We’re about to take off. Now, in a window seat with two empty places beside me I look forward to the flight. I’ll read my new Grisham until dinner; then I’ll spread myself out for a comfortable nap.
I reach into my brief case but there’s no book. Damn. I must have left it on the counter. Why would I do a daft thing like that? I’ll have to read my Kindle instead.
A man’s coming down the aisle, peering short-sightedly for the seat numbers; coming my way; stopping; checking the number again; nodding; saying; “We will be companions for the new few hours Mr Parsons.”
“Do I know you?” He’s putting his overcoat into the locker, placing his briefcase on the spare seat.
“No Mr Parsons, but I know you. You were born in Bradford on 10 th June 1970. You and Elaine have two children. Kenny – at Oxford, and little Julie."
“Are you spying on me?” I may sound petulant.
The plane’s moving. He buckles himself in. “I’m so sorry, let me introduce myself. My card.”
I read Mr Tom, Senior Partner of Tomdickenarry Progressive Headhunters Inc. There’s an address in Canary Wharf.
“That’s a crazy name,” I say.
“Not really. I’m Mr Tom, Director of European Office, Mr Dicken looks after Americas and Ari - Mr Aristotle- is EU. As I was about to say, we’re interested in you professionally. Your feud with the Managing Director is getting nasty. He wants you out; you’re fighting for a golden handshake and he’s doing his best to get your resignation. That’s why you’re doing these rather menial jobs for him. This trip to Dallas could be done by a junior but it keeps you out of the office. Next week you’re off to Tokyo. No wonder that Elaine is looking for companionship. But then you have a pretty-bird’s nest in Paris, when you can get there. Ah, drinks.”
The flight attendant is ready to take our order. Mr Tom orders Merlot. “And I think my friend will enjoy tonic with slice of lemon.”
“Certainly, Sir.” She leaves.
He speaks very softly. “I will have steak and salad but I know you will be happier with pasta and mineral water. Right?”
“So far.”
“I rescued your book in the Men’s Room. I also read Grisham.” I thanked him, wondering.
“You had £13,517 in your joint account last night. Your private account is down to 4398 euros – that’s the fund for Parisian rents. Your personal investment account has just received your BP dividend but perhaps you will sell.
I’m beginning to dislike this man.
“Elaine wants to move. Do you really want a penthouse in Battersea now that your mortgage is cleared?”
“You’ve been busy,” I say.
“Busy enough. We could be looking for a man like you, Mr Parsons. You’re fit, despite all that flying. You could be at the peak of your career with the right guidance. I have a proposition for you.” He puts down his glass and brings his alcoholic lips to my ear to whisper.
“But that’s illegal,” I say.
Mr Tom takes another sip of his wine and daintily wipes his mouth. “You will be amply compensated Mr Parsons.”
