I’m going over to Oddbins. Not to buy anything. I’m going to go and ask for a job. The manager said that any time I needed a job I should speak to him. So I’m going. Right now. This morning.”
William stood in silence. He reached out to place a hand on his assistant’s shoulder—a gesture half of apology, half of restraint. “Now listen, Paul—”
“No, I’ve just had enough. Sorry. You don’t pay me enough. You never have.”
William felt the same warm feeling that came to him when he argued with Eddie. It was exactly the same: inter-generational-generated subcutaneous warmth.
“I’ll pay you more—”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then why did you raise it?”
“Dunno. Just did.”
The customers had now drifted away in embarrassment. One had gone to examine a shelf of special promotions; a couple had left the shop altogether; another, thought William, had been carrying a bottle of unpaid-for wine when he walked out of the door.
William rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, Paul, if you’ve been unhappy here you should have said something. We could still sort this out. You’ve got a great future ahead of you in the wine trade.”
“Thanks. With Oddbins. I’ve got a great future with them.”
William sighed. “I can’t stop you, can I?”
“No.”
William sensed that there was no point in prolonging the discussion. “All right. But you don’t think that you should work your notice? A week at least?”
Paul looked surprised. “Notice?”
William stared at his assistant. “No?”
“I said that I’d get over there this morning,” said Paul. “Saturday’s busy for them. They’ll need me.”
William stretched out a hand. The young man hesitated, then took it, limply. Nobody, thought William, has taught him to give a proper handshake. Where was his father? And then it occurred to him: Have I taught Eddie how to shake hands properly? Where have I been?
William gripped Paul’s hand. The young man winced. “Ow. Let go.”
William smiled apologetically. “Sorry. It’s just that when you shake hands you should give a little bit of pressure—just a little bit, to show that you mean it.”
“Mean what?”
“Mean what a handshake is meant to mean. In this case … well, I suppose I’m wishing you good luck and also … well, I’m saying thank you.”
William looked down on his assistant; he was appreciably taller, and better built too. And he had everything, he thought, while this young man seemed to have nothing: a rather dim girlfriend somewhere, an MP3 player that he was always fiddling with, not many clothes—the scraps of a life. He slept on somebody’s floor, William remembered him once saying; slept on the floor of a shared flat because he could not afford to rent his own room.
Paul hesitated. “Yeah, well, thank you too. You taught me a lot.”
William frowned. Had he?
“Yeah, you did. You always explained things really well. You did.”
“I’m glad.”
“And you were kind to me too.” Paul paused. “I’m not really leaving because I don’t like you or because you didn’t pay me enough. I’m leaving because I want a new job … You know how it is.”
William reached out again and put an arm on the young man’s shoulder. It was bony. He wanted to embrace him, but could not. He wanted to say sorry. “There’s something I want to give you before you go.”
“What?”
William walked through to the office and took his cheque book out of the drawer. Then he sat down and wrote out a cheque for one thousand pounds. Returning to the counter, he passed the cheque over to Paul, who stared at it with wide eyes.
“That’s what they call a golden parachute,” said William. “Ever heard of it?”
49. A Confession of Loneliness
“THAT WAS GENEROUS of you,” Marcia said. “One thousand pounds. And he didn’t give you any notice at all?”
“Ten minutes,” said William. “Maybe fifteen.”
It was Saturday evening, and Marcia was sitting on William’s sofa, her favourite seat in his flat. She wished that he would join her there, and occasionally she patted a cushion, not too overtly, she hoped, but in a way that could be interpreted either as an adjustment of the upholstery or as an invitation. But William, if he was aware of the gesture, ignored it and remained firmly seated in the place that he preferred, a single armchair on which it would have been impossible for Marcia to perch, had she decided to try.
Marcia had come round to the flat in response to William’s quietly desperate telephone call earlier that day. He had called at about five, an hour before the