Figure It Out for Yourself

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ONE hot June afternoon I was sitting in my office at peace with the world, and conscious that the world was, for a change, at peace with me, when Paula put her dark, lovely head around the door to shatter my pipe-dream.

‘You have the Wingrove job to do,’ she said.

There are times when I regret having thought up Universal Services. (No matter how tough the job: we’ll do it.) As a money-maker it was sound enough, and as somebody else’s brainwave it was brilliant, but when I get stuck with something like the Wingrove assignment, then I begin to wonder if I shouldn’t have my head examined for putting myself out on such a limb.

The Wingrove assignment was a job I wouldn’t have touched with an eighty-foot pole if I had been consulted, but it had sneaked into the office, together with a five-hundred-dollar retainer, when I was in bed with a hangover, and Paula had accepted the money and sent off a receipt.

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