Risky Business

Miles, spying through the glass from his office, waited until all of his newbies were sat around the conference desk, green the lot of them but clearly as keen as mustard to impress. He had been there himself and now look at him. CEO of Hunters and Punters Recruitment Agency. Hard work pays and if you want something badly enough, you’ve got to fight for it. Light the fire, run headlong into it, scorch your balls off and cope with the smoke. Nobody gets anywhere in this life by being a carpet waver. Flames, man, flames. The blonde guy was gawping at his phone. Bloody millennials! Call that an ironed shirt? The girl/woman in the pink jacket, whatever, was staring at her watch. Bloody cheek. There’ll be none of that watch-watching on my watch, darling. Tall bloke with big nose was eyeing the white board where Miles had written the words ‘Come on lazy, light my fire’. Was that a frown he noticed? A dissenter? I’ve got your cards marked, mate. You won’t be clocking off at six, if I can help it. Twelve of them, his disciples, were ready for him and he was going to give them their money’s worth today, by God he was. Miles grabbed his mobile from his pocket, exited his office and set off at a pace down the corridor.  He had mastered the art of chest puffing and chin wag and swag. Glueing his phone to his ear and reaching the conference room, he pushed the door open with his free, fisty hand and lunged in, pretending to be on a call.

‘I don’t care how sick your fucking cat is, I want you in here every day. Working from home, my arse. That’s for wimps and drips. If you don’t like it, you know what you can do. Adiós, amigo. Stay at home and stroke your pussy. Results. Results! Do you hear me? Now get that candidate placed and quick. I’m not here to put your fires out. You’re here to light them.

Watch-Starer Lady, (lady? – don’t think so by the look of her, though she may think the pink jacket helps) snorted and sat up to attention. Phone Addict Blonde Boy slipped his mobile into his inside pocket. Whiteboard Cards-marked Man frowned even more then speed-blinked as if he were doing a double take to check where he was. The rest of them shuffled, coughed, gulped, straightened their ties, adjusted their skirts, the usual personal tidying up stuff. Miles wanted them keen. He wanted to iron the creases out of every one of them, including Blondie Boy’s M and S slim-fit shirt, not least of all because their success was his and percentage commission was the poker that stoked his furnace. Dying embers won’t do it. You need to be an inferno in this company if you are going to make your mark. A simple spark just won’t cut it.

Miles poked his finger at the screen of his iPhone and rammed it into his pocket. He huffed, raised his eyebrows, blew out a feigned, frustrated breath and placed his two fat hands on the edge of the long table. A dramatically paused grin and raising of the shoulders, clearly designed to fake a general calming of himself, concluded his belting performance.

‘Sorry about that, folks. I haven’t got time for slackers. Let that be lesson number one. If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the pizza oven. If you’re not prepared to let your wick burn till it’s fizzled out, then go and fry your sausages by candlelight somewhere else! If you value your eyelashes, then tough nuts because things can get pretty hot around here, take it from me. Now, let’s get stuck in, shall we. I, as you know, am..…..’

A little cough from the end of the table. A half reluctant arm raise.

‘Excuse me, sir…… Sorry, erm, can I just ask….’

‘Miles. Miles, please. No need for that ‘sir’ nonsense. We’re all hunter and gathering friends here. All on the same first-class train to wonder-lust.’

‘I just wanted to…..’

‘What? Wanted to what?’

Miles was trying to strike the right balance between ‘you’re getting on my tits’ and ‘welcome to the will-always-listen-patiently gravy train’.

He stared at the bloke in the light blue suit. God, that would have to go, to be sure. Inappropriate Suit Man coughed again. You could see the sweat forming on his nervous brow, just like it would be in no time at all under the armpits of that ridiculous, impractical jacket. I need to know you’re sweating your bits off but I don’t want to see it when I’m sipping my Americano and I’m on the blower to a soon-to-sign-on-the-dotted-line client.

‘All this talk of fire… I wonder, would you be so kind as to explain the evacuation procedures should we find ourselves in the unfortunate situation of having to vacate the building.’

Sweat-Patch (clearly Posh Bloke) was beginning to panic a little. Was it something to do with Miles slowly crossing his arms to rest them on his after-work-drinks beer belly or his long, deep intake of breath. Perhaps it was the cracking of his knuckles and then the splaying of his fingers at he leant forward like a crazy preacher about to announce the arrival of the anti-Christ.

‘Erm, erm, isn’t that protocol in these kinds of circumcises, sorry circumstances?’

Snooty Suity Posh Boy was clearly not used to sweating. He was not just going indelicately damp but was evidently growing more and more wary of having asked the blazingly obvious but these things needed clarifying. Health and safety was important. That’s what he had been taught at university on his Business Studies degree course. First year, second semester. Everything was about risk and some risks were not for the taking.

Miles fixed eyes with each of the apostles, one by one, like a prison spotlight’s beam surveying the ground, savouring the silence. Matthew, Marked, Lukewarm and Soon-to-be-Gone. There was no place for a dobbing-in Judas on this team. He had targets to reach and gongs to clang and bells to ring. Congratulations, Miles. Your team has smashed it this month. Again. Fireworks. Fire works! This guy who clearly didn’t give a Faulkes was going to have to learn the hard way.