“Welcome,” says the Chair of the meeting, an avuncular type with large black-framed spectacles and a balding head. He is known for his humane and relaxed approach, which he is going to need, because this is a meeting at which thirty line managers attempt to rank staff in order of performance, for the purposes of end-of-year reports.
The meeting is taking place in a subterranean, windowless room, with off-white fibreboard walls, a dirty grey carpet and ferocious fluorescent lights. Grey tables are set out round the edges, in the form of a hollow square. People are tanking up on sour-smelling coffee, and looking round suspiciously at their colleagues. I am, unusually, pleased to be here, because it means several hours away from my computer, during which my face will have some respite. Although someone has deliberately chosen a particularly horrible room, presumably to encourage us to reach consensus, it is not going to happen quickly.
“But does he really go the extra mile? I’ve come across him in meetings, and I have to say he lacks sparkle.”
“And if you compare him with Anthony, who’s really shone this year …”
“Actually, my team have had a lot of problems dealing with Anthony. It seems impossible to get him to co-operate in any way. And he’s always out at lunch.”
“Surely the key deciding factor should be: does he live the Departmental values?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, that’s not going to get us anywhere.”
“Well, what do you suggest?”
It is a hopeless task. The staff under consideration, although all of the same grade, do wildly different jobs in different parts of the department. Some are known to other line managers and some are unknown, while others have been glimpsed across a crowded meeting room or encountered in the pub, and entirely subjective judgements have been formed. Some managers prove to be cunning and devious advocates, others are far too honest, and easily put on the defensive.
Truly, it is the meeting from hell. After three hours I am still trying to follow the discussion and intervene where it would help my staff. But something strange is happening which is claiming more and more of my attention. There are no screens in this fiercely lit, subterranean box, yet my face is on fire, nonetheless. I find myself sitting forward, elbows on the table, hands pressed to my cheeks, trying to give my face protection, or at least the comfort of touch. There are bottles of water dotted around, and I pour myself glass after glass.
Finally the squabbles are over. Compromises have been made, or people have just given up. The air in the room is rank with coffee, sweat and acrimony. “Thank you very much, everybody,” says the Chair, and I rush for the door. My colleague Tina is beside me, saying, “Blimey, that was grim.” But I am not in a state to reply.
I leave the office and catch the train home. When I get there, I collapse on my bed. My mind is a careful and complete blank—for the time being, I’ve given up trying to seek explanations or make connections. I’m just overwhelmed by the reality of pain.
I don’t have to wait long. Over the next few days, the answer forces its pattern into my consciousness, like the words of a brand: my face now reacts to fluorescent lights as well.
I’m starting to see that I can’t carry on. Two trains of thought have been running on parallel tracks in my mind, speeding towards a single set of points: I am in agony, I must keep going.
There is going to be a smash.
AT THREE O’CLOCK in the afternoon, I go to see my boss. I tell him that the pain is now unbearable, that I need to go home, take some time off. In any case, I’m due to go on leave next week. My boss is very sympathetic. “Don’t worry, we’ll cope,” he says. “Now you go and get yourself better.” I switch off my computer, sling my bag over my shoulder and walk across the big murmuring room. In the foyer, I pass the security guard and push through the swing doors at the front of the building, coming out on to John Adam Street, voluptuously empty under a brilliant late May sky. I breathe in the intoxicating smell of summer in the city—warm tarmac and baked refuse, mixed with something floral and vibrant, as if the air itself were blossoming. Just the smell is usually enough to make my spirits lift, my mind tingle with possibilities. Today, I pass through the glory of the afternoon like a walking corpse.
Halfway towards Villiers Street, I glance down at my hand and notice with a start that I am still holding my office mug, and that it is half-full of tea. It is a cheerful green mug with a silly cartoon, a present from my former team when I moved to my current job. I stop and stare dazedly at it, not knowing what to do. Then, down in the gutter, I spy a metal drain. I pour the tea away between its elongated fangs, shaking out the final drips before stowing it in my bag.
The body has an unconscious wisdom that the mind denies. My hand, holding the mug, grasps the truth that I will not be back, but I still cling to hope.