As soon as Cari summoned Ross, he was glad he hadn’t indulged in a lunchtime drink. It was vital to keep his wits about him when he saw her. She was sharp as a razor, and nowhere near as forgiving. Like him, she had a first in Maths. In her case, if the university had been capable of awarding an even higher class of undergraduate degree, it would surely have done so. All his life, he’d been used to interacting with people far less intelligent than him. Cari made him feel uncomfortable.
Spending time in her office set him on edge too, for Ross coveted it. Although a small room, it was hers alone, and it had a much-prized view of the Thames. As he entered, he looked across to the Tate Modern on the South Bank, beyond which the Shard cut through low rainclouds like a knife.
A stray sunray caught Cari’s short red hair, appearing to set it on fire. Coupled with her thin frame and cream linen dress, the effect was of a flaming match, or stick of dynamite about to blow.
She didn’t waste any time. “We’re going to merge with Bishopstoke.”
Ross whistled. Rumours of a merger with Bishopstoke had persisted in the City for several months. “That’s great news,” he said.
She fixed him with a gimlet gaze. “Of course, you know that means you can’t take a sabbatical.”
“But you signed it off,” he protested. “So did HR. Even Davey Saxton.”
“That was then. This is now,” Cari snapped. “You can’t expect a long term career here if you’re not serious about it.”
Why did they ever put women into positions of power? His father had often opined on the subject, at length. He was turning into his father, he mused, and he wasn’t ashamed of it. “It was signed off,” he repeated.
Cari glared. “I’m not reaching you, am I? You have no emotional intelligence, that’s your trouble. I’m referring this to Davey.”
He would like to hear her tell David Saxton about it. Despite her stratospheric IQ, she had all the empathy of Attila the Hun.
In the event, David Saxton passed by his desk later, clapped him on the shoulder, and said he hoped he’d enjoy his break. “No one’s indispensable, not even me,” Saxton guffawed.
Ross suspected David Saxton meant the former at least, if not the latter. Saxton must believe himself totally necessary to the company’s success; how else could he justify a salary in line with a competent Premier League footballer’s wages? Ross reflected bitterly that a footballer was a great deal more entertaining. He comforted himself with the thought that he would have Saxton’s job one day.