Page 12 of One Summer Weekend
Chapter Five
As senior management meetings went, I’d seen worse. But I’d also seen a lot better. My notes could have provided a case study in dictatorial leadership.
For a start, the content bore little resemblance to the official agenda; Jack Smith seemed to think that being chair allowed him to pursue one of his own. Even worse, his dominant style made sure that all communicationwas channelled through him – a breeding ground for cliques and corridor conversations outside the meeting.
When he introduced me as his executive coach, interest rippled round the table. To my relief, it was short-lived; once the meeting got under way, the other directors soon forgot I was there and I could observe their dysfunctional team behaviours more freely.
The only other womanin the room was Betsy, who took the minutes and made valiant attempts at keeping the meeting on track. This was the homely PA I’d noted on my previous visit, and I watched closely how she and her boss interacted. No sign of any innuendo-filled banter from him, and she was more like a mother hen trying to control her large and demanding chick.
Needless to say, the meeting lasted far too long.Even the lunch did little to revive the flagging energy levels, consisting as it did of stilted informality and two courses of local stodge. I toyed with the steak and potato pie, and refused outright the jam roly-poly pudding. By four o’clock, everyone except Jack Smith seemed exhausted.
I waited until we were back in his office before I spoke to him. ‘When would you like to discuss myobservations on the meeting?’
He beamed at me. ‘Went well, didn’t it?’
Had we been in the same room? ‘What specifically do you think went well?’ I said, squeezing some neutrality into my voice.
Not enough, apparently, because his smile faltered. ‘We got through the agenda, didn’t we?’
‘You got throughanagenda, but I would dispute whether it was the one everyone had infront of them. Would you like to discuss this now?’
The merest hesitation; then, ‘Sorry, I’ve got to catch up on some paperwork with Betsy. We can have a review over dinner.’
It wasn’t a question, more a statement – an assumption, even – and I felt my face stiffen. ‘I don’t usually—’
‘Oh well, it’s up to you,’ he put in, with a shrug. ‘We can always stay here. There’ll be noone to disturb us, I’m usually the last one to leave the office.’
I gave in to a little sigh of frustration. We definitely needed the review today, while it was all still fresh. Which left me two options to consider: being on my own with him here, or having dinner with him in a public place. With anyone else, I’d have simply stayed where I was and finished the day’s work; but somehow withhim that presented a bigger challenge …
‘We’ve both got to eat sometime,’ I said abruptly, ‘so I suppose I’ll have to say yes to dinner.’
He burst out laughing. ‘Such enthusiasm! I’ve a good mind to whisk you off to the local greasy spoon for Grimshaw’s best tripe and onions.’
‘You can take me where you like, I don’t have to eat the food.’
‘Don’t be daft – if you’re notgoing to eat, we may as well stay here. Anyway, you need a decent meal – you hardly ate a thing earlier.’
‘Ah yes, lunch.’ I grimaced. ‘Or should I say death by carbohydrate.’
‘Never did me any harm.’
That was debatable, but I refrained from saying so.
I spent the next two and a half hours in Betsy’s room, typing up a more detailed note of my observations and checking myemails. From time to time I broke off and listened to the voices next door, Jack’s bass tones alternating with Betsy’s quiet murmur. I’d met her type so often – the ideal PA, smoothing the wrinkles out of her boss’s day before he even noticed them. I suspected, however, that her magic powers didn’t extend to his personal life.
And then the voices stopped altogether. Betsy came back to tidyher desk, and we exchanged goodnights. I’d just packed away my laptop when he sauntered into the room in his shirt sleeves, jacket hooked over one shoulder, smile full on.
‘Ready to go? We’ll take my car – unless you want to follow in yours?’
‘Not really, mine’s two hundred miles away.’
‘How did you get up here, then?’
‘Let me see … My broomstick’s having its MOT, so Imust have got the train, mustn’t I?’
A laugh, low and long. ‘Careful, that sense of humour’s showing again. Okay, I’ll run you to your hotel afterwards.’
‘No need, I’ll get a taxi.’
