The Ascendant

Chapter Fifty

I got out of the shower and wiped the condensation from the mirror so I could inspect my taut reflection. Progress was definitely being made: having Iain shouting, ‘One more! One more!’, into my vulnerable ear was actually paying dividends. My previously puffy stomach had become flatter, my pecks more pert and prominent, my arms and legs thicker and bulkier. My body was actually beginning to resemble that of one of those athletic types and I was definitely feeling fitter and more energetic for it.

Three trips to the gym every week for the past six weeks had had the desired effect, and Dawn was certainly satisfied with the results so far. The firming of my buttocks seemed to be a particularly popular step. There remained far greater hurdles ahead of me, however, than running further on the treadmills or lifting heavier dumbbells. My night at the opera with Nigel Swift had been a disaster, with my constant fidgeting throughout the performance causing severe irritation to my guest and star client. My overstated pigeon knowledge of high brow culture caused further disharmony and my constant references to the merely mainstream Luciano Pavarotti eventually tipped Smith over the edge; prompting a searing barrage, regrettably conveyed via Hobbs, about me being worryingly out of my depth, ‘a clueless buffoon with the grace, education and chicanery of a farmyard animal.’

When I told Hobbs I thought this was a peculiarly harsh assessment while reminding him that it had, after all, been my first trip to the opera; he told me the real source of Swift’s malcontent: his opinion of my professional capabilities matched his perception of my social skills, so not only was I an uneducated buffoon, I was an uneducated buffoon who was not up to the job.

‘Nigel Smith’s opinion carries a great deal of weight,’ Hobbs said gravely. There were specific reasons for Swift’s lack of faith: escalating costs being a prime concern along with deteriorating standards (more complaints) and the slowing of the average claim completion. All of this had coincided with my involvement in the scheme: as I had overseen the project during the past eight weeks and as I had been responsible for the downturn in results, it was me who should be held accountable. ‘I have to say, he has a very good point,’ said Hobbs.

I was just three weeks away from the completion of my probationary period and my outlook was becoming bleak. Not taken seriously by my contractors and openly ridiculed by my clients, I had not been a success. My time in the upper echelons of commerce was running away faster than a fascist at a gay rights convention.

Hobbs had spelt out the grimness of my situation. I had just three weeks to float the wreckage of my career, to curry favour from such unlikely sources as Bob Hustings, Giles Winters and, most pertinently of all, Nigel Swift. It was clear that a phoenix-like comeback was what was called for, but the method with which I would need to achieve this was, maddeningly, less obvious.