitlounge.com.au
[email protected]

Copyright ©Peter Barry 2012

This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Inquiries should be made to the publisher.

Every effort has been made to obtain permission for excerpts reproduced in this publication. In cases where these efforts were unsuccessful, the copyright holders are asked to contact the publisher directly.

This is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, or to events, companies or localities are entirely coincidental.

Cover photograph: Richard Barry
Cover and book design: Peter Lo
Printed in China by Everbest

Cataloguing-in-publication entry is available from the
National Library of Australia:
http://catalogue.nla.gov.au

978-1-921924-32-3 (e-book)

To Michael, Richard, Nicola and Monica

Also by Peter Barry
I Hate Martin Amis et al.
(Transit Lounge, 2011)

Ring a-ring o' roses,
A pocketful of posies.
A-tishoo! A-tishoo!.
We all fall down!.

Some people insist this children's rhyme refers to either the Black Death of 1347-1350, or to the Great Plague of London in 1665. The symptoms of bubonic plague included a rosy red ring-shaped rash, supposedly the inspiration for that first line. It was believed the disease was carried by bad smells, so people frequently carried pockets full of fresh herbs, or ‘posies'. The only problem is, the rhyme was first mentioned in 1883, so the plague interpretation seems unlikely.

1

She whirled into his office, a blur of blues, greens and ochre, layers of loose and flowing linens and silk held in place by bracelets and necklaces of beaten silver, or lumps of quartz and hematite. A wide, big buckled belt rested loosely on her hips. These were what she called her tent clothes. ‘They allow me to hide my
largesse
under canvas' was how she'd once explained her wardrobe to him. As always, she struck him as being a little short of breath, as if she'd just climbed a flight of stairs. She might have been an opera singer who had just finished an aria. Certainly, she had the dramatic presence. Without a word she closed his office door and slowly, almost warily, lowered herself, in a dying eddy, onto his sofa. She reached into the folds of her top and produced a handkerchief, a crushed, sodden thing, which she used to dab at her mascara streaked cheeks. The fact she'd only called him a minute earlier to ask if he was alone, and had now closed the door, told him this wasn't the usual visit. To camouflage his feelings of alarm, he smiled at her in what he hoped was an encouraging way. It probably came across as simply tentative.

‘He just fired me. Half an hour ago. I've been in the toilet. I couldn't face anyone. You're the first person I've told.'

He felt stupidly proud. ‘What do you mean? He can't just fire you.'

‘Yes, he can. Employers can do anything they want nowadays. Employees don't have a leg to stand on.'

‘But after how many years?'

She blew her nose. ‘Almost eight.'

‘It doesn't seem right.' He leant forward, frowning, not understanding, or maybe not believing. She slumped lower in the sofa, and her handkerchief was raised once again to her eyes. ‘Fuck! I promised myself I wouldn't cry. Sorry.'

He jumped up and went round to her, grabbing the box of tissues from the corner of his desk as he did so. Awkwardly, he bent to hug her. She clutched his arm. ‘Thanks, Hugh.' She pulled out a handful of tissues and blew her nose.

He sat on the arm of the sofa. He felt he should hug her again, properly, put both of his arms round her, but he knew he wouldn't feel comfortable doing that, so he crushed her sideways to him instead. Then he went and sat on her other side. He stared at her, and was momentarily reminded of a fish thrown into the bottom of a boat, stunned, mouth agape, eyes seeing things for the first time and not comprehending. She started to weep, her head bowed over her handkerchief, her shoulders bent in defeat. ‘What reason did he give you?'

She took a deep breath. ‘He said it wasn't working out.'

‘Wasn't working out? How can it not work out after eight years?'

‘That's what I said. He said he only wanted people who gave one hundred and twenty per cent.'

‘And you don't?'

‘I do, don't I?' She glanced at him, her face earnest, almost beseeching him to confirm her opinion.

‘Of course you do. I've never heard such rubbish.' He couldn't think what else to say. They sat in silence. He tried to come up with a justification for what had happened, but failed. He'd worked with her for four years, and she was an excellent creative director, strategically sound, hard working, and a good head of department. But he knew that she and Russell were scarcely the best of friends. She'd frequently made it clear that she thought the managing director was an idiot, and Hugh suspected that Russell, if he hadn't actually heard of her opinion, would certainly have sensed it. She could have been thinking along the same lines because she said, ‘I see him for what he is, and he knows it. That's the problem.'

‘It's not a reason to get rid of you.'

‘In his eyes it is.' She patted his hand as if he was the one who needed reassuring. ‘You're such a nice man. Not like him.' She took a deep breath and sat up a little straighter on the sofa. ‘I must look such a mess.' She dabbed at her eyes.

‘Don't worry about that,' he said, immediately realising it would have been better to deny it. He smiled, trying to look supportive, waiting for her to speak. He was fond of Fiona. Those who dismissed her for being loud, opinionated and tough were overlooking her intelligence, wit and quirky way of seeing the world. She was a lively, interesting colleague with an endless supply of funny stories about the peculiarities of modern life. She was also much more vulnerable and sensitive than people suspected. She must have been very striking not so many years ago, before the alcohol and expense lunches, and the late hours spent behind a desk or in a studio had caught up with her. Now she looked the way many people do when they've just woken up: a little pallid, heavy, almost unkempt, with red hair erupting from her head like Medusa's snakes.

‘“We're going to have to let you go.” Those were the words he used, as if it had nothing to do with him.'

‘Did he give a reason?'

‘That was his reason. “We're going to have to let you go.” That was it.'

How Hugh hated that expression – its shedding of responsibility. As if, by mutual agreement, an employee, like a small dinghy, is set happily adrift on a placid sea while the employer's great ocean liner continues on its voyage towards the horizon. Whereas the reality … What was the reality? The reality was a frenzied hacking at chains and severing of ropes, shouts and curses lost to a howling, sea-sprayed wind, the desperate pleadings from the dinghy ignored –
But how can I survive? What will I eat and drink? Spare me, please!
– while waves tower over the flimsy vessel and the night closes in.

She lowered her handkerchief, turning her face – as broken up and obscure as an Impressionist painting – towards him. She asked him to get a bottle of wine from somewhere. ‘Try Paul's office. I need a drink, but I can't go out there.'

When he left, she reached behind her and closed the blinds over the window that looked out into the corridor. Then she sat, unmoving, alone in the empty office. She already looked as if she no longer belonged.

He returned a minute later. He placed two glasses on the coffee table and poured some wine into both. She tapped a finger on the edge of her glass. ‘Come on, Hugh, this is no time to be polite. I need more than that.' She grinned as he poured more wine into her glass. She held it up to him, and they clinked glasses. ‘Here's to me, to my brilliant career.'

With half a glass of white wine in one hand and a handful of fresh tissues in the other, she went on to ask him, ‘You know what really hurts?' He shook his head. ‘I fucked the idiot. That's what really gets me. I fucked the idiot, and this is my reward: he fucks me over. Well and truly.'

‘But that was years ago. Wasn't it …?' Fearful that it could have been recent.

‘So what? He still owes me.'

Hugh said nothing, thinking it neither the time nor the place to point out that, from what he'd heard, Russell was keen to have sex with most of the women in the agency, and to him it was no big deal. It certainly didn't imply any moral obligation on his part.

‘He was a totally forgettable fuck, anyway. A one minute wonder.' She took a gulp of wine. ‘Now I'm turning bitchy. Jeez, I'd give anything for a fag right now.'

‘For a second I thought you were going to say you'd give anything for a fuck right now.'

She giggled, smiling at him with brimming eyes. ‘Last thing on my mind. You can relax.'

‘You've given up smoking, remember?'

‘Given up sex, too. Doesn't mean I can't still want it.' She put her glass of wine on the coffee table, then straightaway picked it up again. ‘You know what he said? That the woman from HR – can't remember her name – would accompany me to my office to collect my personal belongings, and then she'd escort me out of the building.'

‘Unbelievable.'

‘That's my thanks for eight years of loyal service, after sweating my guts out for this place.'

He shook his head, then, uncertain how else to offer comfort, topped up her glass.