Relationship Manager
I want to close my account, I say, and the boy-man agrees
too quickly for my liking. He squints at his VDU, examines
my financial hole - which faces him, not me.
There's eight pounds in the business account - if that helps,
he says, I'll transfer it to current. He tells me there's no money
in my savings - in case I'm interested.
His hands witter-witter away the notion that writing can be
a business - Of course you're closing - they say - stay away
from me - they insist. I read his name tag:
Lee Reed, I'm assured, would love to help - with his pipe cleaner
arms poking out of a cavernous short-sleeve shirt.
The extra half-inch round the collar makes him every inch a nodding dog.
For a second I want to order Big Mac and Fries (just to see).
His nails are nibbled down. He's married. Silver band. Shaved
this morning, but didn't have time to wash his Tintin-esque mess of quiffage.
His Buddy Holly's slip down a millimeter or two when he smiles
to make exit strategy (get out of my office) small talk. Firm hand
shake, coupelled with an almost bow of the head, inviting me
to examine the scene of what, in fifteen years, will no doubt be
a bald spot. Lee Reed closes my account, closes the door
to his wafer-thin-walled office, and isn't afraid of money.
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