the girl who answered the phone also cleaned the toilet.
One time they’d travelled to give a demonstration, and afterwards they were taken out to dinner by the client. Pasha was tired and had wanted to go home but it was all part of the package. Schmoozing. The sales manager was OK – very capable and thus useful as an associate, but too dull beyond those boundaries. Jim Althorp, though, as the humble northern boy made good, was a self-appointed philosopher-king.
The four of them had gone to a steak house and Pasha got annoyed with Jim right from the start. Before they sat down they had a drink by the bar and with a nod and a wink Jim said, “Get yourself one”, to the bartender. Northern Soul. And once they were seated and the waitress had come over, he kept calling her ‘pet’, and made sure he had a chat with her before she began taking the orders. Needing immunity from the man’s ways, Pasha began to drink.
When dinner arrived – huge servings of meat, vegetables and gravy – the waitress accidentally tipped Jim’s plate as she placed it down, spilling some of the sauce. Full of embarrassment and apologies, she frantically began wiping the table. He gently grabbed her hand and said, ‘It’s OK, pet, no harm done. Our little secret, eh?’ She walked away flustered but relieved, knowing her boss wouldn’t find out about her accident with such a prominent local man. Once out of earshot Jim leaned forward towards Pasha, seated opposite him.
‘It pays to be reasonable,’ he commented with a wink. ‘I’m a reasonable man.’ Pasha refilled his glass as Jim began boasting about being some modern day Scrooge (post all the spooking). He went on about all the Tiny Tims that he’d helped and kept saying we’ve done this and we’ve done that, when what he really meant was I .
Sensing Pasha’s growing frustration, Jenny stepped in, congratulating Jim on how expertly he’d handled the situation. Jim, of course, looked more than happy at the approval he got from the young lass.
‘Harrison. Jenny Harrison. That’s a fine Lancashire name,’ he commented. ‘Where are ya from, pet?’
‘I’m a Formby girl, born and bred,’ she said, knowing the information would go down well.
‘Smashing,’ said Jim, overjoyed to be in the company of his own. ‘Are ya family still there?’
‘Oh aye. We’re Formby for generations, although me mum’s from Heysham originally.’ Dear old Jim could barely contain himself.
‘Smashing, just smashing,’ he repeated, his ample cheeks all ruddy. Refilling his glass he looked at Pasha and made to speak before swallowing his tongue. ‘Smashing,’ he muttered again, but with downcast eyes.
‘It’s OK, Jim,’ said Pasha. ‘You can ask me where I’m from as well. It’s no problem.’
Jim stalled, unsure how to react. He looked hard at Pasha and drained his glass. ‘I said nothing, son, not because I’m rude, but because no one is sure what they can and can’t say anymore. We’re all confused, in our own country.’
Mindful that he was here on business, Pasha let it go. Meanwhile he felt Jenny discreetly taking hold of his hand underneath the table. Jim’s wisdom turned to the police, and how full of admiration he was for the Boys in Blue, but Pasha wasn’t listening. Jenny was squeezing his hand a little and had turned to face him, holding his gaze reassuringly. She was no beauty, but she looked so tender, wearing that gentle smile. He felt real warmth, though the alcohol in his bloodstream was making him horny, too. He stared into her northern face and at her pink lipstick. He wanted to taste those bubble-gum pink lips.
Alone in his hotel room, Pasha felt exhausted. He splashed his face over the sink before examining himself in the mirror. Water dripped off his smooth, glistening skin. Glistening brown skin. Brown skin stretched over Semitic features. He smiled.
The room bell went and he wondered who the hell it was. Jim , he concluded, and he braced
One time they’d travelled to give a demonstration, and afterwards they were taken out to dinner by the client. Pasha was tired and had wanted to go home but it was all part of the package. Schmoozing. The sales manager was OK – very capable and thus useful as an associate, but too dull beyond those boundaries. Jim Althorp, though, as the humble northern boy made good, was a self-appointed philosopher-king.
The four of them had gone to a steak house and Pasha got annoyed with Jim right from the start. Before they sat down they had a drink by the bar and with a nod and a wink Jim said, “Get yourself one”, to the bartender. Northern Soul. And once they were seated and the waitress had come over, he kept calling her ‘pet’, and made sure he had a chat with her before she began taking the orders. Needing immunity from the man’s ways, Pasha began to drink.
When dinner arrived – huge servings of meat, vegetables and gravy – the waitress accidentally tipped Jim’s plate as she placed it down, spilling some of the sauce. Full of embarrassment and apologies, she frantically began wiping the table. He gently grabbed her hand and said, ‘It’s OK, pet, no harm done. Our little secret, eh?’ She walked away flustered but relieved, knowing her boss wouldn’t find out about her accident with such a prominent local man. Once out of earshot Jim leaned forward towards Pasha, seated opposite him.
‘It pays to be reasonable,’ he commented with a wink. ‘I’m a reasonable man.’ Pasha refilled his glass as Jim began boasting about being some modern day Scrooge (post all the spooking). He went on about all the Tiny Tims that he’d helped and kept saying we’ve done this and we’ve done that, when what he really meant was I .
Sensing Pasha’s growing frustration, Jenny stepped in, congratulating Jim on how expertly he’d handled the situation. Jim, of course, looked more than happy at the approval he got from the young lass.
‘Harrison. Jenny Harrison. That’s a fine Lancashire name,’ he commented. ‘Where are ya from, pet?’
‘I’m a Formby girl, born and bred,’ she said, knowing the information would go down well.
‘Smashing,’ said Jim, overjoyed to be in the company of his own. ‘Are ya family still there?’
‘Oh aye. We’re Formby for generations, although me mum’s from Heysham originally.’ Dear old Jim could barely contain himself.
‘Smashing, just smashing,’ he repeated, his ample cheeks all ruddy. Refilling his glass he looked at Pasha and made to speak before swallowing his tongue. ‘Smashing,’ he muttered again, but with downcast eyes.
‘It’s OK, Jim,’ said Pasha. ‘You can ask me where I’m from as well. It’s no problem.’
Jim stalled, unsure how to react. He looked hard at Pasha and drained his glass. ‘I said nothing, son, not because I’m rude, but because no one is sure what they can and can’t say anymore. We’re all confused, in our own country.’
Mindful that he was here on business, Pasha let it go. Meanwhile he felt Jenny discreetly taking hold of his hand underneath the table. Jim’s wisdom turned to the police, and how full of admiration he was for the Boys in Blue, but Pasha wasn’t listening. Jenny was squeezing his hand a little and had turned to face him, holding his gaze reassuringly. She was no beauty, but she looked so tender, wearing that gentle smile. He felt real warmth, though the alcohol in his bloodstream was making him horny, too. He stared into her northern face and at her pink lipstick. He wanted to taste those bubble-gum pink lips.
Alone in his hotel room, Pasha felt exhausted. He splashed his face over the sink before examining himself in the mirror. Water dripped off his smooth, glistening skin. Glistening brown skin. Brown skin stretched over Semitic features. He smiled.
The room bell went and he wondered who the hell it was. Jim , he concluded, and he braced
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