Maserov was back in his Torrent Industries office. There were both an email and a text message waiting for him from the Freely Savage Human Resources department. The message, innocuous in itself, was to the effect that Bradley Messenger, the head there, was waiting for Maserov’s data from his survey of Second Years’ attitudes towards ‘hot-desking’. Maserov had forgotten about that obligation and the reminder was unsettling since the task would be both a complete waste of time and intensely unpleasant. Having successfully shut it out of his mind he had instead been preoccupied with his attempt to solve Malcolm Torrent’s sexual harassment problems.
Maserov of course knew he’d need Malcolm Torrent’s authority to make a deal with Betga on behalf of the four women suing the company. But each contact with Malcolm Torrent, however necessary, was also daunting, first, because he found any interaction with a man of such power, renown and unimaginable wealth to be intimidating no matter how well their previous meetings had gone and, second, because despite their agreement, Maserov could never quite believe or trust that Malcolm Torrent was going to take his advice, back him against Hamilton should the need arise, or even remember that they had an agreement. In fact, Maserov wasn’t confident that Malcolm Torrent would even remember who he was.
He knew that any conversation about settling the cases, about money in general, and especially one seeking authorisation for Maserov to spend the company’s money, ought to be held in person. So, after a cup of intensely strong black coffee that almost separated his palate from the rest of his mouth, Maserov picked up the phone to call Malcolm Torrent’s private secretary, Joan Henshaw, to arrange a face-to-face meeting. The offer Maserov envisaged to settle the whole matter would be on a confidential basis and would concede no liability.
A loud banging on the door caused him to abort the call. It was Jessica and she looked distressed.
‘You have to help me,’ she whisper-shouted in exasperation.
‘Why, what’s wrong?’
‘I’m in trouble . . . or I will be. Next week Frank Cardigan wants me to stay back after hours with him.’
‘Why?’
‘He wants me to work with him on his leadership skills.’
‘Is that a legitimate request or is he just looking for a reason to be alone with you at night?’
‘Oh God, where do I start with this? Even were he to ever be likely to lead anyone anywhere, I still wouldn’t want to be alone with him at night.’
‘I totally understand.’
‘And the worst part of it is . . . it’s kind of my fault, too.’
‘How?’
‘Well, when he has me alone in his office I’m so desperate to keep the conversation away from anything creepy that he veers it towards, personal stuff like his marriage or my private life or even my clothes, that I started waffling on about idiosyncrasy credit as a measure of one’s leadership.’
‘About what?’
‘Idiosyncrasy credit.’
‘What’s idiosyncrasy credit?’ Maserov asked.
‘It’s a concept in psychology. It doesn’t really matter what it is.’
‘No, what is it? What’s idiosyncrasy credit?’
‘It’s used to explain why some people can get away with deviating from group norms where other people would be ostracised or at least criticised for the same behaviour. If someone is consciously or otherwise considered a leader by a group, not only will that other person’s behavioural deviations be tolerated by the group, a true leader will find the behaviour emulated.’
‘Interesting,’ said Maserov. ‘So if someone is a good leader their idiosyncrasies will be tolerated or even emulated?’
‘That’s right, according to some psychologists.’
Jessica’s attractiveness cut through all the urgency, fear and rational thought that had been fuelling him just moments before. It wasn’t so much that he wanted to touch her. He was too exhausted, socialised and married for that.
‘It’s actually very interesting,’ Maserov repeated. ‘It explains a lot of what’s been happening around the world recently.’
‘Well, Frank Cardigan finds this absolutely fascinating and he wants me to devise some deviations from standard behaviour for him to adopt within the company or at least within his department that will enable me to help him assess who considers him a leader and who doesn’t. Oh, and I still have to come up with his stupid column for the stupid fucking industry newsletter. His vanity rivals his stupidity and I’m scared that alone at night they’ll join forces and he’ll make a pass at me or worse, especially if he drinks.’
‘And you can’t just tell him you’re not available?’
‘I can’t be unavailable every night! You’ve got to help me.’
‘Me? What can I do?’
‘You’ve got to get me in on whatever it is you’re doing for Torrent. You’ve got to make me an essential part of it. And you’ve got to get him to tell Frank Cardigan that my work on your thing takes precedence over his stupid shit. I’ll help you come up with an angle that I can be involved in if you just let me know what it is you’re doing for Torrent. I’ll help you to help me but you’ve just got to give me more information. Why are you here, what are you doing exactly?’